What's in a name? Identity and even destiny—in just about any culture but ours. Certainly in biblical times naming held the authority of creation in it: "God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light." From this understanding we get Adam, whose name means created from earth, and Eve, mother of all the living. Abraham is the father of nations. Israel is one who strives with God. Many prophets' names bear the "El" addition, binding them to the God for whom they speak. . . . 

Who are the future leaders in your community? Invite those younger than 20 to stand in your assembly. These children and teenagers are the hope of the future. They may not seem like leaders at the moment, with roving eyes, poor posture, questionable taste in fashion, and a universal reluctance to be scrutinized by grown-ups. But from groups very much like these will come government leaders, business owners and professors, lawmakers and mentors—and lots and lots of parents. For the sake of the church we love we hope this group includes souls brave enough and generous enough to be our future religious leaders. . . .

In this country we gave up celebrating kings right around the time of the Boston Tea Party. Our national story was framed against the notion that kings are better than anybody else. That royal blood makes you a natural leader is a mythology we deliberately avoid—though we still flirt with it now and again with Adamses, Roosevelts, Kennedys, and Bushes.

So maybe it's hard for us to imagine that the world might go upside down at the birth of a royal boy-child. That leaders from around the world would set out on arduous journeys with nothing more than a star to guide them, just to pay their respects. . . .

"Beloved, we are God's children now." That is such a beautiful idea I can't help repeating it from John's letter. To be a child is to inherit the attributes of the parent. As children of God we inherit some glorious spiritual DNA: creativity, goodness, holiness, love of justice and peace and unity. The desire to save and not to condemn. The urge toward life and what sustains life, not those things that destroy and kill.

Each child is born with only what their parents are able to give them: the color of hair and eyes and skin, talents, strengths and weaknesses. But once we're born we soon become, ...

What makes Christians different from other holiday shoppers during the month of December? That's not a trick question. What makes believers different from party planners, pageant organizers, or mere Santa fans? Personally, I like Santa; and I also shop, plan parties, and take part in pageants. I sing Silver Bells without blushing. But I distinguish myself from others who may participate in precisely the same activities by what it is I anticipate in this season. I am waiting for theologian Jürgen Moltmann's "arrival from ahead of us." Quite simply, I believe Someone's coming.

Some of us don't do well with imperatives. Maybe it's the rugged individualist streak in Americans that makes us resist being compelled. But at times we all benefit from clearly defined dos and don'ts we can follow to avoid disaster ("don't put your finger in that socket!") or achieve success ("insert bolt A into slot B"). For those who thrive on imperatives, the Ten Commandments are set in stone for your convenience. In many less formal ways as well, the Bible's stuffed with advice about what to do and not do as we navigate through life.

My grandfather from Austria used to play a little game with us when we were small. He'd walk his fingers up our arms like a spider, repeating a soft chant in his native language: El camina, el camina . . . which means "coming, coming" but doesn't say precisely what's coming. We'd squirm and giggle and try to escape the invisible fate creeping in our direction.

When we sit in darkened theaters to watch suspense films, we know "something wicked this way comes," as Macbeth's witch once noted. We expect it and, heck, we've paid for it.

Power is a tricky business. Many will try to win it, buy it, or obtain it by whatever means necessary. Yet power remains elusive even to those who seek and desire it. Unlike a coin you can hold in your hand with a value easily computed, the nature of human power is often determined by intangible things. What makes a president, professor, or prison guard powerful? Mostly the trappings of office. Remove the presidential seal, take away the right to evaluate and graduate, lift the keys from a pocket, and what you have left are human beings ...

Most of us can produce a list of consequences we 'd dearly love to escape. We'd like to go to the all-you-can-eat buffet and really eat all we can—and walk away svelte. We'd like to spend money like fools and not sink into debt. We'd like to live on the couch but enjoy the appearance of gym rats. We'd like to tell a lie and not be caught. We'd like to harbor selfish motivations but be known as morally upright people. The bottom line is, we'd like to be made of some sort of organic and spiritual Teflon, so that our actions never stick and make us accept the calories, the receipt, or the culpability.

What's the value of two pieces of grapefruit? If you've been to the supermarket lately, you might be able to come up with the cost in coins. Because it's the off-season for citrus, you'll probably pay a bit more—and not necessarily like what you get. But if you pay more than, say, a dollar for any piece of fruit, then you probably have enough money in your pocket not to care about the price of things at all. If you have that kind of fiscal leisure, and you give me an expensive piece of fruit, I'll happily eat it and be appreciative. But I won't exactly think you're a prince when it comes to the virtue of generosity.

What does it take to be a saint in this world? Two miracles and a lot of good press? Martyrdom for the right cause? Canonization can be achieved on these terms, but it takes a bit more to be actually counted among the blessed. Scripture goes on at length about the holy ones, but their identification always seems to boil down to a curious factor rarely considered: the condition of the human heart. While we might look only to the "outer" criteria for sainthood—the lame casting crutches aside, the cancer patient cured through timely intercession, or the firing squad shouting, "Recant your faith or die!"—the biblical criteria is simpler: Live with a clean heart before God. That opens up a new avenue of discernment. What makes for a clean heart?

Bartimaeus is that rare recipient of a miracle who immediately becomes a disciple of Jesus. Immediately, of course, is a favorite Marcan word. Things happen at once in this gospel or not at all. The urgency is not simply symptomatic of the breathlessness with which Mark tells his story. He convinces us that discipleship won't wait. Make your decision and come away at once!

Bartimaeus follows Jesus up the road—"on the way" in some translations, the Way being a code word for the Christian journey.

It's awkward. You're the priest (or deacon) and it's your job to celebrate ordained life. The task has all the trappings of blowing your own horn, and humility dictates against it. But if you're not going to do it this year, when the Vatican has given you every license and it's "Priesthood Sunday," then you might want to have a talk with your spiritual director about your reluctance. Yes, priests have been celebrated a lot and sometimes for all the wrong reasons. On the other hand it must be said this decade has hardly been the "decade for priests" in the public eye.

Parents can't help being proud of their children and the futures they imagine for them. "My daughter is in pre-med." "My son will take over the family business one day." Bumper stickers announce each child making the honor role. When a son or daughter gets accepted at university, it's as if the parents have gotten a gold star on their own report cards.

But one thing you rarely hear on the parental dream list for children is this statement: "I hope she is wise. I hope he always maintains his integrity." The path of wisdom and truth has no monetary gain attached. It does not promise the shiniest car or the best address. 

Family life is a sign of God's blessing, the psalmist tells us. Then he paints a quaint illustration of what that means. The wife is a fruitful vine in the protective quarters of the home. Children are like olive plants around the table awaiting the time of their abundant yield. In the typical style of ancient writing, we aren't told what the husband offers to this arrangement. It sounds as if he's meant to be the beneficiary!

When we compare this stylized ancient portrait of the family to the one gathered around the modern dinner table, we may feel something's been lost in translation. 

God is not complicated. At least that's what we're told in The Simple Song included in Leonard Bernstein's Mass. Love is simple to understand, and God is the simplest of all, the lyrics and music conspire to persuade us. When we listen to many of the teachings of Jesus, if only we apply our hearts, we may nearly be convinced of that.

Anyone who is not against us is with us, Christ points out patiently to John, who objects to the man expelling demons in the name of Jesus without proper authorization. Jesus smiles as he gently waves away such paperwork. In the reign of God, ...

My 5-year-old nephew is already playing Mass, as Catholic children are wont to do. He holds up his cup with both hands at the supper table and delivers a string of words culled from the liturgy but arranged most creatively. "The mystery of God forever!" he'll cry out with great solemnity. "The holy love in the church cup!"

Does he have any appreciation of what he's saying? His manner suggests he knows these words are important, that these actions are to be taken with gravity. He's aware it's an attention-getting sign, because a church full of folks stop and stare each week ...

Who wants to suffer? If anyone raises a hand, back away and call an attending physician. Suffering is not a desirable condition, and those who possess mental health not only don't seek it but actively avoid it. When faced with an episode of certain pain—say, a trip to the dentist or a visit with a difficult relative—we might well evaluate if this event is absolutely necessary or if there might be another way to achieve the result, be it dental health or family harmony.

Here's a difference in the readings that invites us to think: Moses presents to the people a law that seemingly contains the mind of God. Not a thing must be added or subtracted from it. Jesus disparages the legal experts for clinging to the law, down to the last details. How can both these passages be accepted in faith?

Most Christians don't regard themselves as anti-Semites. Roman Catholicism in particular has taken great strides since the Second Vatican Council to clean up its record in response to the Jewish community.

The brain is a disorderly vehicle for thinking: untidy and easily distracted. It also has the unnerving tendency to act like a sieve whenever we're trying to remember something important, meanwhile fastening stubbornly on the disturbing incident we'd most like to forget. Our thoughts often run in circles like a hamster on its wheel, getting nowhere in a big hurry. Many is the afternoon I'd just like to hang up my brain like an old hat and be rid of the madness within, if only for a few hours. Isn't that why God invented television?

Changing the channel is precisely what the Letter to the Ephesians urges on us here. It's not mindless escapism to which ...

Last week we emphasized the reality of spiritual hunger and the necessity to engage the spiritual works of mercy. This weekend’s gospel provides ballast for that idea by reminding us that physical hunger is just as real and has a vital claim on our compassion. And not only on our compassion, but on God’s mercy as well. We can’t ignore the hunger of the world anymore than Jesus could look away from the famished crowd that stood before him in a deserted place.

I’m happy to say I’ve never met a Christian who doesn’t appreciate the moral necessity to assist the disadvantaged by sharing resources. Not everyone follows through, of course, but at least we all admit it’s part of the package of our religious responsibility.

Back in grade school I smelled a rat when it came to the works of mercy. I understood perfectly why feeding the hungry or giving water to the thirsty was a compassionate thing to do. And of course the homeless need shelter, the shivering need clothing, the sick and imprisoned want company, and the dead could use a proper burial. It took no religious imagination whatsoever to perceive why a merciful person would do these things.

But those are the corporal works of mercy. The other list was the one that made me suspicious. ...

“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account,” Jesus famously taught in his Sermon on the Mount. And he should know, because Jesus faced precisely this kind of treatment at his debut in Nazareth. Folks didn’t simply disapprove of his teaching. They questioned his credentials and even his paternity (being called “the son of Mary” was irregular in a land where your father’s lineage was paramount). In fact, the opposition got rather physical, if you include nearly being hurled off a cliff at the end of the lesson. When we are criticized, rightly or wrongly, it rarely feels like a blessing.

Earlier this year I sat and watched my father die. There’s not much we can do for the people we love in this hour but pray and be present. I recited all the mysteries of the rosary, all the mysteries of life and love and suffering, during the weeks before his death. But after he was gone, I sat with his body and prayed only the glorious mysteries. In the end, we believe, all that’s left for the faithful is glory.

Death has a fearful thing, whether it comes suddenly or slowly. Saint Francis of Assisi claimed it as our Sister, not a foreigner but a member of the family. Mystics of his caliber can greet even death as an ally along the gracious way to God. ...

Summertime is supposed to be the slow season. School’s out; the temperature’s up; sandals are on, and sauntering is in. But some of us can be forgiven if our hearts are still racing this June. It’s been a wild year, and even vacation season may not be enough to take the tempo down this time. Trouble makes every season chaotic and confused. For those whose finances are reeling, whose employment is uncertain, whose homes are in jeopardy or already lost, finding the calm eye in the middle of the storm may not be that simple. ...

Thirty years ago I spent some time volunteering at Covenant House, a child welfare organization in New York. As you can imagine, the concept of the covenant was a big thing there. “One thing you gotta know about covenants,” our spiritual director used to say. “They’re bloody. They cost something.”

We get the picture in the Exodus reading about the ratification of the covenant at the base of Mount Sinai. First comes the slaughter of bulls. Then half the blood is splashed upon the stone altar. Finally, the remaining blood is sprinkled on the people. ...

Forever is a long time. Ask the couple who promises fidelity for only one lifetime! Or the celibate who takes vows for the long haul. Or the parents of a child who will occupy their concerns for the next 18 years and counting.

Forever, if you can believe it, is even longer than that. Forever is longer than your mortgage; longer than your car and student loan payments laid end on end. Forever is longer than any physical pain you may be suffering and deeper than any misery you have to bear. ...

If the riveting movie Doubt taught us nothing else last year, it’s that there’s always room for being dead wrong. We don’t like to entertain that notion even in the privacy of our midnight thoughts. It’s especially critical for those who are parents; those who teach and guide the impressionable; for leaders of every kind, and policymakers and deciders—heck, it’s crucial for all of us to try to be sure about what we claim is true. Because when we’re wrong, we’re often taking others down the path of error with us.

How do we avoid the painful consequences of being wrong about what we hold true? First, we accept our mortal limitations....

City dwellers may be accustomed to considering snakes only in the metaphorical sense. But in my backyard, they’re awfully literal. I don’t mind the garter snakes, and the coral ones are quite beautiful—though not when one skitters over my foot unexpectedly. What I really worry about are the rattlers, which are protected by law and, in several obvious ways, by God. Of course it’s true that I’m protected from them as well, if I take the words of Jesus seriously.

It’s always instructive to see what the world does with reformed criminals. Saul of Tarsus, formerly wielding a zealot’s war against Christianity, seeks to join the ranks of the enemy in whole-souled conversion to Christ. They won’t have him! In a similar way, as a society we want nothing to do with the rehabilitation of inmates. Incarcerate or even execute, sure. We’re willing to put our tax dollars there. Punishment is the swiftest path to justice. But reform—no. Many of us can’t expand our trust that far. Once a bad guy, always a bad guy.

Last November we citizens faced an important question together: Who should lead? It has a related, shadow question that gets asked more rarely: Who will follow? Although we ask the first question quite openly during an election year, it arises as well in the more immediate circles we inhabit. Who should lead: in families? In the work environment? In various committees within the parish or neighborhood? Even among friends caravaning to this or that event, someone has to get up front, and the rest have to agree to get in line behind. Otherwise, we don’t go anywhere together.

We as church ask the same questions from our own membership each year on Good Shepherd Sunday, ...

Last week in John’s gospel Thomas took the rap for demanding tangible signs of the resurrection of Jesus. This week in Luke’s account Jesus spontaneously offers concrete evidence of his presence to quell his disciples’ unuttered questions. He invites them to touch him. He insists on eating in their midst. He illuminates their minds—this on a par with the greatest of his miracles!—so they finally get what he’s been saying to them all this while about the law, the prophets, and himself. Lastly, Jesus ordains that they be witnesses of everything they have heard, seen, know, and have touched.

Where do we look for signs of love? And how do we prove our love to others? We all know the customary rituals: kisses, words, cards, and flowers. Over time the gifts become more expensive as greater investments of resources are made. Finally, binding sacraments are performed and new life is generated as a result of this love. In this ultimate self-offering, love seems finally proven, tangible, and real.

Kisses, cards, and flowers are nice. They are pleasant reminders of love but cannot stand in for the real thing. In the same way, professions of faith, rituals, and worship are signs of our intentions but must be followed up with a genuine life of faithfulness, or they are nothing.

“Come, let us build the ship of the future.” With these remarkable words an Irish ballad invites us to participate in the world we are making with each new decision and every new day. Where do you want to be tomorrow, or a year from now? Does it occur to you that what you do with today will be the greatest determining factor in reaching the land of your dreams?

Easter morning was like a ship departing for a new world, a world reborn from the lifeless ashes of the old one. But no one would have been there to board that ship if not for . . .

The Passion narrative is so enthralling on its own terms it can be difficult to keep in mind that it is not simply a drama about the death of Jesus. Gospel stories are deliberately told in a way that always invites us to find our place in the story. When Mark invented the gospel genre he made it consciously interactive, modernly speaking. Scholars point to his “sandwiching” technique of folding one story between the halves of another, deepening the contrast between characters and their choices. So we, too, must choose, Mark says with each comparison.

Never is that more apparent than in the Passion account, where marvelous characterizations offer early church members—and modern ones, too—the opportunity to decide whether courage or cowardice will mark their own discipleship. The Last Supper narrative . . .

I’ve always felt a real affection for the anonymous Greeks who approach Philip in Jerusalem and make their request with disarming frankness: “Sir, we would like to see Jesus.”

Who are these people? “Greeks” is a catchall term in 1st-century Israel. These folks speak to Philip in Greek, not in Hebrew or Aramaic. The term suggests nothing about their ethnicity, nor does it spell out whether they are Greek-speaking Jews or Gentiles. But they are in Jerusalem specifically for the Passover, so they are at least God-fearing Gentiles. Because this verse follows the Pharisees’ disgusted remark, “Look, the whole world has gone after him,” we understand that these foreigners are generally unwelcome among the average citizens of Israel.

Still, they have the chutzpah to go to Philip, who speaks their language, and ask for the kind of intimate introduction to Jesus that few in the crowds around him received. Why do they want to see Jesus? Not simply for the photo-op, we can imagine. Being seen in the company of Jesus in those troubled days was a mixed bag, . . .

To speak of faith as an activity may sound strange. Most of the time it seems like such a passive commodity. We make professions of faith, reciting lists of doctrinal statements that someone else wrote long ago. Reciting these lists costs us nothing. We don’t even have to think about them or understand them.

Even the fact of our Christianity may seem like a passive situation. Before we could speak a word, chances are water was poured over us and the pact sealed. Writing “Catholic” into the block marked “Religion” on most forms can be as impersonal as writing the color of our hair and eyes or the letter that describes the type of our blood. What, if anything, does that have to do with our essential nature, with us?

Yet faith is not an incidental trait or a random accident of birth. Faith is a gift from God, one of three theological virtues that cannot be acquired by personal effort. It’s not a gift you can put in the back of the closet after registering perfunctory thanks, much less re-gift to someone who can make better use of it. God chooses to reveal the divine presence . . .

In Torah commentaries rabbis always point out the unequal proportions of the Decalogue. The first four Commandments (concerning our obligations to God) take up ten extended verses, while the ensuing six (about mortal relationships) occupy a half dozen clipped lines. It should be noted that in Jewish tradition the Commandments are numbered differently. Because the two forbidden “covetings” at the end are combined as one prohibition, the first four Commandments are counted as follows: 1. God alone is the God of Israel (vs. 2-3); 2. Idols and images are forbidden (vs. 4-6); 3. False oaths using God’s name are forbidden (v. 7); 4. The sabbath must be kept holy (vs. 8-11).

God’s singularity, as well as the holiness of the divine name and the day of rest, are clearly weighted with more significance than the obligations we have toward one another: parents, neighbors, and fellow citizens. In Hebrew, in fact, the weightiest Commandment is the one regarding the sabbath day, if sheer word power is the measure. To get the sabbath right paved the way to getting everything right.

That is why the use Jesus made of the sabbath was the most shocking part of his ministry. He used the sabbath for the sake of his neighbors and fellow citizens—even strangers and outsiders! He used God’s day for the welfare of people. It turned the traditional understanding of the Law inside out and on its head. If we listen to the responsorial psalm of the day, we hear a refrain that echoes through the Psalms, not to mention the books of law, prophecy, and wisdom. God’s law is perfect. You can trust it. You can bet your life on its clarity and purity. Many righteous people resonate with that idea. Submitting yourself to the dictates of law—whether the laws of the land or God’s laws or interior convictions—is a most uncomplicated way to live. It removes ambiguity and indecision from the picture because, in a sense. . .

Children have it easy when it comes to obeying authority. They know the drill: Adults are in charge, do what they tell you. When adults collide, what Mom and Dad say trumps the older sibling, the neighbor, the teacher, and the stranger. While it’s no fun being on the last rung of the pecking order, it simplifies life enormously to do as you’re told.

Life gets messier as we grow older. In no time, it seems, we’re confronted with two or more compelling sources of authority. In high school it’s the all-important peer group vs. the parental units. Then comes the college professor vs. traditional understanding. The church and the world set up another conflict of values and priorities. Before you know it . . .

More theology wars are likely to be fought over the meaning of Christmas than the substance of Lent. While many Christians gear up to do battle every December against an interesting assortment of enemies—Santa Claus, Rudolph, Frosty, the retail industry, and the term “X-mas,” just for starters—nobody seems to have energy left over to take on the secular foes of the Lenten season. Perhaps that is because there aren’t any. Or at least no one has yet figured out how to make a buck off Lent, so it remains a bland nonissue in most public spheres.

If the onset of Lent remains a tranquil, commercially unnoticed event, . . .

We see a lot of things advertised with that four-letter word these days: "Free!" And we've grown wisely skeptical of such claims. We've all learned by now, sometimes bitterly, that there's no free lunch, no free subscriptions, and no free merchandise. Everything costs something, and if we can't see the price tag, even more reason to suspect we're about to be fleeced.

So when Saint Paul says he offers the gospel free of charge wherever he goes, we have good reason to doubt that. The gospel isn't free and doesn't even come cheap. The gospel cost Jesus the cross; . . .

If you were going to send a Christmas card to God this year, where would you send it? We know the address of Santa Claus, the Queen of England, the pope in Rome, and even a friend or two we haven't seen since kindergarten. But the whereabouts of God are a little hazier. If we write "heaven" on the envelope, will our Christmas greetings ever reach their destination?

The whereabouts of God have always been an issue for those who seek God. Where do you look, if . . .

I'm always excited when John the Baptist is on the menu for the weekend. He's a man of mystery, emerging from the desert trailing hosts of questions. What happened to John after he was born to Elizabeth and Zechariah and before he took on the role of Baptizer?

A story from the noncanonical Protevangelion of James tells how young John's life was also threatened during Herod's slaughter of the innocents. In his jealousy for his kingship Herod was most anxious to . . .

IF, AS A SHEPHERD OF SOULS, you could change one thing about the minds and hearts of your parishioners, what would it be? After listening to people pour out their stories for 30 years, I know what I would choose: to wipe out the spirit of judgment that festers in all of us.

The care of souls often seems like attending to one long litany of broken family relationships that centers on one person's immutable condemnation of another. Whether you are the one passing judgment or the one excoriated makes no difference to the amount of damage suffered. The decision to pass judgment. . .

WHAT WOULD YOU INCLUDE on a list of holy places: Jerusalem? Rome? The local cathedral? We might agree that houses of worship, cloisters, shrines, retreat centers, and burial grounds are consecrated places. Yet the personal encounters we have with the Holy Presence may be far from mutually determined spots.

I remember a hill my older brother and I climbed when I was 10. From the top we could see the whole valley of our small town spread before us. The church steeples were visible, all in a row, as were city hall, the firehouses, Main Street, and—tiny but perceptible from . . .

MOST EUROPEAN AMERICANS approach All Souls Day in a spirit of sober reverence. This is a day to remember our dead, and so it has the feel of a collective funeral about it. But it’s also a liturgical event and therefore a statement of what we believe is true: about death, for the dead, and for us. That lifts the mood from one of communal mourning to an affirmation of hope and confidence. We trust that God's grace and mercy are not only smooth religious words but the truth about what awaits us. We hold our loved ones in holy memory especially on this day in hopes that...

EVERYBODY WHO GOES TO CHURCH knows the basic rules of Christian living. Of course, often as not, they default to the Hebrew code when asked to describe them, but that’s another issue entirely. At least they’re in the right ballpark—the Bible—and not offering up civil law. This does not imply that churchgoing folks can recite the Ten Commandments in order, obviously. But at least they know what’s in them, more or less. The litany most groups produce when asked to list the Commandments sounds like this: Don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t kill, don’t fool around, obey your parents, and go to church. Well, close enough. But no cigar.

The enemy within

WHO’S YOUR WORST ENEMY? Not knowing a single thing about your life, I can make a pretty good guess. It’s not your boss, your mate, your rival, or that fifth-grade teacher who always had it in for you. No, our own worst enemy is usually ourselves. Who knows better how to sabotage us, where our weak spots are, how to really make us pay for our mistakes? We eat or drink too much: Whose fault is that? Can’t blame the cook or the bartender.