It’s not hard to see why. Job poignantly expresses what all human beings experience at one time or another–the feeling that life is a burden, that our daily routine is drudgery, that our suffering is meaningless, that there’s not much hope for our future (Job 7:1-7).

Things are tough all over–in Job’s day, in ours, in Peter’s. It’s all about trying to earn a living and raise a family with taxes, government, disease, and unexpected tragedies yapping at our heels.

The Gospel (Mark 1:29-39) shows us such a world that is suddenly turned upside down by someone who breaks all the rules. Demons that normally inspire terror themselves run away in fear. Fevers flee. Incurable illnesses yield. Instead of talk about the burden of the law with its innumerable regulations, Good News is announced that gives people hope again. The Good News is that God is on the move, that he, not the Emperor or the Prince of Darkness, is King, and he is not slave-master but Father. The someone responsible for all this commotion happens to look like one of them, and indeed is one of them, but does things that only God can do. As He speaks, they begin to feel as is the world may have meaning, that life may actually be worth living. They want to be with him, to hear his electric words and see his astonishing deeds. So they won’t leave him alone. Crowds gather outside the door of the humble place where he is staying.

What happens next is instructive. Knowing his need for communion with his Heavenly Father, he rises early next morning to seek solitude and a few moments in prayer. But they need him. So they send the apostles to track him down. When they find him, he is not annoyed. He does not protest that it is his day off, tell them to come back tomorrow or sometime next week. He has come to bring Good News, to bring light to those in darkness, healing to the suffering. Many are desperate, so his mission is urgent. He gets up, but doesn’t return to Capernaum. Instead, he moves on to other towns. Those who wish to enjoy the excitement of his company must join him in his mission.

St. Paul has the same sense of urgency as his master (I Cor 9:16-19). He is aware of being entrusted with an awesome responsibility. It is not an option for him to share the gospel. What he has received as a gift, the most precious gift imaginable, he must give as a gift. And he must give it not only to those he likes, or those with whom he has some natural bond. He must not do it only when it suits him, when it is convenient. No, he must exert himself. He must seek common ground with all, Jew, Greek, weak, strong, educated, uneducated–so as to express the gospel to them in a way that they can understand. And this mission led him to cover more ground than even his master–not just Judea and Galilee, but what is now Turkey, Greece, and Italy.

Not all are called to be traveling preachers like our Lord and St. Paul. But the Church teaches unequivocally that membership in the one, holy, Catholic and apostolic church is not just about being saved and enjoying God’s company. There is a suffering world out there that desperately needs the saving truth and healing touch of Christ. Notice that immediately upon being healed, Peter’s mother-in-law began working.  Baptism is completed by confirmation, an anointing to serve. You can’t be fully a member of the apostolic church without participating in the apostolic mission.

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection upon the readings for the 5th Sunday in Ordinary Time, liturgical cycle B (Job 7:1-4, 6-7; Psalm 147, I Cor 9:16-19; Mark 1:29-39). It is reproduced here with the permission of the author.

That’s exactly how the scribes and Pharisees taught in Jesus’ day. “Rabbi Abraham says this. . . Rabbi Gamaliel says that . . .

So when a new young rabbi appears in Capernaum, this is what people expect. They are in for a surprise: he quotes no one else except God’s Word. That’s because there is no one more learned than He. In fact, he happens to be God’s Word made flesh.

But he doesn’t just speak to the humble townspeople this way. When he encounters superhuman forces that strike fear into the hearts of men, he is unruffled. There are no incantations; he does not plead. Rather than Jesus being afraid of them, the demons are afraid of him. Upon seeing them, they shriek. He calmly commands–“shut up and get out.” A moment later all is still. A former victim is now a free man and bystanders marvel. Word easily travels fast–little Capernaum happens to be right on a caravan route from Syria to the region of Galilee and beyond.

But isn’t all this talk of demons just a relic of the mythological world view of pre-scientific people? After all, these primitive folks don’t know about mental illness, chemical imbalance, viruses, and bacteria. Surely they just explained what they could not understand in terms of the supernatural.

That sounds very sophisticated, but it’s dead wrong. First of all, demons are not supernatural at all. Super-natural means above and beyond nature or creation–in other words, uncreated and transcendent. Only God qualifies for this label.

St. Thomas called the realm of angels and demons “preternatural” since it escapes the sensory knowledge that we can have of the rest of creation. We human beings were created by God as enfleshed spirits. But divine revelation tells us that God also created pure spiritual beings with the same freedom we have. Those who have chosen to use that freedom to serve God we call “angels” or messengers. Those who used their freedom to defy God are called demons. Pride and envy lead them to hate not only God, but us who are made in God’s image and likeness.

So people in Jesus day had good cause to fear demons–they are hostile and powerful. Plus, their intelligence is superior to ours–note that the demon in the story, unlike the humans, instantly recognized who Jesus was.

Okay, the ancients may have attributed too much to demonic influence, but moderns tend to make the opposite error. The existence of the angelic and demonic realm is part of the ordinary teaching of the Church’s Magisterium, clearly reaffirmed clearly by Popes Paul VI, John Paul II, and Benedict XVI. In fact when we say in the Creed that we believe in the Creator of heaven and earth, “of all things visible and invisible,” the invisible things refer precisely to this world.

So why is it important to believe that such creatures exist? Because the first rule of warfare is to know your enemy. Paul tells us clearly in Ephesians 6:12 “Our battle is not against human forces but against the principalities and powers . . . the evil spirits.”

Only God has power over this world. Jesus, in commanding the demons, as he later in the Gospel commands the wind and the waves, does only what God can do. Once we are joined to Christ, the enemy has no more authority or power over us–unless, of course, we give it to him through sin. If we cling to the Lord and listen to him, we have nothing to worry about. If not, we have lots to worry about.

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection upon the readings for the 4th Sunday in Ordinary Time, liturgical cycle B (Deut 18:15-20,10; Psalm 95, I Cor 7:32-35; Mark 1:21-28). It is reproduced here with the permission of the author.

So it would have been easy to pass on the chance to hear some new prophet proclaim that the Kingdom of God had finally arrived. And then, having heard this message, they could have rolled their eyes and chuckled about how they hoped that this kingdom would put more fish in the lake. Or they could have made excuses that this was all very interesting, but following the wandering rabbi from Nazareth was more suitable for single men with no mouths to feed.

No, when Jesus invited them to learn to catch men instead of fish, they dropped their nets, abandoned their businesses, and went on the road.

Is it wrong to have a family? Is it wrong to be in business? Are these secular activities inappropriate for a disciple of Jesus?

Not in the least. The Church teaches that we can serve the Lord and grow in holiness through any honest task, whether we are single or married. But St. Paul also tells us that the Christian engaged in secular activities must inwardly detach from them: “those who have wives should live as though they have none . . . buyers should conduct themselves as if they owned nothing, and those who make use of the world as though they were not using it, for the world as we know it is passing away.” (I Cor 7:29-31)

The word “secular” means “of this world.” Now it is true that God likes this world. After all, he created it. But when sinful humanity gets a hold of the things of this passing world, it doesn’t want to let go. It becomes engrossed, absorbed, consumed with them to the neglect of what lasts forever, namely the Kingdom of God.

In Jesus, the kingdom has touched down on planet earth. We need to re-form our lives, which is not only to say repent from sin, but actually structure our lives totally around the kingdom and its priorities. Kingdom priorities might dictate that many enter into the sacrament of matrimony in order to raise up new heralds of the kingdom and leaders of God’s people. And Christ may call others to involve themselves in business so as to provide financially for God’s work and to infuse Christian values into the marketplace.

Detachment does not mean that you shouldn’t enjoy your secular pursuits and approach them with energy and enthusiasm. It just means that your daily activity must be placed on the altar, offered up to God as a living sacrifice. And you must be ever ready to walk away from your activities at a moment’s notice, should Jesus call you to do so. Moments of truth will come to test just how serious we about living for God rather than for sports, careers, and even families.

Yes, families. There are times when duty calls soldiers to leave their families. The same holds true for breadwinners–my great-grandfather left family behind in Italy for several years while he prepared a better place for them in America. So why should we be surprised that at times some may be called to leave family for the sake of the Kingdom of God?

We may not be called literally to leave all behind to walk the dusty trails of Israel. But there will come a moment when we may hear an invitation to decline a scholarship, or a promotion, or a romance for the sake of the Kingdom.

As the gospel story unfolds, we learn that the apostles had more than a few shortcomings. But we have to admit this–that when that initial call came, as challenging as it was, they made no excuses. Can the same be said for us?

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection upon the readings for the 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, liturgical cycle B (Jon 3:1-5,10; Psalm 25, I Cor 7:29-31; Mark 1:14-20). It is reproduced here with the permission of the author.

This was a misunderstanding that the Second Vatican Council was determined to clear up. It emphasized that we all have a vocation (Lumen Gentium, chapter 5). The very first call we have is not so much to do something, but to be something. Each one of us is called to be holy. And holiness is not to be identified with any particular state in life. Whether you are a student, a full-time mom, a nurse, or a bishop, your daily activities furnish you with plenty of opportunities to grow in faith, hope and love. It is the perfection of these three virtues that make for true sanctity. Of course, there are many students, moms, nurses, and bishops who fail to become saints. Obviously, then, the various activities we are speaking of are not enough in themselves to make people holy. People have to make a conscious decision not just once but each and every day to surrender themselves, their wills and their lives to God and allow Him, the potter, to use their everyday activities to shape them as if they were clay in His skilled hands.

When we are baptized, we receive that call to holiness. From that moment, our life is no longer our own. “It is no longer I who live,” says Saint Paul, “but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave his life for me (Gal 2:19b-20).” Like Paul and Samuel (see I Sam 3), we are dedicated wholly to God, set apart to glorify Him in every aspect of our being, including our bodies. His Spirit lives within us and so we become God’s dwelling place and acquire a new dignity (I Cor 1:1-3). The biblical insistence on sexual purity comes from no prudish disdain of sexuality but rather from the simple fact that we must treat our bodies with the reverence due to God’s temple (I Cor 6:13C-20). We have no right to allow the temple of the Lord to be used as a means for a cheap thrill.

There is something else that we all called to be – evangelizers. In baptism and confirmation, we are anointed prophets, which means that we are to announce the Good News of the Gospel. When Andrew met Jesus (John 1:35-42), he immediately told his brother Simon about this new prophet and introduced him to Jesus. When John the Baptist first saw Jesus, he pointed his cousin out to his own disciples and said “behold the Lamb of God.” The call to bring others to Jesus is not limited to missionaries or those with an outgoing personality. The Second Vatican Council is unequivocal about it–both in deed and word, we are each called to be a witness to the fact that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world, the one who fulfills all the hopes and aspirations of every person on the face of the planet (see its Decrees on the Apostolate of the Laity and Missionary Activity).

So should we stop praying for more priests and nuns? No way! Religious are a powerful sign to the world that holiness has to be everyone’s #1 priority. And priests and bishops have a special call to share in the ministry of the apostles in order to equip us all for our apostolic task.

So we need to pray for those who have answered the call and pray for more to answer the call. But praying for vocations means more than that. Imagine if the billion or so Christians in the world took seriously their vocation to be saints and witnesses. I think we’d see some changes.

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection upon the readings for the 2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, liturgical cycles A (Is 49:3-6; Ps 40; I Cor 1:1-3; and Jn 1: 29-34) and B (I Sam 3:3b-10, 19), Psalm 40, I Cor 6:13-20; Jn 1:35-42). It is reproduced here with the permission of the author.

Into this scene of obscure poverty suddenly bursts an exotic entourage from a far-off land. Dignitaries in dress uniform lavish the newborn with expensive gifts that seem out of place in the humble surroundings.

This event is so significant that it is accorded its own feast in the Roman liturgy, celebrated traditionally on Jan 6, immediately after the twelve days of Christmas. This solemn feast is called Epiphany, a word that means “manifestation” or “appearance.”

What seems to be no more than another crying baby of an indigent family for a brief moment “appears” as who He really is–the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords.  The gifts he is given, prophesied in Is 60:6, tell the story: gold fit for a king, incense for the worship of God, and myrrh, bitter yet precious, for the hero who will lay down his life for his people.

There are several important things to note about these prestigious visitors. They are Gentiles, not Jews. From the very beginning of his human existence, then, Jesus is clearly not just the Jewish messiah who has come to deliver the people of Israel from foreign oppression. No, he is the universal king, the ruler of all, who has come to tear down the hostile wall dividing Jew from Gentile, nation from nation.

If you’ve ever wondered what the word “Catholic” means, here we have it. Derived from Greek words meaning “according to the whole,” it means that Christ did not come to establish some local religious sect for a select few, one “cult” among many. No, the Church he founded is “Catholic” or universal, spread over the whole world, welcoming the whole human race into one nation, one family, under one King.

Something else about these illustrious visitors. As Gentiles, they are pagans. In fact the term “Magi” is clearly linked to the word “magic.” It was not in the Bible that they normally looked for wisdom (otherwise they would have known to go straight to Bethlehem). But in reward for their ardent though perhaps misguided search for truth, God led them to Christ anyhow, in His great mercy.

Ever since the days of Balaam, God has shown us that pagans can be mysteriously drawn to him and used by him, at times even through their own imperfect traditions of wisdom. If you go to the Sistine Chapel and study Michelangelo’s work, you can see evidence of this. Lining the top of one wall of the chapel are famous paintings of many of the Old Testament prophets. Opposite them are not New Testament apostles as one may expect. But rather, a row of the Sybils, the prophetesses of the ancient world, in whose oracles there were discovered shadowy allusions to a future savior-king. One of Michelangelo’s Sybils has her mouth agape with astonishment, her eyes fixed on the fresco of the risen Christ at the back of the chapel. Indeed, the deepest desires of all peoples, the elements of truth found in all their religions and philosophies, are fulfilled in Christ.

Does this mean that all religions are equal and that we should not impose our ideas upon others? Not at all. St. Justin said that there are “seeds of the Word” scattered throughout the world. But seeds are meant to sprout, grow, and bear fruit. Hearing the full gospel and partaking in all the means of grace are ordinarily needed to make that happen. All peoples of the world have a right to this “Catholic” fullness. And it is our obligation to share it. Paul VI said it well: “others may be able to be saved without hearing the gospel, but can we be saved if we neglect to preach it?”

This column was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection on the scripture readings for the Feast of the Epiphany, cycles ABC (Is 60:1-6; Ps 72; Eph 3:2-3; 5-6; Mt 2:1-12), and is reproduced here by permission of the author.

There is more to this scene than just a break in the action. It is a subtle way of showing that Jesus was fully human. For being human does not just mean having flesh and blood, but kith and kin. It means belonging to a family.

The pagan philosophers of Greece and Rome reflected quite insightfully upon the role of family in human life. They saw that children owed more to their parents than to anyone except God. Obviously, kids’ physical existence and basic education depend upon mom and dad. But if you think about it, children owe much more to their parents. We learn our native tongue not from our schoolteachers, but from our parents. We pick up from them, as by osmosis, attitudes, mannerisms, gestures, and habits. Like it or not, we are profoundly influenced not only by our genes, but by our family experience.

For this reason, the ancients described a special family virtue that falls under the Cardinal Virtue of Justice. Justice involves the determination to give others their due. The virtue of piety, recognizing the extraordinary debt that children owe their parents, gives parents a unique degree of honor, respect, and affection.

Of course we have the obligation to honor and respect all human beings, since they are made in the image and likeness of God. But the degree of honor we are bound to give to others is directly proportional to the burden of responsibility that they bear for our sakes. No one has been given more responsibility for us than our parents, and so we must give them more honor and respect than anyone.

This is laid out clearly in the very order of the Ten Commandments. The first three commands outline our duty to God. The very first commandment having to do with obligations to human beings is #4: “Honor your father and your mother.” When we are minors, this means obeying our parents. When we are adults, this means caring and providing for them in the winter season of their lives (Sirach 3:12). In his final act on the cross, Jesus did just this, entrusting his widowed mother to the care of the beloved disciple (John 19:26-27).

Okay, so it was easier for Jesus to give his parents honor, affection, and respect given that Mary was immaculate and Joseph was a saint. And it was certainly easier for Mary and Joseph not to nag or provoke Jesus (Colossians 3:21) based on the fact that he was the sinless Son of God.

Most households, like mine, are populated with both parents and kids who happen to be sinners. That’s why the Church gives us Col 3: 12-21 as the second reading for the Feast of the Holy Family with its command to “forgive as the Lord has forgiven you.” A Christian family is holy not because it is sinless, but because it responds to sin with forgiveness rather than resentment. In my household, when we hurt each other, we don’t just let it slide. The offender must find it within himself to say “I’m sorry, please forgive me.” And the one offended must pronounce those liberating words: “I forgive you.” And then the matter must be forgotten.

But in addition to forgiveness, patience and forbearance are required. Sometimes it is not the sin of another that gets to us, but faults, annoying habits, or just ideas different than our own, like Jesus’ newfangled table. The family is the first place where we learn to become broader people, to celebrate, laugh, and splash water at such differences rather than let them divide us.

This article originally appeared in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection on the scripture readings for the Feast of the Holy Family cycles A,B, and C (Sirach 3, 2-6, 12-14; Colossians 3: 12-21; and Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23, Luke 22-40, and Luke 2:41-52) and is reproduced here by permission of the author.

This is nothing new. One day in the early fifth century, a priest preached a stirring sermon in the presence of the patriarch of Constantinople. His subject was the holy mother of Jesus. The preacher continually referred to Mary as the “Theotokos,” meaning “God-bearer” or mother of God. This was no innovation–Christians had invoked Mary under this title for at least two hundred years. Nevertheless, at the close of the sermon, the patriarch ascended the steps of the pulpit to correct the preacher. We should call Mary the Mother of Christ, said Patriarch Nestorius, not the Mother of God. She was the mother of his human nature, not the mother of his divinity.

His comment sparked a riot. And the dispute rocked not only the congregation, but the entire empire. Cyril, patriarch of Alexandria, Egypt, immediately recognized that Nestorius’ Marian theology was a symptom of a much deeper problem, a problem with the incarnation itself. For to deny Mary the title “Mother of God” makes of Jesus a dichotomy, a split personality. It would mean that God had not really embraced our humanity so as to become human. Rather, the humanity of Christ is hermetically sealed off from the divinity, as if Jesus were two persons, as if human nature was so distasteful that God, in Christ, had to keep it at arm’s distance. It is okay, according to Nestorius, to say that in Jesus, God raised Lazarus, or multiplied the loaves, or walked on water. But it is not okay to say that in Jesus God is born or that God died.

Cyril, aware that this was a challenge to the heart of our faith, demanded that an ecumenical council be called to settle the matter. So in 431, the Council of Ephesus met, under Cyril’s leadership, and solemnly proclaimed that Mary is indeed rightly to be honored as the Theotokos, the Mother of God. It proclaimed that from the moment of his conception, God truly became man. Of course Mary is a creature and could never be the origin of the eternal Trinity, God without beginning or end. But the second person of the blessed Trinity chose to truly become man. He did not just come and borrow a human body and drive it around for awhile, ascend back to heaven, and discard it like an old car. No, at the moment of his conception in the womb of Mary, an amazing thing happened. God the Son united himself with a human nature forever. Humanity and divinity were so closely bound together in Jesus, son of Mary, that they could never be separated again. Everything that would be done by the son of Mary would be the act both of God and of man. So indeed it would be right to say that a man raised Lazarus from the dead and commanded the wind and waves, that God was born that first Christmas day and that, on Good Friday, God died.

The Council of Ephesus, once confirmed by the Pope, became the third ecumenical council of the Catholic Church, and its teaching in this matter is dogma, truth revealed by God which all are bound to accept.

So why does the Roman liturgy celebrate the Octave of Christmas as the Feast of Mary the Mother of God? Because this paradoxical phrase strikes at the very heart of Christmas. The songs we sing and the cards we write extol the babe of Bethlehem as Emmanuel, God-with-us. He is so with us that after Gabriel’s visit to the Virgin of Nazareth, the Divine Word can never again be divided from our humanity. What God has joined, let no man separate.

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection on the readings for the Octave of Christmas, the Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God cycles A, B, and C (Numbers 6:22-27; Psalm 67, Galatians 4:4-7, and Luke 2:16-21).

Upon this stage appears a baby acclaimed as king by eastern dignitaries. Neither Caesar nor Herod will brook any rivals. So brutal hordes are sent to slay Him at birth, though He himself comes without armies. The thugs are thwarted, but only for a season. For the royal child is laid in a manger, and the wood of that manger foreshadows the wood of the cross.

Caesar and Herod were bound to misunderstand Him. They climbed their way to the top, stepping on all who stood in their way. He emptied himself and plunged to the bottom, from the glory of heaven to the squalor of a stable. Pharaohs and Caesars strained towards immortality. Yet He who was Immortal by nature embraced mortality. The great ones of the world took every opportunity to exalt themselves. In the very act of being born, He humbled himself.

You would think that He would have chosen Rome or Athens as the place of his appearance. But He selected an obscure desert town in a dusty provincial outpost. Even in this humble spot, not even a seedy inn would make room for Him. So they had recourse to a cave, welcomed only by the animals. Isaiah said it well: “an ox knows its owner, and an ass its master’s manger; but Israel does not know, my people has not understood” (Isaiah 1:2).

Everything was in fulfillment of Scripture. He was born in Bethlehem, a town whose name means “house of bread.” His crib was a manger, a feeding trough. But they did not understand that He was the Bread of Life. He was wrapped, like Solomon, in swaddling clothes (Wisdom 7:4-5), but they did not recognized him as the new King and embodiment of divine wisdom.

The only people who recognize Him are shepherds, the humblest in society, and Magi, the wisest. But most Israelites, like us, were neither very humble nor very wise, so they missed it. They especially missed this–that one of the birthday gifts was incense, used in the worship of gods. He was not only king, wise man, messiah, and savior–he was God incarnate.

How could Jews have believed this? God is infinite, invulnerable, and omnipotent. What is more vulnerable, fragile, and helpless than an infant? Can the Eternal be born in time? Can the Divine Word be a child at the breast, incapable of speech? Can a mere teenage girl be the Mother of God?

It was just as hard for the pagans to believe it. For their philosophers had taught that God is spirit and the body is a prison. Salvation means liberation from the confines of the physical body. So the idea that a divine Savior would embrace human flesh just did not compute.

Love sometimes does strange things. It takes great risks and goes to extreme lengths that many would call foolish. On that first Christmas day, God’s foolishness was wiser than men, and his weakness was stronger than men. It took them all by surprise.

But this, of course, was part of God’s strategy. The element of surprise is critical in warfare. And Christmas was an act of warfare. In fact it was D-Day, the day of deliverance. The preparation had taken centuries, but now it was time for the Conqueror to land on enemy occupied territory. He came in humility, and would finish the conquest thirty years later by the greatest act of humility the world had ever seen.

“Peace on Earth, Good will towards men.” True peace can never be forged by steel, but only by love. It is the humble babe in the manger, not Caesar in his chariot, who is the real Prince of peace.

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection on the Scripture readings for the various masses of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It is reproduced here by permission of the author.

My friend was a fundamentalist who had more than a bit of antipathy towards the Catholic Church, charging that it added to the simple faith of the Bible.

But he didn’t read his Bible very well. The word “mystery” is a Catholic word only because it is a biblical word. Paul speaks of “the mystery hidden for many ages but now manifested” (Rom 16:25-26).

Mystery means something very specific in this context. It’s not exactly about a thrilling novel with a surprise ending, but it’s actually close. Mystery is about a plan that God is working through the course of everyday human events. People falling in love and getting married. Kids being born, growing up and themselves having kids. One nation warring against another. All these things you can see. But there is a hidden purpose of God that is being accomplished underneath it all and through it all. This you can’t quite see. And most importantly, you can’t quite see where it is all going.

For a long while Israel had no king but God. Then, humiliated by defeat at the hands of the Philistines, they cried out for a warrior king. They got a bad one in Saul. But then came David, a man after God’s own heart. He danced before the Ark of the Covenant, slew Goliath, and build Israel into an empire. But he was not allowed to build God a house. Instead, God promised to build him a house, which is to say, a dynasty. This dynasty was to have no end, in fact (2 Sam 7:8-16).

Centuries later, it appeared that God’s promise had failed. The last Davidic king was dragged off to captivity in Babylon and the throne was vacant for 500 years. Just when hope seemed to be lost, the Angel Gabriel was sent to a Virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the very tribe of David (Lk 1:26-38). She is given shocking news–she is to become the mother of the messiah, which to any Jew of the time meant the anointed king of Judah, the successor of David. To be called “Son of the Most High” was nothing new for the Davidic King. This was one of his traditional titles. But Gabriel says that his reign will be without end. Now this is not traditional–kings, like everyone else, die. How could he rule forever and ever?

But that question paled in comparison with the one that burned in Mary’s heart and made its way out of her mouth: “how can this be since I’ve never been intimate with a man?” Gabriel’s response to this question was even more difficult to believe than what he’d previously said. It seems that this child would be brought into this world without the help of a human father. Mary would conceive by the power of the Holy Spirit so that the title “Son of God” traditionally given to the king of Judah would take on an entirely new meaning.

So this is what God had been up to all along. Thi had been what all the patriarchs, prophets, and kings had been preparing for. The mystery is coming to a climax. The title “Emmanuel,” God-with-us, that had been given to an earlier king, is going to take on an unheard-of meaning. God was about to be born in human flesh. He was coming as king to do what kings had always done in Israel–save God’s people by vanquishing their enemies. But the mortal foe to be beaten was mortality itself. This is how he would reign forever–and how we’d be able to reign forever with him.

That final battle and ultimate victory would have to wait a few years, though. The wood of the cross must be preceded by the wood of the manger. In the mystery of God’s plan of salvation, all must happen in its proper time.

This was originally published in Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection on the readings for the fourth Sunday of Advent, cycle B (2 Samuel 7: 1-16; Romans 16:25-27; and Luke 1:26-38)

Whoa. What’s that strident saint of the desert doing here, on Rejoice Sunday? His stern call to repentance does not seem to fit.

Believe it or not, St. John is the patron of spiritual joy. After all, at the presence of Jesus and Mary, he leapt for joy in his mother’s womb (Lk 1:44). And it says that he rejoices to hear the bridegroom’s voice (Jn 3:29-30).

Now this is very interesting. Crowds were coming to hear John from all over Israel before anyone even heard a peep out of the carpenter from Nazareth. In fact, John even baptized his cousin, which launched Jesus’ public ministry, heralding the demise of John’s career.

Most of us would not appreciate the competition. The Pharisees and Sadducees certainly did not. They felt threatened by Jesus’ popularity. But John actually encouraged his disciples to leave him and follow the Lamb of God. When people came, ready to honor John as messiah, he set them straight. He was not the star of the show, only the best supporting actor. Jesus was the one to watch. John may have been center-stage for a while, but now that the star had shown up, he knew it was time for him to slip quietly off to the dressing room.

Or to use John’s own example, he was like the best man at a wedding. It certainly is an honor to be chosen as “best man.” But the best man does not get the bride. According to Jewish custom, the best man’s role was to bring the bride to the bridegroom, and then make a tactful exit. And John found joy in this. “My joy is now full. He must increase and I must decrease.”

The Baptist was joyful because he was humble. In fact, he shows us the true nature of this virtue. Humility is not beating up on yourself, denying that you have any gifts, talents, or importance. John knew he had an important role which he played aggressively, with authority and confidence. The humble man does not sheepishly look down on himself. Actually, he does not look at himself at all. He looks away from himself to the Lord.

Most human beings at one time or another battle a nagging sense of inadequacy. Pride is sin’s approach to dealing with this. Proud people are preoccupied with self, seeing all others as competitors. The proud perpetually exalt themselves over others in hopes that this will provide a sense of worth and inner peace. Of course, it doesn’t. Human history has proven that time and time again. Even the pagan Greek storytellers knew that hubris or pride was the precursor of tragedy. Pride always comes before the fall, as it did in the Garden of Eden.

Humility brings freedom from this frantic bondage. Trying at every turn to affirm, exalt, and protect oneself is an exhausting enterprise. Receiving one’s dignity and self-worth as a gift from God relieves us from this stressful burden. Freed from the blinding compulsion to dominate, we can feel a sense of satisfaction when others recognize that God is God and honor him as such. We can even be free to recognize God in someone else and rejoice when others notice and honor God’s goodness this person.

But what about John’s stark call to repentance? How this be Good News? Because repentance is all about humility and humility is all about freedom. And freedom leads to inner peace and joy–joy in the presence of the Bridegroom.

This was originally published by Our Sunday Visitor as a reflection on the readings for the third Sunday of Advent, cycle B (Isaiah 61:1-2, 10-11; Luke 1: 46-54; I Thessalonians 5:16-24; John 1: 6-8, 19-28).