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| My grandfather, Nick Suriani, smiling (as he so often did) at Christmas, and in his big, green recliner |
(Fifteenth Sunday of the Year
(B): This homily was given on July 15, 2012 at St. Pius X Church, Westerly
[For the audio version of this homily, click here: Fifteenth Sunday 2012]
I call it, “the shrug”.
It happened more than 25 years
ago, although in some respects it seems like yesterday. I was visiting my grandfather—my father’s
father—at his home in Barrington (which happened to be located directly in back
of Holy Angels Church, my home parish when I was growing up). Gramps was reclining
in his big, green recliner in the center of the living room—sort of like the
king in the middle of his kingdom; I was sitting on the couch to his left. He was in his early-90s at the time, but, by
the grace of God, he was still in relatively good health. Even at that point, he had thick, strong
forearms that were the result of many years of hard labor as a bricklayer.
He lived until he was 98, and my
grandmother lived almost as long. God blessed
them both with many years.
Unfortunately, however, three of
their four children (including my dad) died before the age of 55—all of cancer. And it was that sad series of events that we
began to talk about that day when I was visiting. And I’ll never forget it—at one point in the
conversation my grandfather stopped talking.
He turned his head, looked right into my eyes, lifted his big arms, and with
a sad look on his face did this. . . . (Shrug)
The shrug.
And then he sighed.
It was one of those simple,
profound actions that spoke volumes. It
was as if he had verbally said to me, “Raym (Italians usually cut off the ends
of words, and that’s the way it was with my grandfather. He never called me Raymond—or even
Raimondo—it was always ‘Raym’.) Raym, I
don’t understand it. Here we are—your
grandmother and I—over 90-years-old. God
has allowed us to live so long, and that’s great. But at the same time he allowed three of our
four children to die at such young ages.
That doesn’t make sense to me. I
can’t figure it out.”
I responded to his gesture by
simply saying, “Yeah, gramps, I know. I
don’t fully understand it either.”
At that point, as I recall, I
went over and gave him a hug.
And yet, my brothers and sisters,
my grandfather was not an angry or bitter person. Neither was my grandmother. In fact, if you asked me what I remember most
about my grandfather, I would tell you it was his smile—and his pleasant
disposition.
And neither blamed God for the
tragic events of the past. They didn’t
understand why God allowed certain things to happen as they did, but they never
blamed him. Both were people of deep
faith.
Just ask Fr. Giudice. As I said a few moments ago, my grandparents’
house was located directly in back of Holy Angels Church, and my grandfather would
often walk over during the day and make visits to the Blessed Sacrament. Well one afternoon Fr. Giudice happened to
meet my grandfather as he was making one of his many visits, and he asked him,
“Nick, what do you do when you come here to church during the day?”
My grandfather said, “I sit here
and look at God, and God looks back at me.”
Many of the great spiritual
masters would say that that’s a perfect description of contemplative prayer!
So obviously my grandfather found
peace and strength by turning to the Lord and praying to him. But I think there was something else at work
here as well.
There were many things about his
own life—and about life in general—that my grandfather did not understand. That was clear from his “shrug”—and his sigh.
But there were also many other things
that he DID understand!—things that he knew, by faith, to be true: for example,
that God loved him, and that God was with him (even when he wasn’t “looking at
the Lord” in church). He also knew that Jesus
died for him—and for his three deceased children—so that he and they could live
forever someday in his kingdom.
And it was truths like these that
my grandfather must have called to mind frequently (both when he was in church
and when he wasn’t)—which gave him that great smile that he had on his face so
often.
I mention this today because I
believe this is exactly what St. Paul did in his own life, which was also
filled with trials and difficulties that he didn’t fully understand—like the
“thorn in the flesh” he mentions in 2 Corinthians 12 (that God refused to take
away).
In today’s second reading we have
a passage from Ephesians 1 in which Paul lists some of the truths that he
understood; things that he knew, by faith, to be true. He lists them in the form of a hymn—perhaps a
hymn that he and the early Christians sang when they gathered together for
Mass.
Listen to some of these verses
again (this is from a translation that I think is a little better than the one
we use in our Lectionary):
Praised be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has
bestowed on us in Christ every spiritual blessing in the heavens! God chose us in him before the world began,
to be holy and blameless in his sight, to be full of love; he likewise
predestined us through Christ Jesus to be his adopted sons—such was his will
and pleasure—that all might praise the glorious favor he has bestowed on us in
his beloved. It is in Christ and through
his blood that we have been redeemed and our sins forgiven, so immeasurably
generous is God’s favor to us. God has
given us the wisdom to understand fully the mystery, the plan he was pleased to
decree in Christ, to be carried out in the fullness of time: namely to bring
all things in the heavens and on earth into one under Christ’s headship.
There were many things that St.
Paul didn’t understand, but he did understand what was most important in life:
the mystery of salvation in Christ Jesus.
This hymn, which I’m sure he knew by heart and recited often—even
outside of Mass—talks about so many things: that this life has a purpose; that
we are God’s adopted children through the sacrifice of Jesus; that we’re called
to be holy; that God has a plan for us and for the world; that we have an
eternal destiny that’s rooted in what Jesus Christ has done for us.
As was the case for St. Paul, we
all have situations and circumstances in our lives that are difficult to make
sense of; things that we do not fully understand—and never will (on this side
of the grave, at least).
So the message of my homily today
is very simple: In the midst of all that you do not understand, focus your
attention on what you do
understand: what you know, by faith, to be true.
Like St. Paul did.
Like my grandfather did.
