December 20, 2021
Paulist Fr. Rich Andre preached this homily on 4th Sunday of Advent (Year C) on December 19, 2021, at St. Austin Catholic Parish in Austin, TX. 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 pandemic and resulting incivility have caused us to construct walls around our hearts, 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 Friday 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, our dreams and brokenness, 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.
As a priest serving within a parish community whom I love, I have the wondrous privilege of knowing many of the people’s specific hopes and fears placed 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 due to the pandemic. I see people bringing joys and challenges too numerous and too specific to mention. Yet they all gather here, gazing on bread and wine laden with an amalgam of particular hopes and dreams, anticipating their transformation into the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ.
Sometimes, as I stand at the altar, looking out into the church, I reflect on how Christ’s healing presence is already among the people 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.
The pandemic has lessened our physical connections to one another. If we attend Mass in person, we kneel farther apart. If we participate online, we might be using different digital platforms so we’re not aware of each other’s presence. I only find out which beloved parishioners and friends were participating if they used Facebook and posted a comment.
For a lot of us, the pandemic has also lessened our emotional connections to one another. We have been “toughing it out” for so long, that many of us have become stoic. We keep our feelings to ourselves, assuring ourselves that other people have it worse than we do. Because of this, we are even more reluctant to tell others about our hopes and fears. When parishioners only tell me about a difficulty they’ve experienced after it’s over, I gently chide them. I say: “Not only do I care about you because of who you are, I also 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 this moment of separation, I find great hope in the encounter between Mary and Elizabeth. The Bible tells us that they are kinswomen, but I imagine that they barely know each other – maybe they had met at large family 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 and 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 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, 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.
Many of us bring our hopes and fears with us to Mass. Some of us may 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?
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, even as we redouble our efforts to protect one another’s health through physical isolation, let us endeavor to soften our hearts again. If we cannot open up about our hopes and fears, we are less likely to experience comfort and joy. Let us believe. 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.