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homilies by steven d. otellini
True marriage 4th Sunday of the Year—February 1 “C” Readings: Jer. 1: 4-5. 17-19 • 1 Cor. 12:31—13:13 • Luke 4:21-30 Title: Marriage (C) Purpose: (1) to tell of some of the problems of an unhappy marriage; (2) to explain belief and tribunal practice concerning invalid marriages. When Archbishop Runcie witnessed the marriage of the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer before the whole gawking world he said this was the stuff “fairy tales were made of.” We all know the grim conclusion to that fairy tale. Fact and fantasy can only be siblings by adoption. Grace works in the real world to make saints of sinners. In fairy tales paupers become princes. In the realm of grace, princes give up their privileges to become paupers. In fairy tales, the handsome young troubadour wins his lady and takes her in marriage. In the world of saints it is the troubadour who throws all aside, including the fair maiden, to marry Lady Poverty. The stuff of fairy tales is very unreliable stuff indeed. That is why you will always find them filed under “fiction.” If our gospel today were written as a fairy tale it would start with the same first paragraph and dwell on the “marveling” done by the hometown crowds in Nazareth. The editors would have to change the gruesome ending of an attempted homicide over a cliff as totally out of place and poor story telling. Crowds never change their whim so violently! Yet, the proof of the story’s verity is precisely the radical mood shift from utter admiration to violent detestation. The synagogue audience of Jesus’ own village wanted to hear sweet, reassuring words from the now-famous local-boy-made-good. What they got was the bitter lesson of history repeating itself ever larger and more tragically. They wanted to love and be loved on their terms, fairy tale terms, unreal terms. Paul tells of real love; and he burns away the dross of human sentimentality to disclose the purest alloy of “agape,” the love of charity, God’s love. The reading from Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians is probably the most read passage of Scripture at weddings, and the least comprehended. Amid the perfume of gardenias, the soft pastel color schemes of costly wedding planners and the anxious mood of a congregation straining to become party-goers, the rock hard facts of Pauline anthropology are blithely but tastefully ignored all too often. The message is lost; the fairy tale atmosphere is brusquely shattered by the cold winds of real life; and marriages fail. I am convinced that the vast majority of failed marriages is a result of people marrying their fantasies and not their real spouses. Hollywood is not altogether to be absolved of responsibility for this fix. We inflate people’s expectations to find the perfect match. If there is some flaw in that idyllic figure we either ignore it or presume we can remake him. Kiss the frog and it becomes Prince Charming. But what if it doesn’t, and remains only a toad with lipstick marks? Jeremiah was called in his mother’s womb. Evidently prophets are made in the womb. We say marriages are made in heaven; and, indeed, they are. That is why we believe they are sacraments willed by God before all time. Yet they are to be lived in a real world which, ever since the first couple, is burdened with pain and dripping with sweat. This is the real world in which the sacraments are our surest connection to the Divine; and for that reason, our surest connection to reality. I was once speaking with a man whose marriage had failed, not for any fault of his own. He pleaded that the Church must learn to take seriously the tragedy of divorce, now all too common in our country. I pointed out to him that the reason the Church does not allow divorce is precisely because we do take people seriously. We take as vitally serious the fact that two people have made a solemn vow before man and God which, if correctly intended and consummated, is irrevocable. This is the heart of what we believe makes a marriage, and also unmasks situations masquerading as sacramental marriages. Much attention and ridicule has been given to the annulment process of the Catholic Church in the media recently. It ironically echoes the procrustean criticism which Chesterton found so amusing. The world accuses the Church of being too strict at one moment, and then says it is too lenient. First it says the Church should not believe couples when they pledge “until death do us part” and should allow divorce; then it says we grant annulments with impunity. All the Church seeks to do is to hold people to what they say, and make them say what they should believe. Annulments are granted in the Catholic Church only after it is established that some serious discrepancy existed at the time of the marriage between the intention of the couple and the belief of the Church. The Church has taught consistently that marriage must be open to children. If children are permanently excluded from that intention, then clearly the content of their vows lacks something which the Church deems essential, and all the rice and champagne in the world will never make it a real marriage, a marriage worthy of becoming a channel of divine grace. Other essential conditions are placed on that solemn contract: it must be freely entered into, it must be intended as permanent, it must be faithful. Once such conditions are met, and the union is consummated in loving intimacy, no power on earth can undo the words of Christ, “What God has joined, men must not divide.” Often times people of good faith seeking an annulment feel they have failed, and are reticent to make that perceived failure public, and relive the pain of divorce. Some times one or the other party, or both spouses have striven mightily to make a marriage work. If it was flawed from the start, nothing will make it into what it could never be. Does this mean that all that time and energy are lost, that they were “living in sin,” that their children are not legitimate? Not at all. Even though such a relationship never achieved the status of a sacrament, it does not mean that those involved were not receiving grace. Pastors are the first to tell you of the heroic efforts of individuals or couples in such situations. Even such tragic circumstances of life can lead to great heights of sanctity. We are separated now from Christmas by only a month. Many of the gifts we received then have been exchanged, some packed away, some already used up. Paul reminds us to look for the gifts that really matter, the gifts that build us into the Body of Christ. Fairy tale rewards have no place in our wish list. Paul tells us only three things “live happily ever after”: Faith, Hope and Love, and the greatest of these is Love. Suggested reading: Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1601-1658.
The Church teaches 5th Sunday of the Year—February 8 “C” Readings: Isa. 6:1-2. 3-8 • 1 Cor. 15:1-11 • Luke 5:1-11 Title: Our Relationship to the Pope and the Bishops Purpose: to explain (1) teaching authority or magisterium in the Catholic Church; (2) infallible and ordinary teaching of Popes and Councils; and (3) how this helps our faith. Cardinal Newman stated in the Apologia his belief that there is “no medium, in true philosophy, between Atheism and Catholicity.” His argument runs very simply: if God has chosen to reveal himself to sinful, imperfect and weak people, he would want that revelation to be assured; to insure the verity of revelation you must confide it to an authority, and that authority must be infallible. That infallible authority we call the Catholic Church. To establish the unworthiness and imperfection of God’s creatures is not a difficult task; all we need to do is open our front doors. It is certified across the gamut of human experience from reports of horrific genocide to the annoyance of a split infinitive. Our Scripture readings advertise in bold script the unworthiness of the prophetic giant, Isaiah; the fearless Apostle, Paul; and the rock solid Peter. None is perfect, none is worthy. Yet, we believe that despite, or dare we say, because of their weakness, they were chosen as special vessels of God’s revelation. There is a wonderful pattern set forth in God’s plan: First the messenger is chosen; then he is made to confess his unsuitability to the task; he receives a divine guarantee; then he sets out on his mission with clear resolution. Every saint has reenacted the vocation of the Galilean Fisherman from his humble “. . . but if you say so, I will lower the nets” through the wrenching “Leave me, Lord, I am a sinful man” to the consoling “Do not be afraid. From now on you will be catching men.” The life of the Church echoes this refrain as a living breath when it acts as its Lord did to teach, govern and sanctify. As Catholics we believe that that voice of Peter is a living voice; it is not simply an utterance recorded from the past, or a collection of historic observations of arcane interest. We believe that what Peter was to the Apostolic Church, the Pope is to the Church of the late twentieth century. What was Peter? He was the leader of the apostolic group; he spoke for them; he was the exemplary disciple; his personal faith was made the bedrock of the faith of the Church; he was the unifying figure of the apostles; Peter sinned gravely, but was a sincere penitent; and it was his witness to the resurrection of Christ which constituted the proof of its happening. But Peter is not Peter without the other Apostles; and the Apostles are not Apostles without Peter. There is a harmony which is operative in living out the mandate Our Lord spoke on Easter night: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” The Church has understood quite literally these words of its Master, and has spoken confidently with the voice of Christ when it blesses, when it governs, when it teaches. This speaking of Christ to our world is called the magisterium of the Church. When the Church teaches, we believe it teaches with the authority of Christ. Christ would not deceive us. And the very fact that it is Christ who speaks should fill us with a reverence and love for the content: what is said, what is implied; what is commanded, what is suggested. Like Isaiah, Paul, and Peter, it is not the self-confessed sinner whose message we listen to, it is the word of God spoken through them. Theologians have traditionally divided this teaching authority into what are called the ordinary and extraordinary magisterium. Both command equal respect and adherence. The difference lies in the mode of delivery. The extraordinary magisterium is clear, solemn, and bears a date. The declaration of the dogma of the Assumption of Mary by Pius XII in 1950 is one such example of the Pope, acting alone but after consultation with the bishops, teaching infallibly. The Second Vatican Council is an example of the extraordinary magisterium acting as assembled in an ecumenical council, Pope and bishops together. While such moments are difficult not to recognize, there are other instances of equal importance where the Church teaches us with the same authority. For we also believe that those elements of the faith which have been consistently taught throughout history and by the universal Church are also infallible. At times the voice of Christ the teacher may rise to a crescendo and speak, loud and clear. At other times it may discourse with a firm regularity and tone. The teaching of the Church on abortion has been consistent, perpetual and universal, and, while never having been declared solemnly, is an infallible teaching of the Church. The practice of the Church is to be treated the same way. The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith has recently stated that the universal and perpetual tradition of selecting only men for ordination is an expression of the ordinary magisterium. It is a disrespectful and impish child who steals a cookie claiming the prohibition was not to have any candy. Immature and contentious elements in the Church seek to separate out all that has to be believed, and to minimize it. This does not look much like the anxious crowds near Capernaum who strained to hear each word the Master spoke. It is not the attitude of one whose love is warm and sure. If God must shout at us our faith is weak. Newman’s faith was bold and attentive. It led him, at times by only a whisper, but with a willing heart he was able to say: “He is trying our love of its matter, and, perhaps, it is His will to speak less loudly the more He asks. Suggested reading: Catechism of the Catholic Church, 888-896, 2030-2046,
God cares 6th Sunday of the Year—February 15 “C” Readings: Jer. 17:5-8 • 1 Cor. 15:12. 16-20 • Luke 6:17. 20-26 Title: Social Justice and Peace (A) Purpose: (1) to explain why a Catholic should be concerned about social justice and peace; (2) to describe selfish apathy as unchristian. Modern translations of the Scriptures have suggested a variety of words to carry the meaning of “makarioi” which is rendered in our gospel by the term “blest.” Some have used the word “happy,” a rather common alternative. A rather cavalier suggestion, not without its merit, has been “debonair.” I would suggest that a faithful translation could be accomplished with either “blissful” of “serene.” The idea communicated in the inspired text is that the category of person described, the poor, hungry, weeping, etc., are enjoying a state of existence which in some way anticipates the life of heaven. They are already privileged to share in God’s own life. This certainly says something to us as to the consolation which the afflicted receive here and now—how they are drawn up to God. Can it also be saying something to us about the divine condescension, how God has come down to us? The bracing truth of the incarnation allows us to say such things as: God was poor; God wept; God went hungry, all this in the human nature of Christ. A great and obvious truth of the Bible is God’s solidarity with the world. God cares about his creation; and all of the Scriptures can be read as the attempts on God’s part to draw closer to the world. Christ becoming man is the culmination of that effort; and we must remind ourselves that the humanity of Christ is carried into eternity. For all time, God will have a human face. This mysterious truth is at the root of all we say or do as Christians in regard to our responsibilities in the world. We deeply care for the world because God has shown us the world as
something preeminently “lovable.” Our commitment to the cause of social justice
and peace is a consequence of the truth behind two articles in the Creed: belief in God
the Creator of heaven and earth, and belief in Jesus Christ who became man. Our actions
may be identical to those of non-believers, but the motivation is profoundly different. We
may care for the ecological well-being of the planet as well as an atheist. The atheist
may be doing so because he believes this is the only reality, and we better well care for
it. The Christian does it, perhaps for a variety of reasons, but fundamentally because we
are called to be responsible stewards of God’s creation. Believers and non-believers
may collect clothes for the poor. The non-believer may do so because she feels compassion.
The believer may certainly feel compassion; but she must also see in the poor the human
face of Christ who suffers in his body. Far from diminishing one’s responsibility,
the Christian social commitment is all the more urgent. We must not strive under the delusion that our efforts, no matter how well-intentioned or clever, can ever bring about a perfectly just society. On this Monday we celebrate in the United States the memory of two great presidents, Washington and Lincoln. Their noble ideals and inspiring words should stir us on to work for a more complete realization of the constitutional principles which they embraced. As high and as worthy as those principles are though, they still are not substitutes for the truth of the Gospel. The common good, which is the aim of political and social engagement, does not encompass the transcendent destiny which is our true life, liberty and happiness. The Beatitudes are essentially the blueprint of Christ’s Kingdom which is very different from any ideal society we try to engineer. Augustine understood this perfectly when he said that the City of Man could never be built into the City of God. The City of God is God’s doing. While man has built some pretty respectable cities, none is perfect or enduring. Thomas More understood this too in his “Utopia” which is precisely “nowhere” to be found on the earth. Jeremiah states it very bluntly, “Cursed is the man who trusts in human beings.” This realization of the limitedness of human effort is no excuse for apathy. We are not permitted to sit back and say “Let God do it.” The greatest and most effective social reformers have been those who have first realized their humility, and then plunged in full force to do what they could. Suffice it to scan the ranks of such champions of justice: St. Francis of Assisi, St. Vincent de Paul, Dorothy Day. There are many ways in which we can exercise this responsibility to evangelize society. The Second Vatican Council boldly stated that this direct political engagement in the world is the primary role of the laity. It is the special vocation of the layperson to be informed, active and faithful in this effort to bring the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount to the public square. This can be done by carefully studying and reflecting on the implications of specific candidates and legislation. Advocacy for the marginalized in our society is another way. If we are in a position of responsibility in business, we must carefully consider the social and moral aspects of decisions we make. All of these things are good and necessary. We often forget, however, one of the most effective methods of working for justice and peace, for the furtherance of the Kingdom. That is prayer. In prayer we realize that dialectic which characterizes the Christian life, the play between God’s overwhelming power and our puny efforts. This is no better expressed than in the Magnificat of Mary when she prays: “The Almighty has done great things for me, holy is his name.” Cardinal Newman sums up this attitude in his comment on the first petition of the Our Father when we say “thy Kingdom come”: “. . . let Thy glory blossom forth as bloom and foliage on the trees; change with Thy mighty power this visible world into that diviner world, which as yet we see not; destroy what we see, that it may pass and be transformed into what we believe.” Suggested reading: Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2401-2449.
The Chair of Peter 7th Sunday of the Year—February 22 “C” Readings: 1 Sam. 26:2. 7-9. 12-13. 22-23 • 1 Cor. 15:45-49 • Luke 6:27-38 Title: Social Justice and Peace (B) Purpose: to present the Church’s teaching on some major current issues: e.g., disarmament, nuclear war, world poverty, racism. Our Lord is very often the object of mistaken identity. He is thought to be only “the son of a carpenter”; Herod mistakes him as a John the Baptist Redivivus; his own family takes him to be “mad”; the Apostles conclude he is a maritime ghost on the Sea of Galilee; Mary Magdalene thinks him to be merely the gardener. It should not surprise us that such a complex and unique personality as was Christ should be often mistaken for what he is not. “No man has ever spoken before as this man”; we can say with all truthfulness: “No man has ever existed before as this man.” It is no wonder then that Peter, the exemplary disciple, after his magnificent confession of faith at Caesarea Philippi, seems to get his Lord’s identity wrong. He calls Jesus by the correct title: “Messiah, Christ”; but misses the full content of that title. Our Lord will remonstrate with Peter who rejects the necessity of a suffering Messiah. But the tears of Good Friday morning will clarify his vision; and the seaside absolution in the calm light of the Resurrection will confirm his solid faith. Peter will stand up on Pentecost to proclaim proudly: “God has brought to fulfillment by this means what he announced long ago through the prophets: that his Messiah would suffer.” Today we celebrate in the Church the Feast of the Chair of Peter in which we honor the teaching authority of the Petrine Office. We acknowledge God’s faithfulness in keeping his promise to Peter and his successors to be the “Rock” on which the faith of the Church should firmly rest. Over and over again it has been the voice of Peter to correct the mistaken identities of Christ which error and sin have attached to the very “Icon” of God. In the fourth century it was the voice of Peter in the Apostolic College which corrected a false identity of Christ as only human. In the thirteenth century Peter would “strengthen the brethren” with the assurance that Christ meant what he said; the Eucharist does not only appear to be Christ, but truly is Christ. In our own more recent times the magisterial pronouncements of the Popes have been directed to correct a false identity of the Savior in the social realm. Pope Leo XIII championed the rights of labor and cautioned against the abuses of laisssez-faire capitalism. Christ could not be mistaken for a country club plutocrat. Pius XI courageously took exception to fascist attempts to replace the Man of Sorrows with a goose-stepping Aryan fuehrer. The Church’s role in correcting, encouraging, rebuking and admonishing in regard to the identity of Christ does not stop at the threshold of monasteries, cathedrals and schools. It proceeds into the whole world where, at times, discourse is engaged in the less dignified media of poster campaigns and radio talk shows. This is called the social teaching of the Church. It is not new. It goes as far back, and farther than St. James’s admonition not to show preference to the fashionably dressed. It is as broad and relevant as bishops reminding voters that nationality must not limit Christian hospitality. Many such issues are hotly debated with a conviction that tells of the sincerity of all sides. Not long ago when the threat of nuclear conflict was a looming shadow over international relations, the American bishops issued a pastoral letter on nuclear warfare and disarmament. It caused much turmoil in the Church. While some particular applications of the just war theory may be questioned, what remains as the unrelenting teaching of the universal Church is that innocent life must be defended, and armed conflict avoided as only a final regrettable but necessary resort. Certainly it is not difficult to see reflected in this contemporary debate the attitude of Christ’s own hearers who wanted a military Messiah to deliver them from Roman domination. The Church’s attitude in regard to other pressing social problems such as world poverty and racism is there to remind us that our all-too-human tendencies toward selfishness and myopia must be corrected by the purifying fire of Gospel values. Even before the Church achieved its freedom under Constantine it was the practice of the early Christians to depict Christ in imperial regalia. He is shown seated on a throne, dressed as a ruler, surrounded by a court. This was helpful and perhaps necessary to communicate a profound truth about Christ’s lordship over us. There is a danger which is verified in later ages that we can err too far in trying not only to depict Christ in our conventions, but also to remake him in our image. We have the assurance of which this feast reminds us that the voice of Peter will not fail to recall us to that true vision of Christ. It is Peter, the privileged audience of the Transfiguration, who could rightly boast “. . . for we were eyewitnesses of his sovereign majesty.”
Monsignor Steven D. Otellini is a priest of the Archdiocese of San Francisco and president of Marin Catholic High School in Kentfield, Calif. He received an S.T.L. in Dogmatic Theology and a Doctorate in Canon Law from the Gregorian University. Msgr. Otellini has served in the diplomatic missions of the Holy See in Africa and Greece. This is his first series of homilies to appear in HPR. |