Sunday, January 10, 2010

Homily for the Baptism of the Lord


Well here we are again. Two weeks ago we were shepherds, gazing at the Christ child in the manger. Last week we were magi kneeling in adoration before the Blessed Virgin and her Divine Child. This week we stand on the banks of the Jordan River as God’s own voice calls down from a cloud: “This is my beloved Son: listen to him.”

Shepherds look, Magi adore, but to us, he says: Listen to my Beloved Son!

Most people are like shepherds, gazing with wonder upon the face of the baby Jesus, sensing his divinity, mystified by his beauty, but then they leave their pew on Eve Mass go home to open presents. Oh, they’ll be back...they’ll be back at Easter to see the lilies, and maybe even, if they’re really good Catholics, they’ll get ashes and palms. But when during the in-between times they get that feeling that there must be something more, they’ll change the channel, or have another drink, or do something fun to keep them busy until the feeling goes away.

More than 90% of all Americans profess belief in God. But so many of them are like the shepherds, staring at him in a manger, but unsure of who or what he is, and unwilling to listen to the longing in their bones. Sadly unwilling to change their lives. Desperately unwilling to become something more than silent spectators.

And then there are the wise men, who have seen his star at its rising. They come to do him homage, to worship him, to bend the knee in adoration. Like angels they praise him, kneeling and standing, in the same pew each Sunday and they are even generous with their envelopes. They go to Mass and, even though confession is not quite part of the package, they do their part and expect that someday God will do his.

They’re good people. They’re among the 37% of all Americans who go to church. They’re not here just to gaze on poinsettias and lilies. They really pray and they really want to love God.

But then comes this morning, on Jordan’s banks, as the first Adam is buried and a new man arises, as the one on whom water is poured cleanses all waters, as a voice from heaven proclaims him beloved and only-Son of God and commands us to listen to him.

Not just look. Not just adore. But listen, repent, and change.

But O, how we resist, we faithful Catholics. We resist. We lie. And we cling to hurt.

We lie. When he who is the truth forbids false witness, we lie.

And it usually happens so easily, so cheaply, that we barely even notice. Last week, I was engaged in a conversation about a new book on an esoteric subject about which I style myself as something of an aficionado. “You’ve read it, haven’t you,” a colleague looked at me and asked. I’d never heard of the book before, but I was tempted...so tempted (in fact, the lie was getting ready to roll off my tongue) I was so tempted to say, “Of course...of course, I have read it...what a foolish question! Me? Of course I’ve read it!”

For the sake of feeling important, of gaining advantage, of avoiding trouble, or getting out of something, we lie. And we usually lie about the stupidest things.
A recent study by Yale University examined why people in a third world country lied when applying for government aid. Of the 100,000 applicants in the study many lied about possessing cars or VCRs or phones or washing machines because they wanted to get a government check. No surprise there.

But then they came upon an unexpected finding. An equal number of applicants lied about whether they had indoor plumbing, a refrigerator, or even a concrete floor. While none of these items would have affected their qualification for welfare, the lack of these items did effect what the government worker might think of them. We lie, the study suggests, not just for personal gain, but so that we can look like the coolest kid in the school yard.

And so it is with all the little lie we tell each other, About how the dog ate my homework, the number of hours I slaved at that job, the perfection of my character, and even, how good that dress looks on you.

I am the truth, he says. And we lie.

Pray like this, he tells us: forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.

That’s fine Lord, but do you know what she did to me?! Can you imagine how they treated us?! Just imagine the nerve of people like that! Where do they get off? I can’t believe there are people like that in this world!

And so we cling to our grudges as our most precious possessions: grudges against ever hurt or offense, carefully recorded for future reference and ammunition. Mothers refuse to talk to daughters because of what she did to me, sons cut off their fathers because of what he said to me and even husbands and wives turn each other off because of what happened that day in 1987. Sometimes we even hold grudges for people who aren’t even alive anymore.

“We do this with the false idea that somehow we are making them suffer by being hurt and angry with them.” If I can just harbor this grudge long enough, I’ll exact my revenge. Someone has got to suffer for this.

And we’re right, in a perverse sort of way. Someone is going to suffer. But its not the one we think. For the grudge is corrosive, its acidic. It eats alive the one who clings to it, gnawing at your soul like a malignant obsession, damning you to a dark, cold hell of your own making.

From the bloody cross the beloved Son looks down on us and weeps: love one another, as I have loved you...while the other way, and vainly strive to settle that old score.

He says love, and we lie about it.
He says forgive, and we cling to our grudge.

So come...So come to the manger, and gaze in wonder like shepherds on a starlit night. Come and adore him, like Magi, with gifts on bended knee. But more than anything else, come to the waters, come and listen to this beloved Son.

Come, listen, and live.


Monsignor James P. Moroney
Rector