27th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year C

Habakkuk 1:2-3. 2:2-4; 2Timothy 1:6-8. 13-14; Luke 17:5-10

Quite a few years ago now I found myself in the dentist’s waiting room reading in a tattered magazine a report from a young Polish-Australian girl who had just returned from a first visit to her country of birth. She was full of exuberance and somewhat emotional. She said things like ‘I feel Poland is doing well … I feel the Pope’s recent visit has given courage .. I feel the economy is improving' .. and so on.

It struck me this use, or rather, overuse, of the word ‘feel’ and wondered how much ‘thinking’ our young traveller did.

A previous bishop once asked me at lunch what I thought of a certain matter and as my response began, ‘I feel that …’ He interrupted me immediately and said, ‘Spare me your feelings, John; tell me what you think.’ I was, naturally enough, mortified and the broad grins of my brother priests around the table didn’t make my humiliation easier. During dessert I thought to score a point by asking the bishop if he thought like another piece of cake. He was not amused.

It is undoubtedly true that in this world there are ‘thinkers’ and ‘feelers’. I confess to being, in certain areas, one of the latter. If you ask me if I’d like an ice cream I just consult my tummy and say, ‘Hmmm .. yes.’ On the other hand, a priest friend who sometimes accompanies me on holidays would look at his watch and work out how long since breakfast and how long till lunch and make a decision based on his calculations. A true ‘thinker’.

Thinking and feeling are usually thought of as two separate functions of the soul although sometimes it can be difficult to disentangle them. In most people they work together harmoniously for the wellbeing of the individual as long as it is remembered that the rational intellect is a higher faculty than the emotions. Many people have forgotten this. Unfortunately those who live their lives guided by their changeable and unpredictable feelings will usually lurch from one disaster to the next.

In broad terms feeling tends to self; thinking tends beyond self. Therefore, in our contemporary, individualistic, self-centred society feeling gets more airplay than thinking. Quite frankly, I was shocked to discover recently that among our primary school students one of the worst sins they could commit was ‘hurting someone’s feelings’. From here it’s only a short step to ‘feeling good’ is better than ‘being good’ or ‘doing good’.

An over-emphasis on feelings leads inevitably to an over-emphasis on self. The subversive little phrase ‘Are you comfortable with that?’ is symptomatic of the trend. Good becomes that which makes you feel good.

No wonder the young say, ‘I don’t go to Mass because I get nothing out of it; it does nothing for me.’ Having long ago lost any intellectual grasp of the meaning of the Eucharistic liturgy they are reduced to judging it by how it makes them feel.

We priests, instead of undertaking the task of re-catechising our people have all too often fallen into the trap of entertaining them - making them feel good. And so we have had rock Masses, and puppet Gospels and clown homilies, and all sorts of innovations and novelties bordering on abuse and even sacrilege.

When young people tell me the Mass does nothing for them I tell them it’s actually meant to do something for God. The Mass is meant to please God. We come to give him (not ourselves) glory and praise and honour and worship. This is our obligation as God’s servants.

And when they complain that they don’t like the music or such and such a hymn I tell them we’re not singing these hymns for their enjoyment; we are singing them for God. We are here at Mass to do something for God.

And when they tell me they don’t like the priest I tell them that God does. I tell them that God saw something very attractive in that man and called him from all eternity to be a priest. We would show ourselves very wise to go with God’s choice.

Feelings tend to invert the order of things. Reason puts them back the way they should be. I heard recently of a priest who complained to his parishioners that he is rarely thanked for the work he does among them, for saying Mass and delivering sermons, and a parishioner interrupted him and told him that as a father he rarely gets thanks for providing for his family, and his wife rarely get's thanked for her housekeeping. 'That's our duty, Father, and your duty is to do what you're doing.'

Strong words, straight from the rational intellect, and they certainly put the 'hurt feelings' back in their place. Just listen to what Jesus thinks of the matter: So with you: when you have done all you have been told to do, say, ‘We are merely servants: we have done no more than our duty.’ Those words put us all in our place, and 'in our place' is a wonderful place to be. It brings peace to all around.

26th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year C

Amos 6:1. 4-7; 1Timothy 6:11-16; Luke 16:19-31

About 780 years before Christ a young man called Amos was taking care of sheep and tending sycamore trees in Judah when God unexpectedly called him to be a prophet. He had to denounce both Israel and Judah for their idolatry and injustice in such strong terms that he found himself expelled by the priest in charge of the royal sanctuary of Bethel. This in itself was a great crime. Imagine forbidding a prophet to speak God’s word in God’s house! It would be like getting angry when a priest mentions from the pulpit the teaching of the Church on contraception, abortion, the Sunday Mass obligation, mortal sin, or the need for the sacrament of Reconciliation.

It showed to what depths the faith of Israel had fallen and because of its sins Amos foretold its downfall and the captivity of the people.

Today we hear, for the second week, a small selection from the prophet Amos in our first reading. Written almost three thousand years ago its warning is as applicable and valid today as it was all those centuries ago.

Amos condemns the rich and powerful in language that seeks them out and ‘captures’ them in the very acts of their self-indulgence. The effect is much like that of a video camera at a wild party with an accompanying commentary full of biting scorn.

‘Woe’ cries Amos, casting his prophet’s eye on those ensconced so snugly in Zion and to those who feel so safe on the mountain of Samaria. His cry is both a lament and a warning.

The phrases are carefully chosen – ‘ensconced so snugly’ – ‘feel so safe’ – and Amos shows himself contemptuous of the blind self-assurance of the rich which allows them to live in the silly delusion of safety.

And how do they live?

Lying on ivory beds and sprawling on their divans, they dine on lambs from the flock, and stall-fattened veal; they bawl to the sound of the harp, they invent new instruments of music like David, they drink wine by the bowlful, and use the finest oil for anointing themselves…

The prophet’s camera does not lie – ivory beds, divans, lambs, stall-fattened veal, harps, wine by the bowlful, finest oil. And the rich, what are they doing? – lying, sprawling, dining, bawling, drinking, anointing. Not a very flattering report, is it?

There are several judgments implicit in the prophet’s description of the rich.

Firstly, their lives are dissipated. Not only do they spend their time intemperately wining and dining but there seems to be no evidence of spiritual concern; the preoccupation with material pleasures is total.

Secondly, their lifestyle is one of degradation. It is no surprise that those who feast on fine food and consume wine by the bowlful should end up sprawling and bawling. How ironic that those who think themselves superior to others are unmasked as bereft of any personal dignity.

Amos leaves his most biting condemnation till last. All the self-indulgent carousing of the rich which he has portrayed so vividly is suddenly placed within the context of a nation in imminent danger of total destruction.

But about the ruin of Joseph (i.e. Israel) they do not care at all.

What a terrible indictment! And no wonder the Lord in his mercy moved to restore the situation. Amos bluntly pronounced the Lord’s judgment: That is why they will be the first to be exiled; the sprawlers' revelry is over. Deportation.

Many such warnings were given the Chosen People over a long period of time but they would not listen. They polluted the Promised Land with their idolatry and disobedience until finally the Lord intervened. They were taken captive by the pagan nation to their north and their Temple and Holy City were razed to the ground.

Is there a lesson for modern Australia in this scripture? Is there a lesson for the Catholic Church? Is there a lesson for you personally in this reading?

25th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year C

Amos 8:4-7; 1 Timothy 2:1-8; Luke 16:1-13

Lately I’ve been reading a rather unusual book called TO MY PRIESTS. It’s a shockingly difficult translation of the Spanish original written from the years 1927 – 1931. They are inspirations or ‘confidences’ of Jesus to a Spanish woman called Concepcion Cabrera de Armida and add up to the most insightful and confronting observations I’ve ever read on the priesthood. Let me quote a little from Chapter 46 on Vanity: This vice, when it initiates itself into the souls of the priests ought to be rooted out because, if it reaches an accustomed level of living and possesses the person, it removes him from his interior and spiritual life - which ought to be where his existence gravitates - it lowers him to the things of the earth and makes him delight in them. Then he is saddened when there is a lack of human praises and he is joyful only when he sees himself enveloped in them. Powerful stuff!

Perhaps because this book caused the priestly ministry to be so much in the forefront of my thinking, today’s Gospel image of the steward giving away the master’s property to make himself popular speaks to me also of the dangers inherent in the vocation of the priest.

When I was first ordained it was my habit to invite parishioners to call me by my first name rather than say Father. It seemed like a jolly good idea. It showed people I was not ‘hierarchical’ which was code for ‘power hungry’; it showed them that I didn’t want them to think I was better than they were; and, all in all, and perhaps most importantly, showed them what a nice, friendly, approachable guy I was.

To be honest, I have now come to see that what I was really doing was saying to my parishioners 'Please like me!’ What is apparent to me, after twenty-six year of priesthood, is that I was wasting, or giving away the Master’s property in order to win a welcome for myself. I was giving away what didn’t belong to me. At the time I didn’t realize that the familiarity I then sought, even in this seemingly trivial way, would one day become an obstacle for those who needed Father John Speekman and not John Speekman. I guess that’s why so many parishioners, especially the older ones, resisted me. They understood this title was not mine to give away. It had been placed on me at ordination and represented who I had become. Another group of parishioners, however, was only too ready to acquiesce to my invitation.

A little smarter now I have begun to cast the light of this self-understanding on all sorts of areas of priestly ministry, some minor and some gravely serious. Take the wearing of the Roman collar, for example. Patients and staff at the hospital where I served as chaplain were always grateful to see me wearing clerical attire and occasionally told me so. A religious sister in lay clothes who sometimes visited the wards once chided me and suggested it was a little overdone. She asked ‘What difference does it make?’ and I answered, perhaps too abruptly, ‘When I walk down the street I make people think of God and the Church, and you don’t.’ Let me hasten to add that there was a time when I didn't wear clerical clothes either, but I have learned.

Rome has repeatedly requested priests to wear clerical attire. Our bishop sets a great standard here. Why then should we not comply with this requirement? For only one reason: it’s easier for us when we are not so conspicuous. And because people have a right to the example of priestly obedience, and of visible priests, I propose this as another example of wasting the Master’s property.

We priests need you to love us, though, depending on circumstances and life situations, some priests more than others. But this need can run very deep and often causes us to baulk at making difficult decisions.

• ‘Father, is it OK for me to be on the Pill?’
• ‘Father, can I still go to Holy Communion even though I’m married outside the Church?’
• ‘Is it OK to sing “She’ll be coming round the mountain” as the first hymn at Mum’s funeral Mass?'

The more a priest needs to be loved the more difficult it is for him to say no. Then we find that awful temptation to give away more of the Master’s property. Our loyalty shifts from the Master to his debtors and the consequences are tragic for the Church; it becomes a Church ruled by the wishes of the people rather than the rights of the Master, and there is no place where this becomes more apparent than in the pulpit.

Have you noticed that there are some pulpits from which you never hear anything challenging? There is lots of affirmation, lots of thanking, lots of congratulating, lots of humour, but almost no teaching of prickly truths. It’s not that heresy is preached, it’s just that the difficult teachings of the Faith are somehow ‘left out’. As one Catholic man put it recently, ‘Our priest gives us nothing to take home. All he does is talk about climate change, refugees, and progress on the school hall.’

We priests are called to set the hearts of our people aflame, not to blow smoke in their eyes. There will be many to love us today for not challenging them - but tomorrow – they will quietly despise us.

We priests are called to use the Master’s riches to make friends who will welcome us ‘into the tents of eternity.’ I haven’t always understood this and have been as guilty as most of self-serving ‘wastage’.

Nowadays I deliberately never tell a joke at Mass; I am so conscious of how this destroys the (Lord's) sacred atmosphere which should surround it. I don’t make use of extraordinary ministers unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t just let the choir sing whatever they want but try to direct them more to appropriate hymns and music. Above all, I never deliberately change the words of the Mass.

All this is learned behaviour, acquired wisdom. If it is essential that we priests, stewards of the Master, remain accountable for our use of the Master’s goods, it is equally necessary that religious and lay persons be attentive also. The steward in the Gospel was not a thief, he was just wasteful - but the master still gave him the sack.

24th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year C

Exodus 32:7-11.13-14; 1Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-32

Jesus was a sinner magnet. Whenever and wherever he showed his face the sinners came flocking: The tax collectors and the sinners, meanwhile, were all seeking his company to hear what he had to say. They like to be with him, in his company, and they liked to hear him speak.

There were two groups of sinners – those who knew they were sinners and those who didn’t. Those who knew who they were and those who didn’t.

The sinners who knew they were sinners liked to hear Jesus speak because he spoke words of acceptance, hope, reconciliation and love. The sinners who thought they were good and holy sought Jesus out in order to criticise, poke fun, catch him out and, finally, get rid of him. In a way I think they were actually afraid of him.

At any rate they were not pleased that Jesus welcomed the other group, and even ate with them: The Pharisees and the scribes complained. 'This man' they said 'welcomes sinners and eats with them.’

Jesus’ response is typical; he tells them a parable, three parables in fact. This was a good strategy. To set the naked truth before some people can be too confronting, it just provokes them to anger and aggression. Jesus ‘gift wraps’ the truth in a parable. He tells a story which encloses the truth he wishes to teach in such a way that his listeners are obliged to carefully 'unwrap' it and ponder deeply on the parable. Then, if they are of good faith, the truth will present itself plainly to their eyes.

What man among you, challenges Jesus, prodding the egos of his listeners to greater attentiveness: What man among you with a hundred sheep, losing one, would not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the missing one till he found it?

Instantly the focus shifts from the lost sheep (the sinner) to the man who goes searching for it. This parable is not about the sheep, nor is it really about the sinner. Everyone knows it’s in the very nature of a sheep to get itself lost. When it strays from the flock it’s only doing its duty, so to speak, like an infant screaming in church. Every shepherd of sheep understands this. We should not be surprised therefore that the Good Shepherd, the shepherd of souls, knows that we humans are sadly prone to sin. He knows what we are made of, he remembers we are dust (Psalm 103:14).

The parable does not scoff at those who condemn the sinner, it just shows disbelief that such a person could exist. What man among you…? or in other words, ‘Could there be such a man among you?’ And yet, ironically, unless one is attentive to Jesus’ use of hyperbole, there would probably be not a single man among them silly enough to leave ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness at the mercy of the wolves in order to save one lost sheep.

Hyperbole is extravagant exaggeration for the sake of making a point. When Jesus, for example, wanted to impress on his listeners how awful it is to commit sin he told them it would be better to pluck out their eye or cut off their hand. He exaggerated for the sake of the point he wanted to make.

In the parable we are considering it is the heart of the shepherd which comes under the spotlight, not the misdeeds of the sinner. The Pharisees and Scribes are, in a real sense, shepherds of the people and are offered this alluring image of a shepherd who loves each of his individual sheep with a preferential love.

In scriptural terms the flock of sheep is the Church: in which everyone is a 'first-born son' and a citizen of heaven (Hebrews 12:23). If the Pharisees and Scribes are seen as wanting in their love for God’s wayward children, the Good Shepherd, on the contrary, is shown as one who loves each of his sheep with all of his love and must therefore do all he can to ensure it stays within the flock.

No individual sheep is worth less than any other sheep, a fact reinforced by the parable which follows; no drachma is worth more than any other.

The merciful, loving heart of Jesus, the Good Shepherd, is the merciful, loving heart of God our heavenly Father. His mercy tirelessly seeks out each sinner and should the sinner respond there is delirious happiness and rejoicing in the whole court of heaven.

To every sinner in the state of mortal sin I say as simply as I can, ‘Your sin is not the big deal you think it is; the big deal is your return to the merciful love of God. Trust in his mercy, not in your sin. And if you continue to sin, continue to trust and to return to his mercy.’