December 30, 2024
Paulist Fr. Rich Andre preached this homily on the 4th Sunday of Advent (Year C) on December 22, 2024, at Old St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Chicago, IL. The homily is based on the day’s readings: Micah 5:1-4a; Psalm 80; Hebrews 10:5-10; and Luke 1:39-45.
On this, the last Sunday before Christmas, there is a sense that cosmic events set in motion long ago are rushing towards completion. We witness the extraordinary meeting between Elizabeth, joyously astonished to be pregnant in old age; Mary, the teenaged unwed mother-to-be; and their two sons yet to be born. We are on the cusp of realizing Micah’s prediction that the “one… whose origin is from of old” will come from Bethlehem to “shepherd his flock.” And perhaps most remarkable of all, Hebrews hints at the impending wonder of the incarnation, when God will come and dwell among us.
This weekend, perhaps we can pause for one final moment of Advent reflection. Let us imagine that meeting of Elizabeth and Mary. These distantly-related kinswomen may not have known each other well, but the circumstances of their miraculous, unexpected pregnancies surely formed a strong bond between them.
What more extraordinary bonds do we need to tie us more closely to one another than to know that we are all children of the same God? If the events of recent years have caused us to construct walls around our hearts, our minds, or our souls, let us repent now of how we have separated ourselves from one another. And then, let us believe that God will renew our bonds with one another!
In one hymn that we will likely sing on Tuesday night, we will reflect that “the hopes and fears of all the years are met” in the birth of Christ in Bethlehem. In the twenty centuries since Christ’s birth, we have gathered at Mass to place our hopes and fears upon the altar in the form of bread and wine, praying that all these things will be transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ.
Even though I have been serving at Old St. Mary’s for less than 6 months, I’m already experiencing the wondrous privilege of knowing many of the specific hopes and fears that you place on this altar. As I look out during the Eucharistic prayer, I see single people longing to meet someone, dating couples struggling to express their love chastely, married couples devastated by miscarriage and infertility, and parents questioning if they should limit the number of children they will have. I see couples longing to adopt, family members estranged from one another, divorced people grieving failed marriages, widows and widowers mourning the death of a spouse, and people mourning other losses. I see people bringing joys and challenges too numerous and too specific to mention. Yet we all gather here, gazing on bread and wine laden with an amalgamation of particular hopes and dreams, soon to be transformed into the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ.
As I stand at the altar, I reflect on how Christ’s healing presence is already among us gathered around this altar, both in person and online. Through our baptism and our life experiences, each of us has received gifts that can support others on their journeys of discipleship, if only we knew the intimacies of one another’s lives.
In recent years, many of us have become less physically connected to one another. If we attend Mass in person, we kneel farther apart. If we participate online, we might not be aware of each other’s presence.
At the same time, many of us have become less emotionally connected to one another, too. We have become stoic, keeping our feelings to ourselves, reluctant to tell others about our hopes and fears. When parishioners tell me about a difficulty they’ve experienced only after it’s over, I gently chide them: “Not only do I care about you because of who you are,” I say, “but also I have a professional obligation to pray for you. If you tell me what’s going on, I can more specifically ‘target’ my prayers for you!”
In a time when isolation among people seems to be increasing, I find great hope in the encounter between Mary and Elizabeth. They are kinswomen, but I imagine that they barely know each other. Maybe they had met at large gatherings a few times, but they had probably never spent much one-on-one time together. But now, as Mary crosses Elizabeth’s threshold, they instantly form a deep, profound bond.
As Mary and Elizabeth encounter one another in today’s gospel passage, drawn together by their children yet to be born, can we relate this experience to our own faith journeys? We who gather in person and online this weekend also await the birth of Christ. What holds us back from building the deep and profound bonds with one another that are similar to the one that Mary and Elizabeth formed?
Many of us would be willing to rush to the hill country of Judah to serve like Mary, putting our own concerns aside to assist the elderly Elizabeth in her pregnancy. But I think Mary’s bond with Elizabeth is based more on mutuality and vulnerability than on service. In all likelihood, Mary also set out for Judah so that Elizabeth could support her as she grappled to understand her unexpected pregnancy, ordained by God, a pregnancy that would profoundly alter the course of her life and the life of the world. Mary was full of grace, and the Lord was with her, and she was blessed among women, but she was still a vulnerable human being. Elizabeth had unique gifts to help Mary comprehend the commitment she had made to God for the salvation of the world.
We are supposed to bring our hopes and fears with us to Mass and place them on the altar. But how many of us share those hopes and fears with one another? Have we told our friends and families how much we love them? Have we reached out to those from whom we’ve drifted away? Have we asked people for their counsel and prayers?
For most of my adult life, I only shared my hopes and fears in the privacy of my prayer with God. But in the past few years, I’ve learned that the church teams that I lead can function better when I’m vulnerable, when I openly share my hopes and fears with them. 2024 has been among the best years of my life. I’ve helped lead two different parish communities — first in Boston, now in Chicago — into seasons of increased energy and excitement. Now that I share more of my authentic, vulnerable self with my colleagues — sharing with them what I used to share only with God — I find my life becoming more full and more free. What a blessing!
In these last days before we celebrate the great season of the Incarnation, may we remember that Christ was born among us as an impoverished baby in a stable, not as a royal prince in a palace. He became our king not through his military strength on a battlefield, but through his naked vulnerability on a cross.
This Christmastide, let us endeavor to soften our hearts again. If we do not open up about our hopes and fears, we are less likely to experience comfort and joy. God gives us comfort and joy… but God usually delivers those gifts to us through the people with whom we are physically, emotionally, and spiritually connected.