Religious but not Spiritual

The following is my homily for the 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C. The readings can be found here.

One of my favorite things about college was staying up late for philosophical conversations. You know, after a few… “grape juices”… talking about life, faith, it was great. It was a time that I encountered people of other faiths, and it was the first time that I heard someone claim that they were “spiritual but not religious.” For them, religion was oppressive, all about man-made rules. They didn’t need to go to Church, to follow rules, to be a part of any institution. They just needed Jesus, a spiritual life.

As Catholics, we of course know how false this is. At its best, religion is a guide. It provides a community, helps us stay on the narrow path, reminds us that we do not need to go at it alone because we “bind” ourselves together. We hear this “spiritual but not religious” stuff all of the time, and it just makes no sense to us.

In reality, it’s much more likely that we struggle with the opposite problem; for those of us who come to Church on a regular basis, engage in the rituals and follow the rules, there is a temptation, sometimes of being religious, but not spiritual.

Take a look at the Pharisee today. He is about as religious as you get—says his prayers, fasts, gives alms—he follows every law to a t. As a Pharisee, he is quite literally the symbol of religion, the keeper of it, the instructor of the law. To the people of his day, he would have been seen as a very upright individual, a model citizen—he’s always in the Temple, always following the law, always doing what God wants.

And yet, Jesus is not impressed, is he? How shocking it would have been to hear that a tax collector—a traitor to the nation of Israel, someone who stole money from his own people to give to the evil Romans, who stole from his own people to become rich himself—yes, this man, this awful man who knows nothing of religion, leaves the Temple justified and the Pharisee doesn’t.

When we look to what the Pharisee says, it’s no wonder why. The Pharisee follows every rule, fulfills every requirement, yes, but appears to know nothing about God. His prayer, Jesus says, was one that he “spoke to himself.” He says God, but he’s not talking to the living a true God in heaven. He’s talking to himself.  He spends half his time bragging about himself and the other half bad-mouthing someone else, which, when you consider the fact that God identifies with the lowly, that God hears the cry of the poor, probably wasn’t a good call. It’s sort of like gossiping about someone to their best friend. Not going to get a lot of sympathy with God on this one! Maybe most striking of all is what he doesn’t say: All throughout, he never praises God, never apologizes, never even asks for anything. His prayer is not a means of relationship with someone else, but rather a way of convincing himself of his own self-righteousness. He shows in his prayer that he doesn’t need God. He’s good enough on his own.

Yes, the Pharisee is immensely religious… but seems to miss the whole point of religion. What is meant as something to make us more humble, to guide our life so that we can become more like God, to depend on God… serves to only make him more like himself. He uses religion not as a means of growth, not as a means of transformation… but as a means of justifying who he is and what he wants to do.

This… is religion gone bad. This is religion stripped of the very thing that brings it truth: a relationship with God. Whereas many in our day find themselves to be spiritual but not religious, the Pharisee was religious but not spiritual. He engaged in empty practices with no sense that they actually did anything.

Being religious but not spiritual is not something that anyone would ever claim for themselves, not a catchy title that anyone would actually use, but it is problem—especially as Catholics—that we should all be careful of. We are a people with a lot of rituals—stand here, sit here, say these words, make these gestures, don’t eat certain foods on certain days, follow these rules that the rest of the world finds weird. It’s very easy to get caught up in the externals, very easy to get all of the rules while forgetting the reason for the rules, forgetting that they are ultimately leading us somewhere. All these things we do—prayers, songs, rules—they are not ends in themselves. It can be very easy for us sometimes to go through the motions, [bored “amen” and sign of the cross], do the little rituals, and be no different than we were before. Just showing up, just saying some words and following rules is not enough.These things lead us to something else. Religious is the guide, the lines on the street. It is helpful for getting us somewhere but insufficient in itself.

Even this Eucharist—yes, even this sacrament of salvation—it is the true body, blood, soul, and divinity of Christ… but it is not the fullness of Christ. Really, how could it be? You cannot have a conversation with the Eucharist. The Eucharist is but a taste of what we hope to receive in heaven. In heaven there will be no eucharist, no remembrance of Jesus, for we will have a relationship with the real person.
Even this Eucharist, this amazing part of our religion, is not a complete end in itself. It is a vehicle, a guide, a path forward. It leads us to a greater relationship with Christ, a greater relationship with each other and the world.

This week, the Catholic Center was blessed to have a Franciscan named Fr. Jim come visit to talk about the liturgy. He spoke at Ignite and at Arch and shared but a simple message: our ritual actually does something. More than just some empty ritual, it transforms us. In coming to mass and participating fully in it, not just going through the motions but giving our entire lives to what we celebrate,
our fear is taken away—fear of failure, fear of the world, fear of loneliness, fear of death—they are no more when we receive Christ. When we humble ourselves before God, God can transform us. For what? To care more: for each other, for the world, for what God wants. Unlike the religion of the Pharisee, we come here not to justify ourselves, but to realize how reliant we are on God.

Some in our world want to say that they are spiritual but not religious, and we know this to be foolish—religion is the road that gets us where we’re going, that keeps us where we need to be, that binds us together for support. Others live as highly religious people but know nothing of spirituality, going through empty rituals but knowing nothing of God. We know that this is equally as absurd—our spiritual lives in Christ, being transformed into a new person is the reason for religion in the first place. For us, we know that they are two sides of the same coin. It is religion that brings you here today, but it is your contrite heart, your desire for Christ that will send your out a transformed person. And isn’t that religion at its best? We are brought in one person, and sent out another.

 Posted on October 27, 2019 by

 Homilies

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Persist. Together.

The following is my homily for the 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C. The readings can be found here.

I know that there are many people in the world that do not believe in miracles, but I had one happen to me last week. It involved ice cream.

Okay, so maybe not the “serious” of miracles, but a miracle nonetheless!

As some of you may know, I have a pretty big sweet tooth. I absolutely love chocolate, cookies, cakes, everything. I love them so much that I know I cannot have them around otherwise I would eat them constantly, and sooner or later look like a Franciscan cookie jar. Generally, there are no sweets in the house. But the other night, I had a major craving for something sweet, so I went to the pantry. Nothing. I checked the fridge. Nothing. Opened the freezer. Nothing. So you know what I did? I went back to the cabinet with lower expectations. (Naturally).

I looked in the pantry again, in the refrigerator, in the freezer. I moved thing around, looked in the very back. Still nothing. About to give up, I checked one last time. Opened the pantry. Nothing. Opened the refrigerator. Nothing. I open the freezer, and I kid you not, I could not make this up, but a pint of chocolate ice cream comes rolling out. Seriously! But that’s not all. It’s not just any ice cream, but low-fat protein ice cream!

Did it taste good? No, of course not! But that’s not the point. The point is that persistence pays off; the point is that God answered my prayers; point is that I didn’t have a great story about a widow for this week… but I think it works, right? How easy it would have been for me to give up, but then I wouldn’t have had ice cream. Jesus tells us to be persistent, to not grow weary. And yet, how sad it is that sometimes we show much greater persistence when it comes to insignificant things—finding sweets—than we do for things that actually matter.

Jesus tells us in our Gospel to be persistent in our pursuit of justice, to never give up even when life seems stacked against us. There’s a reason that he chose a widow and a judge in today’s parable. You see, in his time, a widow was someone who had no standing in the world, completely at the mercy of society. She was a nobody with no rights. On the other hand, a judge was a supreme ruler, in some ways. Had the power to hold people’s lives in his hand and do what he wanted. If the judge, as it says, “neither feared God nor respected any human being,” the widow would have no chance of getting what was due to her. Justice was an illusion. You would completely understand if she gave up. What’s the use in trying? It would take a miracle, an act from God, to get the justice she deserved.

And yet, she didn’t give up. She persisted. She kept pestering him, threatening to hit him it seems. She kept going back to the fridge, even though there might have been no hope, until justice was rendered. This is what disciples of Jesus must do—live with perseverance in the face of trial. Be relentless for the work of justice.

It makes me wonder about our own situation sometimes, how powerless we feel in the face of injustice. I look to the world and see many reasons for despair, many reasons to give up hope. I am just some little, insignificant person. What different can I make?  I see war, the rich abusing the poor, multinational corporations making billions while their workers are on government assistance, abortion, polluting the environment, racism, sex-abuse crisis. All around us are powers that care nothing of God or justice. Who am I to fix any of these things? I’m a nobody. I’m nothing. I’m at the mercy of the powers that be.

It would be very easy to give up, to resign the world to injustice, to accept what’s wrong as something that will always be wrong. Jesus reminds us that even a widow can turn an unjust just to justice; even we can make a difference. Why is that? Because our God is one of justice. “Our help is from the LORD who made heaven and earth.” Our God hears the cries of the poor, hears the cries of those oppressed, and answers them. No matter how lost the cause may seem, our Lord is with us. Do not give up.

And that’s very inspirational, right? We should put that on a poster with a bald eagle flying over a lake: “Don’t give up. God is on your side.” It’s inspirational for sure, and we all know this. In times of struggle it is definitely important to remember…

But sometimes… sometimes, even when we remember this and believe this with all our hearts, it’s still just too much to handle. Sometimes our bodies just fail, sometimes, we physically, emotionally, spiritually just can’t take on the weight ourselves. It’s for those times that we have our first reading about Moses faced Amalek. We hear in Exodus that the Israelites are severely overmatched. And of course they are! They are nothing more than freed slaves going up against a mighty nation. But God, of course, is on their side, and so as long as Moses keeps his hands raised they can win. As long as he keeps faith, justice is theirs. Moses knows that all he has to do is persist and they will win. Easy, right?

Except… his arms just can’t do it. He is not strong enough on his own to save his people. He tries his hardest, but just can’t do it. Luckily, he is not alone. Seeing his weakness, Aaron and Hur come to his side, literally holding him up so that he can continue.

This, my friends, is the Church. When the task seems too heavy to carry ourselves, the burden too much to handle alone, that is when we realize that we don’t have to go alone. As builders of the kingdom, we do not seek justice by ourselves. What we are a part of here is more than just a social club, more than just an interest group—we are a family of brothers and sisters in Christ. As we take this Eucharist together, we bind each other in a covenant of blood—not just with Christ, but with each other. When you receive the body and blood of Christ and say “Amen,” you are not simply saying, “Yes, I believe that that is the true body of Christ,” you are also saying Yes, I believe that we are the body Christ, and Yes, I will be the body of Christ. When one suffers, we all suffer. When one experiences injustice, we all experience injustice. And when one finds things too difficult, when one finds themselves as a widow going up against an impossible judge, feels like Moses going up against a raging army… that is when the rest of us step in to help.

We persist… together.

That’s what it means to be a follower of Christ… that’s what it means to be Church. This week, no matter what you’re going through, know that God is on your side. No matter if it’s an important test, an issue of life or death, or merely an issue of ice cream, do not give up. And if you ever feel like you can’t do it yourself, you ever feel like you can’t go on any longer, just take a look around. You’ve got a big family here to help you. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

 9 Comments

 Posted on October 20, 2019 by

 Homilies

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A Personal Encounter

The following is my homily for the 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C. The readings can be found here.

Growing up, I never doubted the existence of God; there was something inside of me that accepted that God was real, that Jesus performed miracles and whatnot, and so I always said my prayers, went to Church, tried to be a good person. No, I never doubted God, but I also wasn’t particularly moved by God either; I said my prayers because that’s what you’re supposed to do, went to Church because my mom made me, and tried to be a good person, well, because. I considered myself a “believer,” but really, that’s all I was. Someone who believed… but didn’t really act any differently from anyone else.

That was, until I was 16. When I was 16, I went on a retreat with my church. On one of the evenings of this retreat, I was handed a block of wood and a marker, and was told to write on that block of wood everything that was burdening me—my sins, jealousies, pains, regrets, everything that was weighing me down—and then to throw that block of wood in the bonfire.

Needless to say, this was a cathartic experience. Sitting there, I watched everything wrong with my life—all of my mistakes, my regrets, my pains, weaknesses, unrealized dream and desires—slowly burn to a crisp. In a matter of minutes, they were gone. Absolutely obliterated. While I knew that none of these problems had actually changed, that this was just a symbolic act, the symbolism struck a cord with me: in that moment, I felt, probably for the first time ever, the healing touch of Christ. That wood may just be a symbol, but that is what he actually does. He does take away our sins. He does give us strength in weakness. He does heal our wounds and give us new life. And all of those things that weigh us down, those things that burden us, those things that we feel like are so important and they’re ruining our lives… well, they really aren’t much more important than ash in the face of God.

I don’t know if you have ever experienced something like this, but it was one of the most freeing moments of my life, and the moment, I really believe, that I became a follower of Christ. I came back from that retreat a different person, a person that wanted to serve, to devote my life to God and the Church. I had felt the amazing healing power of Jesus, and I wanted to share it with everyone I met.

In many ways, my story is the most common story in the Bible. All throughout the Bible, people come to faith because they have been healed. In our readings today, we hear of two such stories.

In 2 Kings we remember Namaan, a general from a foreign nation with leprosy. There is obviously something in him that believes in the God of Israel, believes that Elisha is a prophet, otherwise he would not have traveled so far, but he is by no means a follower of this God. That is, until he is healed. Washed in the Jordan 7 times, he has done to him what no other prophet or god could do: his disease is gone, his burden is lifted. He feels the powerful, personal touch of God in his life, something that is not simply known but felt, and he is a new person. More than just a “believer,” he becomes an evangelizer! He shouts with joy, he proclaims his allegiance, and returns to tell the others of his nation. 

So it is with the Samaritan leper in the Gospel. He, too, clearly believes in Jesus to some extent, otherwise he would never have asked Jesus to heal him, but something radically changes when he realizes that he’s been healed. There is a joy that arises in him that cannot be contained, thankfulness that must be shared, and so he runs back to Jesus and falls at his feet in thanksgiving. Faith had moved from his head to his heart, taken root inside of him, and he was moved to share it. How could it stay contained?

So often, we look at conversion as a particularly intellectual exercise. We look at faith as a matter of belief in doctrines and principles, of understanding God, and so when we see the state of faith in our country, the rise of atheism, we blame it on poor catechesis. “If only they knew what I knew! If only they could be convinced of the error of their thinking. If only we could teach them all Thomas Aquinas!” Some want to respond with apologetics, with stronger arguments, that this will create more Christians.

I’m not convinced.

No, that’s not how I found faith. It’s not how Namaan or the Samaritan leper turned from their old lives. In fact, Namaan knew the Truth from the start; all ten of the Lepers believed enough to come to Jesus in the first place. I’ve heard it said that no one has ever converted to the faith because they lost an argument, and I think this is true. Facts do not move people. Mere concepts do not change lives. Love does. Feeling the personal, healing touch of God does, the touch of a God who is more than some cosmic being out “there” but an intimate, loving person who knows what we experience, who’s walked the way we’ve walked.

I don’t know why you’re here today. Maybe, you know what it’s like to be healed by God and like me, like Namaan and the Samaritan leper, you can’t help but shout with joy for what god has done for you; you’re so filled with thankfulness that it bubbles out from within. If so, that’s awesome. But maybe not. Maybe, like me as a kid, like the nine lepers who did not return, who call to Jesus from afar, you believe in God, you accept in your mind that God is real, but do not have your lives changed.

Wherever you are right now, I want to read a passage from Pope Francis’ Apostolic Exhortation The Joy of the Gospel:

I invite all Christians, everywhere, at this very moment, to a renewed personal encounter with Jesus Christ, or at least an openness to letting him encounter them; I ask all of you to do this unfailingly each day. No one should think that this invitation is not meant for him or her, since “no one is excluded from the joy brought by the Lord.” The Lord does not disappoint those who take this risk; whenever we take a step towards Jesus, we come to realize that he is already there, waiting for us with open arms. Now is the time to say to Jesus: “Lord, I have let myself be deceived; in a thousand ways I have shunned your love, yet here I am once more, to renew my covenant with you. I need you. Save me once again, Lord, take me once more into your redeeming embrace”. How good it feels to come back to him whenever we are lost! Let me say this once more: God never tires of forgiving us; we are the ones who tire of seeking his mercy. Christ, who told us to forgive one another “seventy times seven” has given us his example: he has forgiven us seventy times seven. Time and time again he bears us on his shoulders. No one can strip us of the dignity bestowed upon us by this boundless and unfailing love. With a tenderness which never disappoints, but is always capable of restoring our joy, he makes it possible for us to lift up our heads and to start anew. Let us not flee from the resurrection of Jesus, let us never give up, come what will. May nothing inspire more than his life, which impels us onwards!

Jesus loves you. He is calling you in the night, reaching out to you, seeking to take all that burdens you and holds you back. He offers himself completely to you. This week, today, right now in the Mass, i want to encourage you to let yourself have a personal encounter with him, to let him touch you, and to never be the same.

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 Posted on October 13, 2019 by

 Homilies

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Lying At Our Door

The following is my homily for the 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C. The readings can be found here.

I have a friend who is gay. This friend knew that he was gay since he was a kid, but didn’t tell anyone until he was an adult. You see, he had an older brother who was a bit of a bully. Growing up, he saw his brother pick on people, physically and emotionally hurt them; he heard his brother use anti-gay slurs, talk about gay people with anger… and so he was afraid of his brother. He loved his brother, but didn’t know if his brother would love him if he knew. 

At the age of 18, he decided that he could no longer live in fear. He was an adult, moving out of the house—he had to tell his family. On his 18th birthday, he came out to his brother, and the most amazing thing happened. He said that his brother did not react much, there was no anger or tears, no congratulations or laughter, but from that moment on, he never heard his brother say a bad word about gay people again. Something changed in his brother. It was as if his whole perspective on the issue was different now. He loved his brother, his brother was gay, so how could he hate people just because they were gay? The issue had become personal for him.

There are times in all of our lives when our eyes are opened, when we realize all at once that we could not see what was right in front of us—that we had hurt others, that we’d been inconsiderate, that we were wrong. Once you see, once you know, you just can’t go back living the way you did before. Something has to change.

These moments might be big, as in the case of my friend, but they might also be very routine. Like many of us when we’re kids, I used to leave many messes around the house. Spill something, knock something over, leave food out. No big deal, right? It always got cleaned up. That was until my mom got frustrated with me one day and said, “You know, when you leave a mess, it doesn’t just magically clean itself. I clean it. And so when you leave a mess, what you’re saying is, ‘I don’t care, I’ll make mom clean it.’” I know it sounds super obvious, but my 6 or 8 year old brain had just never put those pieces together. My eyes were opened, the issue became personal. I saw, right there in front of me, how I was hurting someone, being disrespectful, and I had to change. And from that moment on, I’ve never left a single mess for anyone else to clean…

Okay… well, nobody’s perfect! But the point remains: Once you see, once you know, you just can’t go back living the way you did before. Something has to change.

But we don’t like change, do we? We don’t want to be shown that we were wrong, that we’ve hurt people, that we haven’t lived up to who we say we are. And so what we do, sometimes, is remain willfully ignorant. We choose not to look. We pretend like our problem doesn’t exist. We keep it distant, out there, as far away from personal as we can.

We act as the rich man does towards Lazarus.

Remember where Jesus tells us that Lazarus was. He was not in the marketplace on the rich man’s way to work. He wasn’t on the side of the road, easily ignored. No, Jesus tells us that Lazarus was lying at the rich man’s door. Lying at his door. In order for the rich man to even leave his house, he would have had to step over Lazarus. There’s no doubt that Lazarus probably smelled, the passage says that he attracted dogs—the rich man would have been well aware of Lazarus, how desperate he was, how hungry he was, that he would have gladly eaten the scraps from the table.

And yet, the rich man does nothing. He chooses not to see.

And that’s just the start of his problems. Reunited in the afterlife, everything is made even more obvious for the rich man. He is in a place of torment while Lazarus is carried by angels to the bosom of Abraham. Nothing could be clearer as to who was favored, who was important to God. Surely the rich man is contrite! Surely he knows now that he should have respected Lazarus, cared for him! Right? Unfortunately, no. Despite the truth being right in front of his eyes, he refuses to see. He pleads with Abraham to have pity on him, to warn his brothers. But remember how he asked: “Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water,” “Send Lazarus to my father’s house.” Even in the afterlife, even with the truth right in from of his eyes, he still treats Lazarus as less than him. He never apologizes to Lazarus, never even speaks to him directly. He speaks about him, and treats him like a servant that is supposed to do things for him.

The rich man did not see because he did not want to see. He remained willfully ignorant to the damage he had done, to the problems around him, because acknowledging that they exist meant admitting that he was wrong, admitting that he had to change. And nobody likes change, right?

It doesn’t take much to see that there are many Lazarus’ in our world, many people lying at our own doors crying out for their lives, desperately hoping that someone will see them. On a global scale, the United Nations reports that there are more than 70 million people living as refugees in our world, forcibly removed from their homes by violence and extreme poverty. They live without a home, separated from their families, just fighting to survive.

On a local level, Clarke County, where many of us live, has the third highest percentage of poverty in all of Georgia. Just beyond campus there are people who are hungry, who are homeless, who live in situations we would never accept for our own families.

On a community level, 25 percent of students here on campus—one out of every four—deal with food insecurity while in college. In the past two weeks alone, the Center has been approached by three different organizations asking us to help combat this problem.

The fact of the matter is that Lazarus is not just some story, but a living reality for so many people in our world. All around us—in our world, in our city, in our community, maybe even in our families—Lazarus is in desperate need. I guarantee that each and every one of us in this congregation encounters someone on a regular basis who is struggling. Maybe it’s a big issue like hunger or depression or a financial crisis, but maybe it’s a less obvious problem: a friend who has a little too much to drink, a neighbor who is lonely, a coworker who’s having a rough day. Lazarus is all around us, sometimes right in front of us. There are problems in our lives that are so close to us that we have to literally walk over them to get out of our houses.

When they are distant, when they are someone else, when they’re just a story on the news… they can be very easy to ignore. The news is so depressing, right? So we can just turn it off. We can look away. We can tell ourselves that it’s not our problem, that there’s nothing we can do. It’s easy to ignore Lazarus when we fail to see him. It’s easy to make anti-gay slurs when we don’t know anyone who’s gay; easy to leave messes around the house when we don’t realize someone else has to clean them up.

As Christians, we simply cannot do this.

Jesus calls us to see the Lazarus’ of our world, to care for them, to treat them with dignity, because the poor are blessed. He tells us in the Beatitudes just as he shows us in this Gospel today that they are particularly blessed. If we want to follow Jesus, we must love the ones he loved, and he clearly loved the poor.

Even more than that, though, is the fact that Jesus identifies with people like Lazarus. In the Gospel of Matthew he says that when we feed the least among us, give them clothing and visit them in prison, we don’t just do it to people he loves, we actually do it to him. He so identifies with people like Lazarus that he can be found clearly in them.

And so I wonder: do you see the person lying outside of your own door? Do you recognize Jesus in them and want to serve them with your whole heart? Or do you prefer to keep walking, to step over, to remain distant and say that it’s not our problem?

May God give you the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the heart to love every Lazarus in your life… for it is not just Lazarus that is lying at our door, but Christ, living among us, waiting to be served.

 2 Comments

 Posted on September 29, 2019 by

 Homilies

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Do Sweat the Small Stuff

The following is my homily for the 25th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C. The readings can be found here.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Last weekend I was at the wedding of one of my college friends, and I heard this bit of advice quite a bit. In the toasts, the speeches by parents and friends, people who had been married many years, they all said the same thing: don’t sweat the small stuff. Besides being a bit a of a cliche, I think it can be great advice. Don’t go crazy over things that don’t matter—okay, so he forgot to make the bed—sure, she left a mess in the bathroom with ten thousand types of makeup everywhere. Oh well. Is it really worth fighting over? Probably not. Focus on what matters, and let the little things slide.

At the same time, I think there is something a bit misleading about this advice, something that can actually hurt more than it helps. In saying, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” there is an implication that small things don’t matter, that if it’s small, you can do anything you want. As long as you love your spouse, are always faithful, help in taking care of the kids, show humility and listen well—big things—then nothing else matters: never make the bed, leave messes everywhere, forget to put things on the list, whatever. They’re just small things, right? No sweat.

My guess is that our relationships would really suffer if that’s the way we treated them. 

Small things do matter. Maybe not as much as the big things—forgetting to take out the trash is nowhere close to cheating on your spouse—but they do matter. If you were to forget to take out the trash every week, you forget to make the bed every other day, you act just a little rude, a little distant, a little passive aggressive on a regular basis… these things add up over time, and actually, I think they point to the fact that there are actually some problems on a much deeper level.

In his encyclical Laudato Si, Pope Francis reminds us that everything we do is connected: “We have only one heart, and the same wretchedness which leads us to mistreat an animal will not be long in showing itself in our relationships with other people. Every act of cruelty towards any creature is ‘contrary to human dignity.’ We can hardly consider ourselves to be fully loving if we disregard any aspect of reality.” We have only one heart. 

When I hear our Gospel today, this is what comes to mind. Jesus says, “The person who is trustworthy in very small matters is also trustworthy in great ones.” You are but one person, you have but one heart, and so if you are considerate and attentive in small matters, I imagine that you will be considerate and attentive in great ones as well. But if you are lazy or forgetful when it comes to small things, if you are selfish or even hurtful, it is only a matter of time before that same heart causes you to act the same way in big things. Put another way, what Jesus is getting at, quite simply, is integrity, being the same person when things don’t matter, when no one is watching, as we are when things really matter, when everyone is watching. Anyone can put on an act for an audience; anyone can show up to the big game when everyone is watching. And we might be able to fool people who only see us in those situations that we are loving, humble, caring, and live by the values of the Kingdom. But we are the same person in rehearsal, the same person at practice, the same person in the small details of preparation. We have only one heart… and Jesus knows our hearts.

I think it’s easy, sometimes, to justify our bad habits by diminishing them. “Yeah, I do that thing, and I know it’s bad, but c’mon! It’s not that bad, and it’s only one thing. Look at all of the great things I do. That one thing isn’t that bad!” We can look to our first reading and hear how the business leaders were abusing the the poor, selling them into slavery, hating God’s feasts because it meant they couldn’t do harm, and think, “My thing is nothing like that. It’s just a small sin. I’m good. I don’t need to change.” This is rather unwise. 

The great contemplative Thomas Merton once had an analogy that I find very poignant. He once wrote that being killed by a single enemy and being killed by an entire army leaves you just as dead. What difference does it make how many people kill you if you’re dead regardless?It takes but one mortal sin, one act of hatred, of pride, of deceit, of some deadly habit to keep us from living in Christ for all eternity. It doesn’t matter if we are a “good person,” if we have hundreds of virtues—it takes but one deadly sin to keep us from God’s grace. Why? Because that deadly sin affects everything we do; that deadly sin is done by the same heart that does everything else.

Now am I saying that we need to be perfect to a disciple of Christ, that we have to be completely without even the smallest sin to live in eternity with him? No, of course not! I’m honestly not sure if it is possible to go a day without some sort of venial sin let alone our whole lives. There are some small things that we work to prevent, but sometimes fall, and so we come to the Eucharist, this sacrament of mercy, and we are forgiven. In that sense, the popular wisdom of weddings is true: don’t sweat the small stuff. Don’t let the unattainable goal of being perfect derail us and let us fall into scrupulosity, worried that every single impure thought, uncharitable word, or minor act of selfishness is going to keep us from heaven. Come to the eucharist, be forgiven, let those things go, and strive to do better.

No, in offering the Thomas Merton’s image of being killed, in bringing up Pope Francis’ words about having only one heart, my goal is not to have all you beginning to worry that every little thing you do could prevent you from heaven. No. My goal is to remind you, maybe even awaken you, to the fact that sometimes the small stuff is big stuff. Sometimes we overlook what is actually killing us, ignore things that are real problems in our lives, deceive ourselves into thinking that we can do lots of good things to make up for the bad things we do. That’s not the way God works; that’s not the way we work! True conversion to Jesus Christ means giving up our entire selves, our whole heart: who we are at our best but also who we are at our worst. They are the same person, because we have but one heart.

It may not be the most conventional marriage advice, but I say, “do sweat the small stuff.” This is our salvation. This is the heart that we’re giving over to Jesus. If it’s true that “The person who is trustworthy in very small matters is also trustworthy in great ones,” it seems to be in our best interest to be trustworthy in small matters too, to be trustworthy in everything. 

 Posted on September 22, 2019 by

 Homilies

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Breaking In The Habit

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