Priests With Crushed Hearts in the Master's Vineyard

 I don't get to post too often these days, but I had Mass today at St. John's Seminary, so I thought I would post my homily. The Gospel for the day was the Parable of the Wicked Tenants (Matthew 21:33-43). Preaching at the seminary is a bit different because it is directed towards men who are studying to be priests and so the priesthood often plays a bit part. Nonetheless, I hope that it is . . . fruitful . . . for others too.

“Father, what you said in your homily brought me back to confession after many years.”  Someday, you will all hear something like that, and your heart will soar. You will also hear things like:

“Father, because of you, we decided not to abort our baby.” 

“Father, you saved our marriage.” “Father, you helped me enter the seminary.” “Father, you literally saved my life.” 

When a priest hears words like these, he cannot help but be filled with a deep sense of humble and joyful gratitude. Sometimes those words follow upon very little effort on our part. Other times, they are the fruit of what feels like epic battles of prayer, fasting, and extraordinary pastoral accompaniment. Although the joy of the outcome can be awesome, we can also sometimes feel exhausted from the intense labor that went into it.  

Priestly ministry, however, isn’t always so successful. I have also heard the devastating words, “Father, we appreciate what you’ve said and done for us, but we’ve decided to end the pregnancy.” “Father, I appreciate what you’ve said, but I am going to leave my wife and kids because I need to think about myself and my happiness.” And to my shock, I’ve heard more than once, “Father, thank you for coming to see me, and I know I am about to die, but I’m not sorry for my sins and I refuse to go to Confession.” 

I can recall occasions in my life as a priest when I have poured my whole self into a situation, given what I considered to be excellent counsel, implored God’s help, and seemingly did everything right, only to watch the person choose the wrong path. Sometimes it felt like I had organized the perfect rescue mission and executed it with military like precision. But, at the very last second, the person in danger refused to stretch out his or her hand, and instead allowed themselves to fall into the dark abyss. 

Some of these memories came to my heart as I prayed about today’s Gospel.  

Quite often, it is what appears to be very insignificant lines in the Gospel that  most strike me. Today is like that. At the beginning of the Gospel Jesus says, “Hear another parable.” 

“Hear another parable.” How many miracles had Jesus already performed? How many beautiful teachings had he already expressed? How many parables had he already spoken? And yet, some of his listeners still rejected him and their hearts became even more hardened. How many times they refused his extended hand! In the face of this rejection, what does Jesus do? He says, “Hear another parable.” When he says, “Hear another parable,” it is as though we are already seeing the parable take flesh before our very eyes. Rejected repeatedly, he tries again. 

God allows himself to be rejected and humiliated. His vineyard is watered with his tears and with the Blood of His Son. We all like to be successful. And when we win someone over to Christ, it really is awesome. When we hit a homerun in a homily, absolve a serious sinner, bring someone back to the Church, administer Viaticum to the dying . . . these things are truly awesome.  

Jesus, however, entrusts us with even more. He allows the priest to share in an intimate way with his own rejection. If the vineyard were merely ours, the joys of our successes would be less so. And, the sufferings of our failures would be deprived of any meaning. But we are tenants. We are privileged tenants. The vineyard is his, and the wine produced in this vineyard is so much richer because it is His wine. He—like the grape that is crushed—allows himself to be crushed by the hardened hearts of his listeners. 

 

I would like to propose three things that would help all of us to be better workers in the Lord’s Vineyard:

The first is a willingness to risk being close to others. This risk will often demand that we place ourselves in situations where we well might be crushed. We might invest ourselves with heroic efforts to helping someone, only in the end for them to say, “No” to Christ, say “No” to the Gospel,” and to say “No,” to the truth and to their own happiness. In the face of such rejection, apparent failure, and our own sorrow, we need a heart that is ready to say, “Hear another parable.” We need to beg the Lord for this kind of heart. A heart that is willing to live our humanity and our fatherhood close to others.  

The second is a spirit of poverty. Today—the Fourth of October—is usually the Memorial of St. Francis of Assisi, known especially for his commitment to the evangelical counsel of poverty. As priests, we must always see ourselves as poor tenant farmers. The successes and the failures that we will experience are not ultimately ours. They belong to the Lord. When we say, “Hear another parable,” when we try again to help someone, when we experience the intense joy of winning a soul for Christ or when we taste the bitter suffering of being rejected, we do not own these things. These belong to the Lord. In our poverty, we must give these back to the Lord. We are always poor before the Lord, and we are always poor before the freedom of those whom we serve.  

And this brings me to the third thing. In order to be willing to be close to others and to live that closeness with a spirit of poverty, we must have a profound and humble prayer life. When, at the end of the day, the harvest is ready, we must open the gate of our heart and allow the master of the vineyard to take what is rightfully his. Our greatest treasure is not what we accomplish in the vineyard. Our greatest treasure is the joy of giving to the master of the vineyard what belongs to him. At the end of each day—and at the end of our life—it is in this intimate moment of friendship when we speak heart to heart with our friend in prayer, that we entrust back to him all of those whom he has placed in our path. 

We speak to him about our parishioners, our directees, and about the people whom he has given to us. In prayer, we learn to thank him for these people and to intercede for them. We thank him for the times when our work has been successful, and we must learn to thank him for allowing us to share in the apparent failures. In some mysterious way, it is especially in those agonizing moments when we pour our hearts out to the Lord concerning those who have rejected Christ, rejected the right path, rejected the sacraments, rejected the gospel, rejected their own good that we taste the best wine. It is also in prayer, that we experience Christ’s never tiring mercy and love for us. When we humbly place before him our sins, our faults, our failures, we hear him speak to us the merciful and loving words, “Hear another parable.” 

Staying close to others, living a spirit of poverty, and living in intimate friendship with the Lord. If we do these things, we will become more and more like the master of the vineyard who never gives up trying to win over the rebellious heart. If we live these things, no matter how many times we experience the suffering of failure and rejection, we will never become discouraged. Instead, every time our heart is crushed, we will get right back up and say, “Hear another parable.” 

St. Louis IX and Purity of Heart

I had the Mass today at St. John's Seminary. This was the homily. 

In the early 1990’s, a weekly comedy appeared on British television. The protagonist was a middle-class woman, from a middle-class town, who lived in a middle-class home, and was married to an average, hum-drum middle-class guy. Her name was Hyacinth Bucket. Or, as she would be quick to correct anyone who said that, “It is pronounced bouquet.” 

The entire show revolved around Hyacinth Bouquet’s delusions of grandeur. She liked to think of herself as part of the British aristocracy, and each episode turned hysterically funny as her delusions of grandeur collided with the reality of who she really was. The name of the show was, “Keeping up Appearances.” One thing was clear from the show . . . keeping up appearances is a lot more exhausting than simply living in reality.  

Today—on the 750th anniversary of his death--the Church honors and seeks the intercession of a man who during his earthly life likely did not find the English particularly funny. He was also not at all concerned with keeping up appearances. He was, in fact, real royalty, but not at all consumed by the outward trappings of power. St. Louis IX was consumed with becoming a saint. He earnestly and ardently desired true holiness. He did not care how others saw him. He cared how God saw him. St. Louis did not spend his life keeping up appearances. He spent every moment of his life keeping firm in the life of grace. His biographers tell us that hidden from others, he spent long hours in prayer, fasting, and penance.   

Yesterday, we heard Jesus praise Nathaniel for being without guile. Today, we hear him rebuke those who are hypocrites. Sometimes we can all feel as though we are hypocrites because we say we believe one thing, but we do something completely different. Contrary to popular belief, however, that is not hypocrisy. It’s sin (and sin is bad), but it’s not hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is when we merely try to look good without actually making any effort to be good. It is about giving the appearance of goodness, but without possessing it. It is an offense against truth because it is a form of deception. It’s about making the outside of the cup look pure, but not caring one way or another about the purity of the inside. 

 

All of us struggle with various temptations, sins, and faults. We should humbly and honestly acknowledge them and seek pardon from the Lord. If we don’t attend to our sins, failings, and faults, and are not honest about them, they can overwhelm us and discourage us. Then, we are left merely focusing on keeping up the appearances of goodness and holiness.  

The Pharisees and the scribes were consumed with the outward appearances of ritual purity, but their hearts were seemingly impure. They acted not from love of God, but from love of self. A pure heart is one that is directed toward God. The hypocritical heart is trapped in a world of self-love. 

In contrast to the Pharisees and the scribes, St. Louis was a man who was pure in heart. He sought to do God’s will in all things. He saw his entire life in terms of his call to sanctity. He saw his kingship as a way of serving God. 

We shouldn’t worry so much about how we appear to others. Man sees the appearance, but God sees the heart. And all of the things in our heart that we try to cover over by keeping up appearances ... those are the parts of us that God wants us to open up to him so that we can experience His healing love. The absurdity of keeping up appearances made for great British comedy, but it makes for a tragic and sad spiritual life.  

In a few moments, the Lord of Heaven and Earth, the Majestic King, the Victor over sin and death, the Eternal Son of the Father—He who is true God from true God, begotten not made—He who is consubstantial with the Father—He through whom all things were made—He is going to appear to us. He will not appear to us in all of His Risen Glory. Instead, he will come to us under the humble appearance of bread and wine.  

At the very end of King Louis IX’s earthly life, he got up from his death bed and humbly knelt to receive the Eucharist. He knew that his earthly realm and crown meant nothing compared to the eternal crown prepared for him in the realms –of glory. He was purein heart. And purity of heart helpsus to see things as they are. He saw the one who appeared as a suffering servant and who wore a Crown of Thorns, and professed him to be King of Kings and Lord of Lords. He saw beyond the appearances of bread and wine to the reality of the Body and Blood of Christ. 

We should take great solace that today St. Louis intercedes for us. May his prayers and our worthy reception of that same Holy Eucharist keep us free from the snares of hypocrisy and from the futile and exhausting keeping up of appearances, and make us increasingly men who are pure of heart. Blessed are the pure of heart, for--like St.  Louis--will indeed see God.