Angels and Archangels

When I was confirmed in 1957 (at the mature age of nine), I chose Michael for my confirmation name. I did not choose it to honor some relative or family friend. Rather, what impressed me most was its association with the great warrior archangel, Michael who with his angels battled against the dragon … who is called the Devil and Satan, who deceived the whole world, and who, thanks to Michael, was thrown down to the earth (Revelation 12:7-9). In those days, we regularly prayed to Saint Michael the Archangel after every Low Mass: Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. I really liked that prayer. And so for my confirmation - weak, nerdy kid that I then was - I wanted to identify with that great warrior archangel.

For centuries, Michael has been honored on this day. Hence, the traditional English name Michaelmas for today. Originally, it was a dedication feast, commemorating the consecration of a basilica dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel on the Via Salaria near Rome in the sixth century. Coming just after the autumnal equinox, as the days are visibly darkening, it must have seemed to be a very appropriate day indeed to honor the Church’s champion against the original “Dark Lord.” Historically, in England, Wales, and Ireland, Michaelmas marked one of the four financial and academic "quarter days," when debts were paid, rents were due, and legal or university terms began. Since the calendar reform of 1969, the archangels Gabriel and Raphael (the only other angels identified with proper names in the Bible) have been folded in with Michael in one composite feast of the Archangels. (Each of them previously had a feast of his own - Gabriel on March 24, Raphael on October 24.)

Michael's name means Who is like God? Gabriel's name means God's strength, and Raphael's name means God's remedy. The Book of Daniel identifies Michael as the protecting patron of Israel. He is also patron of police. Based on his biblical role as the messenger announcing the incarnation, Gabriel is patron of the postal service. Meanwhile, based on his guiding and healing functions in the book of Tobit, Raphael is the patron of travelers and the blind.

Where would we be without the angels, both named and unnamed? Here in this beautiful church we are literally surrounded by statues, murals, and windows of angels – among them the three gilded bronze angels kneeling above the baldachin over the High Altar (photo) and the four bronze angels with outstretched arms and interlocking hands that encircle the huge globe of the sanctuary lamp. The Angel of the Moon, high up on the south wall of the sanctuary is considered one of the most notable of John La Farge’s murals. Its companion piece, The Angel of the Sun, on the north wall, was painted by William Laurel Harris (the same artist who also did the monumental mural The Crucifixion above the Church’s main entrance). Above and behind the High Altar, the central window depicts Mary Queen of Angels. On the south side of that central widow is a stained glass window of the Archangel Michael, and on the north side is one of the Archangel Raphael. The Archangel Gabriel appears in the painting above the Annunciation Altar in the south aisle. Painted figures of angels also flank that altar on either side, and angels are also depicted adoring the Blessed Sacrament in the monstrance painted about the Sacred Heart Altar in the north aisle.

Likewise, the liturgy daily reminds us of angels. At every Mass, we join in praying the Sanctus, an acclamation based on the prophet Isaiah’s vision of the angels in heaven (Isaiah 6:3-4). The Gloria’s opening words recall the hymn sung by the angels to the shepherds on the first Christmas (Luke 2:14). At Funerals, we pray May the angels lead you into Paradise. That familiar In Paradisum prayer was, of course, the basis for Horatio’s famous farewell to Hamlet, Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest (Hamlet, Act V, Scene 2).

Then, there are the Guardian Angels, commemorated later this week on Friday, October 2.

It seems the angels really are everywhere – not just in pretty pictures and in the countless books found on the shelves devoted to angels in contemporary bookstores! Where would we be without them?

Homily for the feast of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY, September 29, 2026.

Between Yes and No

A man had two sons.

Now that is a story that we have heard before! Perhaps the most famous of Jesus’ parables is about a man who had two sons – a younger son, cool and adventurous, who seems to get away with everything, an older son, dull and dutiful, who feels forever unloved and underappreciated.

We all know that story. This one is a little different. Here both sons change their minds. The first son refuses at first to obey his father, then changes his mind and does as asked. (in religious language, we call that change of heart, “repentance.”) The second son says “Yes,” but then refuses to do his father’s will.

The two sons are caricatures, of course. Don’t most of us, most of the time, feel a bit like a combination of both? Like King Herod, who famously liked to listen to John the Baptist and was obviously attracted by his words, but beheaded him anyway, most of us are attracted to virtue - except when we’re not. We’re all tempted at times to do what we know we shouldn’t – or not do what we know we should do.  Sometimes we resist such temptation. Sometimes we don’t. Isn’t that the story of human history? Is it any surprise the world is such a mess, because human behavior is such a moral mess?

Given a choice, Jesus seems to come down on the side of the second son. He praises the tax collectors and prostitutes - stereotypical examples of wrong behavior – who (unlike Herod and unlike some of the people in Jesus’ audience) listened to John and changed their ways and so are entering the kingdom of God.

For Jesus, clearly the kingdom of God is about change, change of mind and heart (again, what in religious language, is called repentance). We forever seem to be in the moral mess of the present, somewhere between Yes and No. But – and this is what makes the difference – we are not stuck there. We can, in Jesus’ words, change our minds and believe. We are all on different paths, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. The point, however, is not where we are, but where we will end up.

America used to be known as the land of second chances. That may or may not be so true anymore. But, in telling us this parable about the two sons, Jesus makes clear that the Christian life still is. Jesus does not want us to focus forever on our first response, on our initial (and however often repeated) failures; but rather to do like the first son and change.

The kingdom of God is about who God wants us to become. The challenge is stay focused on who we want to be, on where we want our story to end, and so not to stay stuck in the present.

 

Homily for the 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY.

Blessed Fulton Sheen

 

At long last, Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen (1895-1979) will finally be beatified today at The Dome at America's Center in St. Louis, Missouri, at a Mass celebrated by Luis Cardinal Antonio Tagle as the Papal Delegate, Pope Leo's representative. Beatification is the final major step before canonization. From today forward, therefore, Fulton Sheen will be addressed and referred to as "Blessed" and will have his day in the calendar when he will be venerated in certain particular places.

Originally ordained a priest of the Peoria (Illinois) Diocese in 1919, Sheen eventually went on to teach theology and philosophy from 1928 to 1950 at Washington, D.C.'s Catholic University. Before that, after finishing his studies at that same Catholic University, he had earned his Ph.D. at the Catholic University of Louvain (now Leuven) in Belgium in 1923. His doctoral dissertation was "The Spirit of Contemporary Philosophy and the Finite God". Sheen became the first American to win the Cardinal Mercier Prize for international Philosophy. 

From 1930 to 1950, he hosted a night-time radio program The Catholic Hour on NBC. His fame skyrocketed after he moved to television in 1952, where he hosted Life Is Worth Living until 1957. The program featured Bishop Sheen speaking extemporaneously before a live audience and using a blackboard. The show was in primetime and attracted a mass audience - competing with "Mr. Television" Milton Berle! (My parents watched Milton Berle, not Bishop Sheen) Finally from 1961 to 1968, he hosted the syndicated The Fulton Sheen Program. Sheen won an Emmy Award for Most Outstanding Television Personality, and was featured on the cover of Time. 

As a radio and TV personality, Sheen was noted for his anti-communism (a commonplace Catholic position at the time). In the 1960s, however, he also spoke out against the Vietnam War, which cost him considerably in popularity. Along with communism, he also attacked Freudian psychoanalysis for what he saw as its materialistic premises and was a strong critic of modern therapeutic culture.

In 1950, Sheen became the National Director of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. During his 16 years as the Propagation's director, Sheen raised millions of dollars for missionary efforts worldwide. (He also donated $10 million that he earned from his later television programs.) In 1951, Pope Pius XII appointed Sheen as an Auxiliary Bishop for New York, an office he held until 1966, when he was made Bishop of Rochester. His tenure there was challenging, and he resigned Rochester in 1969 and was made Titular Archbishop of Newport (Wales). 

In the late 1950s, the U.S. government donated millions of dollars' worth of powdered milk to the New York Archdiocese. Francis Cardinal Spellman, New York's powerful archbishop from 1939 through 1967, donated that milk to Sheen's Society for the Propagation of the Faith to distribute to the poor of the world. On at least one occasion, however, Spellman demanded that Sheen pay the Archdiocese for the donated milk. Sheen refused and took his case directly to the Pope. Supposedly, Spellman later confronted Sheen and and promised to "get even" with him. Besides being pressured to leave television,  Spellman famously canceled Sheen's annual Good Friday sermons at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, and Sheen found himself unwelcome in many New York churches, enduring a true trial and crucible of suffering at the hands of fellow churchmen. Sheen himself humbly never talked about his quarrel with Spellman.

Although my family did not watch Bishop Sheen in the 1950s, I certainly heard plenty about him and eventually saw some of his later shows. I vividly remember his TV programs on the occasion of the death of the Pope and the election of his successor. As a child, I remember reading a book, a commentary on the Mass, which featured photos of Sheen celebrating Mass in his private chapel. I only finally heard him in person, late in his life, when he came to preach at the ecumenical Sunday service in the Princeton University chapel. His impact on the U.S. Church in his time had been enormous. He can be considered one of the first televangelists and certainly pioneered the Catholic Church's engagement with modern media as a vehicle for evangelization and cultural efficacy. When Pope Saint John Paul II embraced him at Saint Patrick's Cathedral just months before his death, the Pope assured him that he had written and spoken well of the Lord and was a true son of the Church.

His cause for canonization was delayed by an unseemly tussle between the Archdiocese of New York and the Diocese of Peoria about possession of Sheen's body, which was originally interred in Saint Patrick's Cathedral in 1979. In 2016, the New York State Supreme Court ordered Sheen disinterred and returned to Peoria, a ruling reaffirmed by the Appellate Division in 2018. This enabled Peoria to continue pursuing Sheen's Cause, culminating finally in his long awaited beatification today.

On the occasion of the canonization of a 16th-century Spanish Augustinian saint, the then Augustinian Prior General, Robert F. Prevost (Pope Leo XIV), said: "On canonizing a saint, the Church does not only wish to give us a reason for joy and celebration; she wishes above all to praise the Lord, to recognize the working of his grace in the Saint, and to propose to everyone in him a model of life and of Christian commitment."

Blessed Fulton Sheen, outstanding preacher of God's word in the modern world, pray for us!

Autumn

 

Autumn arrives at precisely 8:05 p.m. tonight with the Autumn Equinox. This will be the moment when the sun is positioned directly above the equator. Daylight and night will be equal in length (hence "equinox"). After the equinox, however, the sun's position will gradually move southward. Here in the northern hemisphere, the daylight hours will grow shorter, and the night hours will grow measurably longer. Meanwhile, while summer temperatures may linger for a longer or shorter period of time, sooner or later cooler weather will prevail until by the date of the December solstice (December 21) cold winter weather will, at least normally, be firmly predominant. I eagerly look froward to the day when I will routinely require a coat to go outside! It is this intermediate season, starting warm, ending cold, gradually getting darker, that we call Autumn or Fall.

The word "Fall" highlights one of the more attractive features of this season, as the leaves of deciduous trees change in color from their chlorophyll-induced spring-summer green to bright variations of yellow, orange, and red, and then literally fall to the ground. 

The culturally promoted, elite perspective on the change of seasons is, of course to deplore all this, to lament the fading of summer and the proximate approach of winter. I dissent from all of that. In climates where there are distinct rainy and dry seasons (like the ancient Middle East), the return of rain in autumn represents a renewal of nature in a dry, weary land without water [Psalm 63:1] after the deadly dryness and heat of summer. There are places (California, for example), which (like Israel) have a Mediterranean desert climate and are dependent on the winter rainy season for sufficient water to sustain human and animal life and agricultural production for the summer dry season, when no rain is normally expected. Hence, it is no surprise that autumn is treated as the beginning of a new year in the Jewish calendar. (Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish "New Year," was celebrated 10 days ago.)

I have lived most of my life in places with predictably regular rainfall, where in most non-drought years it rains on-and-off all year long. So autumn's new beginning for me has usually been more social than meteorological - associated with the beginning of the new school year in the academic calendar, a calendar which has tended to set the tone for much of society even for those whose school years are long behind them.

When I was a student (and likewise when I was very briefly a professor) the beginning of the academic year represented for me the much anticipated resumption of normal social activities. Since this pattern likewise largely dominates American parish life, the school calendar and its autumn beginning have been a focal point for me for almost my entire life. Inevitably, September elicits in me an enthusiastic response and the promise of a new start - probably the way the annual seasonal resumption of college football plays a similar role in many more people's lives.

Nothing is ever quite so simple, of course, or so univocal. Autumn is indeed a new beginning, a bright start. But it also, for obvious reasons, has a certain end times feel about it, as the annual dying of the natural world is vividly enacted before our eyes. (That beautiful foliage is in fact dying foliage!) 

The dying of the natural world inevitably acquires more significance for those of us who are old and acutely aware that the sum of our years is seventy, or if we are strong eighty, and most of them are toil and trouble, for their quickly pass and we vanish [Psalm 90:10]. As I said one Advent some years ago, what we see is the end of the natural world, but what we feel and fear is the end of ourselves. So the same season that gives us football tailgate parties and a multitude of variations on the theme of Oktoberfest also sends sobering signals both big and small.

Both autumnal themes symbolically represented both by dead leaves refreshing autumn rains, and are united in the paradoxical language of faith. "Our weakness bears us down, but our faith bears us up. We sorrow over the human condition, but find our healing in the divine promise." [Saint Augustine, Sermon 172].

Festa!

 

This week, legions of tourists and others with money to spend have been pouring into the downtown Manhattan neighborhood which is still somewhat anachronistically labelled "Little Italy" for the  Festa di San Genaro. In the traditional Roman Catholic calendar, September 19 has long been observed as the feast of Saint Januarius (San Gennaro, in Italian), Bishop of Benevento, martyred c. 305 along with six others during the persecution of Emperor Diocletian, the last serious Roman persecution prior to the conversion of Constantine. His relics eventually made their way to Naples, where for centuries, San Gennaro's body has reposed in the Cathedral of Naples. As patron of that city, he continues to be invoked for protection from fire, earthquakes, and the ever-present threat from Mount Vesuvius. 

In the early 20th century, the massive wave of Neapolitan immigrants from one of the poorest regions of the newly created Kingdom of Italy to America made devotion to San Gennaro a popular part of immigrant Italian life in New York City - in the neighborhood that then really was "Little Italy" (and where my mother was born 104 years ago). 

The still popular street festival originated on Mulberry street on September 19, 1926. By 1930, there were 440,250 Italian-born New Yorkers - including all my grandparents and several of my aunts and uncles. As strangers in a foreign land, Italian immigrants faced all the challenges - and opportunities - inherent in immigration. As Catholics, they faced the added challenge of being perceived primarily as a problem by an unwelcoming, predominantly Irish ecclesiastical establishment. As much as anything else, the New York Italian street festivals celebrated an alternative quality of community experience. While the establishment lamented what the immigrants didn't do, the festa demonstrated who they were at heart.

The one-day festa eventually expanded into today's 11-day street fair and a major tourist attraction - New York's biggest and most famous street festival and a great place to go for sausage and zeppole - a combination carnival and charity fundraiser. Operated by a not-for profit community organization, the contemporary festa distributes donations to various charitable organizations. Today's money-spending, sausage and zeppole consuming tourists may know little and may care even less about San Gennaro and his miraculous intercession against volcanic eruptions, but  even now the festa still features a religious procession on the actual feast day, an authentic expression of an immigrant community's heart and the spiritual strength that sustained the struggle of the Italian immigrant experience.

Meanwhile, back in Naples on his feast day, a silver bust containing the head of the saint and a glass reliquary containing a solidified sample of the saint's blood are exposed for veneration. Led by a group of women, called zie di San Gennaro,  the people pray for the famous miracle of the liquefying of his blood. When that happens, the ritual announcement is made to the great joy of all, Il sangue si è sciolto, Il miracolo e fatto ("The blood has liquefied. The miracle has happened"). The Te Deum is then sung, and the reliquary is made available to be kissed by the people. San Gennaro's blood traditionally also liquefies on the Saturday before the first Sunday of May to commemorate the transfer of his relics to Naples and again on December 16, the anniversary of the day in 1631 when a flow of lava from Mount Vesuvius miraculously bypassed the city - thanks, it was believed, to the saint's intercession.

The presence of Mount Vesuvius - a mere 9 miles from the center of Naples, highlights the paradox of Naples, a vibrant, exciting city, on a beautiful bay, in a setting of of incomparable natural beauty, blessed with fertile volcanic soil, but forever threatened by one of nature's most dangerous and unpredictable destructive forces. In a sense, Naples is like a parable of life itself - the blessings and dangers of ordinary human life on earth as well as of the spiritual journey through life on earth to the kingdom of God. How fitting then that the Neapolitans turn so regularly to a saint who has already passed through the blessings and dangers of this life to assist them as they struggle to do the same! 

Image: Flag of the Kingdom of Italy, 1861-1946.

The Uprising (The Movie)

 

The Uprising is a 2026 action film written, produced, and directed by Paul Greenglass and starring Andrew Garfield as the "Ploughman." It is a cinematic dramatization of the 1381 English "Peasants' Revolt" (historically more accurately termed "Wat Tyler's Rebellion") which occurred in the aftermath of the Bubonic Plague ("the Black Death") that had killed off half the country's population, starting in June 1348. The violent events of 1381 have long been considered a major crisis moment in English history.

In 1381, England's king was the 14-year-old Richard II, too young to rule on his own, although he did in fact play a prominent part in the rebellion's actual events. In the film he (Woody Norman) is haunted by terrifying nightmares, which in some sense reflect the haunting of the entire realm in the aftermath of the plague (referred to in the film as "the sickness"). He has an ambivalent relationship with his aristocratic council, which governs in his name, as does his mother, Joan of Kent (Katherine Waterston). Meanwhile, in addition to the economic dislocations caused by the plague, England is engaged in the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453) with France and desperately needs more revenue, requiring an increase in taxes. Unable politically to tax the Church or the rising merchant class in London, the royal council (composed apparently of nobles and bishops) increases taxes on the peasants, who complain to the local tax collector that they can no longer survive if they have to pay higher taxes.

Enter a "Ploughman" (Andrew Garfield), a widowed farmer whose wife and children had died in the plague. The collector demands that the Ploughman pay death taxes again on his family since he lacks documentary proof of their death seven years prior. The enraged Ploughman accosts the tax collector, and kills a soldier who tries to arrest him. This inspires peasants' revolts across the country, led by the Ploughman and actual historical characters from 1381 - a former soldier Wat Tyler (Cosmo Jarvis), and a previously imprisoned, apparently apocalyptically inclined priest, John Ball (Jamie Bell). The rebels march on London, where complete chaos erupts, while the rebels (mainly the Ploughman) negotiate with the King, whom the rebels treat with the veneration that his sacred status confers and that somehow sets him apart from the hated rich. Richard apparently gives in to the rebels and seems to betray his Council. In the end he seems to ally with the rising merchant class, represented by the Lord Mayor of London. The King then betrays the peasants and has Wat Tyler killed. Many of the rebels are massacred, but the Ploughman and a handful of associates escape.

One year later, the king and his mother are traveling through the forest when they are ambushed by the Ploughman and his fellow outlaws. Ultimately the Ploughman spares the King's life, leaving him to live in fear. The film ends with the King haunted as he was at the beginning. This fictional ending seems to evoke the legend of Robin Hood, who, however, historically predated these events by almost two centuries. (Historically, Richard II was ultimately deposed in 1399 by Henry IV, which remotely set the stage for the later Wars of the Roses)

The 14th-century aftermath of the plague was a period of economic dislocation and political transition. The merging merchant class were perhaps the prime beneficiaries (as the film suggests), although historically the peasants also benefited since their reduced numbers increased their power as an economic class, despite repeated legal efforts to keep them in their previous subordinate status. Their violent revolt was a long-remembered component of the chaos that occurred at that time. It continues to fascinate historians (especially those given to class analysis). The film avoids overt references to contemporary populist responses to today's economic and political conflicts, and the rebels' veneration of the sacred person of the King keeps the film firmly situated in its medieval ambience. On the other hand, the setting of the story in a haunted world traumatized by plague perhaps gives it a certain resonance in today's traumatized post-pandemic society, similarly haunted by its own versions of elite corruption and populist rage.

The Only Bridge to Heaven

 

Twenty-five years ago today, this church was filled to overflowing, following the infamous terrorist attack which we had experienced in this city just three days before. Even more than Christmas Midnight Mass, this was the occasion when I saw this great church so completely filled to capacity - filled incidentally as it was originally designed to be. But, on that unforgettable September day, when we assembled that day for Mass, we did what the Church always does on September 14. We celebrated the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the symbol of our salvation. As our first pastor, Paulist founder Servant of God Isaac Hecker, expressed it, The only bridge to heaven is over the cross.  The gates of paradise are only opened with the key of the cross. [Unpublished Spiritual Notebook, 1854]

Historically, this feast commemorates the dedication, on September 13, 335, of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem – built by the Roman Emperor Constantine over the traditionally recognized sites of Christ’s crucifixion and of his burial and resurrection. The next day, the relic of the True Cross (which had been discovered by Constantine’s mother, the Empress Saint Helena in 320) was publicly venerated in the new basilica. Eventually, September 14 became the feast celebrated today throughout the Universal Church.

On one level, this feast was a celebration of Christianity’s triumph over Roman paganism. The date for the dedication of the Jerusalem Basilica may have been chosen to counteract the anniversary of the dedication of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in Rome (the god known to the Greeks as Zeus, the Father of gods and men). That Roman site is, ironically, now the site of the Vittoriano, Italy’s 1911 monument to King Victor Emmanuel II, the first king of united Italy. It was a monument to the triumph of modern secularism over religion and of the power of the rising state over the power of the declining Church.  In the vicissitudes of history, such short-term triumphs clearly come and go, part of our perennial political noise and our overwhelming obsession with power, domination, and control.

In contrast, however, what we celebrate today is Christ’s triumph over our sad history of cosmic evil and human sinfulness  – now transformed, once and for all, through the triumph of Christ’s cross.

Evil and sin do not happen simply by accident – and neither did the cross. It didn’t just happen to Jesus one day, like some inexplicable misfortune – like various sufferings and setbacks, which, when they happen in our own lives, we sometimes all too glibly refer to as “crosses.” Christ’s cross was a direct consequence of his confrontation with worldly power, domination, and control and became the means by which he overcame cosmic evil and human sin.

In Jesus, the cross has become our doorway to salvation. A dreaded instrument of disgraceful death, the cross is now, thanks to Jesus, our gateway to freedom and new life, a triumphant sign of glory. And that is why we celebrate the Cross. As Saint Augustine said in a sermon somewhere around the year 400, You’re a Christian, you carry on your forehead the cross of Christ [Sermon 302, 3].

In the familiar story we just heard, [Numbers 21:4b-9], God punished his perpetually complaining people with serpents, which bit the people so that many of them died. But, when Moses interceded on the people’s behalf, he was instructed to make an image of a serpent, mounted on a pole, and whenever anyone who had been bitten by a serpent looked at it, he lived.

Like the people in the desert, we experience all sorts of sufferings and setbacks and are prone to discouragement. But the mystery of the cross invites us to see our situation differently. It invites us to turn away from our obsessive, dead-end focus on ourselves, and to turn instead to Christ – to delight, as Saint Augustine said in that same sermon, not in the sign of the wood, but in the sign of the one hanging on it. 

The mystery of the cross invites us to turn away once and for all from our obsessive, dead-end focus on ourselves – from both our constant competition for power, wealth, status, and whatever else seems to excite us, and from the seemingly endless sufferings and setbacks that continue to break our hearts - and to turn instead to Christ, so that we may journey through the desert of this treacherous life with hope instead of fear, under the sign of the cross, which alone can conquer in our conflict-ridden, war-torn, terrorized, and religiously and politically polarized world.

Homily for the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY, September 14, 2025.

 

A City United in Memory

 

On September 11, 2001, in the immediate aftermath of that morning's horror, Cardinal Edward Egan, New York's Archbishop at the time, celebrated a hastily arranged special Mass at Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Later, highlighting the extraordinary bravery, selflessness, and sacrifice of firefighters, police officers, and emergency medical workers (now recalled in a mural near the cathedral's main door), Egan highlighted how that terrible tragedy had revealed "New York at its best."

New York was at its best again, 25 years later, as the city came together this week to remember. The usual ceremonies took place at Ground Zero recalling that day's almost 3000 victims, and various commemorations took place around the city on the anniversary itself and in the days leading up to it. All four living former presidents — Joe Biden, Barack Obama, George W. Bush and Bill Clinton — and their First Ladies attended the Ground Zero ceremony, along with Vice President JD Vance. Former mayors attended along with the city's current mayor and other public officials.

On the eve of this anniversary, Saint Patrick's Cathedral again served as the city's spiritual heart. New York's new Archbishop, Ronald Hicks, flanked by concelebrating priests, bishops, and a cardinal (Tobin of Newark), celebrated a special Memorial Mass for families of those lost on 9/11, members of the city's uniformed services, and public officials (present and former). Seated in the very first row were former President Biden, New York Governor Kathy Hochul, and Mayor Zohran Mamdani. Watching the livestream, I was especially moved to see how the Archbishop pointedly stopped to greet the three of them as the procession arrived at the entrance of the sanctuary.

The presence of the three of them together in the front row, along with many other present and past public officials, was a vivid reminder of how united this city was in the immediate aftermath of the attacks and how united we could still be. Archbishop Hicks himself highlighted how in this city people of every religion and way of life "stand together, pray together, listen together, and seek the common good together." 

Another very important New Yorker, the present President of the United States, had also been invited, as was his Catholic-convert Vice President. Their absence added additional symbolism to the presence of the former President and of the state and city's current leaders. According to one published account of the evening, President Biden remained for an hour after the Mass, talking to members of the congregation who were there to remember their dead family members. Meanwhile, the presence of the city's first Muslim mayor was a powerful reminder of how this city has especially embodied the unique American experience of immigration (recalled and celebrated artistically in the murals at the cathedral's entrance) - the great American experience of diverse nations and religions coming together here to form something new and special. As Archbishop Hicks noted, one of the lessons from the events being remembered, is how "we need each other."

Needing each other is what causes fragile human beings to come together in families and civil society. Needing each other is the glue that holds a fragile society together and in the end its ultimate strength - something that sadly some of those who were not present at the cathedral Thursday night seem to have forgotten.

Photo: 9/11 Memorial Tablet at Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY.

25 Years

 

Church bells will ring throughout the city tomorrow morning at 8:46 a.m. to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the terrorist attack on New York, Washington, DC, and, by extension, the entire United States. That time - 8:46 a.m. - corresponds to the exact moment when the World Trade Center's North Tower was struck, a moment and a day which (as the saying goes) "will live in infamy." Tomorrow, as on each of these 25 somber anniversaries, the names of the almost 3000 people who lost their lives in that attack will be read out loud. Meanwhile, our own recollections inevitably turn to that terrible day 25 years ago, a day still marked in memory, so terrible to remember that it lacks even a name and is known only by its numerical date, 9/11.

On September 11, 2001, I was next door at the time of the attack, casting my vote in the NY Democratic party primary, preparing to nominate candidates eager to run for mayor to replace the then unpopular, lame-duck incumbent. It was an inadvertent coincidence, but it remains a reminder that it was our distinctively American constitutional democratic order that was attacked on that terrible day, that the American constitutional democratic order is still very much in jeopardy (albeit in different ways and maybe more from domestic rather than foreign threats), and that the defense of this exceptional constitutional democratic order is an ongoing responsibility which we dare not shirk.

It was a absolutely beautiful late-summer morning. Many of us who were here in New York then remember how the sunny serenity of an that beautiful late summer New York City morning was suddenly transformed into an experience of horror beyond anything most of us had ever imagined we’d see so close to home. And how quickly, everything changed! Our country and our city were being suddenly and savagely attacked, and we all got to see the ugly face of evil in a way my generation had hardly really experienced it before.

 

Soon, even the corner Starbucks shut down, as police barricades went up, closing our street to regular traffic. For days that stretched into weeks, we went around in a daze, past lowered flags, past churches and firehouses draped in black, past posted pictures of missing persons who would never be found, staring at the vacant place in the skyline, as military jets patrolled the now grimly gray, but otherwise empty sky. We watched over and over again as TV told and retold the story, punctuated by occasional accounts of heroic courage and poignantly loving final conversations – powerful lessons not just about how to face death, but how to live a life that makes sense.

 

We still remember – and mourn – those whose lives were wickedly cut short on that day of terror. Our ability to remember one another is one of the things that makes us most distinctly human. When we remember those who have died, we acknowledge our common humanity with them. And we also recognize our continued relationship. Remembering the dead is a fundamental and universal human need, which we neglect at our peril. (Benjamin Franklin is supposed to have said that, to understand a community, one should visit their cemetery.)

From earliest times (and down to today in the Church’s daily prayer and in every Mass), the Church also has honored the memory of the dead and offered prayers on their behalf. Saint Monica famously said to her son Saint Augustine: “I ask only this of you, that you remember me at the altar of the Lord, wherever you may be.” So, besides being a fundamental and universal human need, remembering the dead is also a religious duty, that expresses our faith and our hope.

Meanwhile, of course, life goes on. The events of that tragic day continue to take their toll in lives, as many have sickened as a result of their exposure to toxins on that day. It is estimated that maybe more have died since then as a result than were killed on that day itself. At the same time, the world, with its seemingly intractable social and political problems and conflicts continues to challenge us. Both international politics and domestic politics have changed immeasurably in these 25 years. We have lost the brief and seemingly ephemeral sense of unity of purpose which characterized our response to that tragedy, We remember September 11, 2001, as individuals each bringing his or her own worries, fears, and hopes, and also as citizens collectively concerned for the security of our country, conscious – as world events continue to remind us – of how perilous life can be and how fragile the network of social bonds on which we depend for our survival. 

Violent attacks upon our country and our constitutional way of life have tragically punctuated our history, in each case requiring a response sufficient to restore our sense of national purpose. A proponent of unity and reconciliation in service of the American Dream, Abraham Lincoln famously ended his First Inaugural, in which he had called out the specific threats the nation faced with entreated from those who had also rejected the constitution the rule of law, and the will of the people in elections, with this entreaty: We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

That appeal fell on deaf ears then. 

What might we hope for now in our politically polarized place and time?

Labor Day

 

When I was growing up back in the Bronx in America’s post-war Golden Age, I loved Labor Day, because it meant back to school. I was a nerdy kid, who loved to read, and loved to learn new things. Of course, that was not a fashionable view, so even then I learned the social imperative to conceal one's real feelings. Years later, as a grad student, I dreaded Labor Day because the University library would close the whole weekend for its annual sprucing up before the start of school. In those days, when so few places were air-conditioned, that meant not only no place to read, study, and socialize, but also no place to keep cool and to breathe pollen-free air. 

Labor Day has been a federal holiday since 1894, but it long ago joined most of our other national holidays in losing much of its original civic significance to become just a "holiday weekend" – an opportunity for shopping and other diversions. Even when the American labor movement was still strong and the traditional Labor Day Parade still defined New York’s Union Square, Labor Day was already becoming as much about the end of summer vacation, the last day for women to wear their white shoes and men their straw hats - and less of a serious civic celebration of American workers (and the affluence their astounding productivity had helped to produce).

That great post-World War II quarter century or so of unprecedented, nation-wide, across-the-board prosperity and a strong labor movement seems such a distant memory now in the present era of increasing economic inequality. Millions of Americans now suffer from unemployment, or underemployment, or are working but living in poverty as their basic needs too often go unmet, a situation that we should recognize represents a serious economic and moral failure for our nation. Certainly, one dimension of this failure is our diminished appreciation of the importance of productive work for a fulfilling human life and a flourishing economy. Work is more than just paying the bills. It’s how we realize our potential as productive people and active citizens, and contribute to the common good.

 

The Evangelist Matthew tells us that when Jesus came home to Nazareth, the hometown crowd dismissed him as “the carpenter’s son” [Matthew 13:55]. The context suggests it was familiarity with him a someone ordinary that most upset the people. In thus dismissing the ordinary workman in their midst, however, the Nazarenes missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Today, we are surrounded by workers, whose omnipresence and familiarity make them almost invisible, out of sight, out of mind – the health-care workers who care for our increasingly elderly population, the nannies who watch over the next generation, the drivers and cyclists who do all the deliveries that make our extravagant consumer lifestyle so easy. That so many members of today’s working class are immigrants - that we need to find them from somewhere else -  only highlights how essential they are, while making them that much more vulnerable.

And now, even the educated classes – previously so privileged – feel more and more like proletarians. Soon they may be unemployed, overeducated proletarians, if runaway AI technology continues to have its way. Progress – that most unchristian of concepts – is rapidly rendering obsolete so much of what used to be taken for granted. All of which only makes it that much more urgent to recover an authentic understanding of human nature and human solidarity – and of fulfilling human labor as an essential component of a good life and a good society.

Homily for Labor Day, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY, September 7, 2026.

(Photo: The first Labor Day Parade, New York, September 5, 1882, 

https://barbarasbookstores.com/the-first-labor-day-parade/)

"Come with Your Brothers into the Choir"

 

I don’t typically read “The Ethicist” column in the Sunday NY Times magazine. Sometimes, however, the moral dilemmas are common enough and relatable enough that I find the column somwhat more interesting. For example, one column a couple of weeks ago addressed the increasingly common problem of families fighting and refusing to remain in contact because of differences over politics and related cultural concerns. Of course, people have always disagreed about politics; but, until not that long ago, that would not usually have been seen as a reason to break off contact with someone.

In this particular case, the supposed ethical expert made what I thought were two particularly important points. The first is that family estrangement of this sort “has become sadly familiar over the past decade or so. The strategy of severing all ties with one’s parents has been encouraged by certain high-profile therapists,” supported by social media. Also “therapeutic culture has tended to expand, sometimes recklessly,” conflating complaints that “can arise from genuinely damaging relationships,” with descriptions of “ordinary parental shortcoming.” The second is that if you don’t want to be the reconciler/mediator, that is your choice, but that it may be worth the effort, “your participation might assist people you love in reaching some kind of resolution with one another.” It might, he says, somewhat pessimistically, because what he calls “No-contact culture” is resistant “to almost every effort at reconciliation.”

All this seemed especially on point as I was reflecting on today’s Gospel reading [Matthew 18:15-20], in which Jesus addresses the problem of conflict within the Church community and how to deal with it. Jesus doesn’t pretend, as religious people sometimes try to do, that there will never be conflicts. Conflict characterized the very first human family - Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel – and political and legal procedures to resolve conflicts, which might otherwise descend into endless cycles of violence, revenge, and vendettas, have been a cornerstone of civilized life.

 

It is, however, a very specific sort of “due process” that Jesus proposes – religious rather than secular, but also communitarian rather than individualistic and oriented toward reconciliation rather than legal justice, material compensation, or personal punishment.

Obsessed as we all are in our individualistic society with personal rights, when we speak of “due process” typically what get emphasized are legal guarantees for the individuals involved. The “due process,” which Jesus outlines, focuses less on the individuals and their rights or sensitivities and more on the community. And, most importantly, it is a process aimed not at vindication and separation but at reconciliation and reincorporation into the community.

In that regard, it reminds me of the process in Church law for dealing with problematic people in religious communities. The person is warned and given a chance to change course several times before the process ends in expulsion. That’s because the goal of the process is not expulsion but rather the person’s reconciliation with the community. Expulsion may end up being necessary, but always only as a last resort - as it is in the process Jesus outlines in today’s Gospel, in which only after three tries – individually, in a small group, and finally involving the whole community – is the person expelled.

Even so, the story doesn’t quite end there. The excommunication which Jesus outlines is specified as: If he refuses to listen even to the church, then treat him as you would a Gentile or a tax collector.

Now, in the ordinary world, the meaning of that would have been perfectly clear. As much as possible, devout, observant Jews avoided undue contact with such people, and they probably would generally avoid admitting them into their homes and sharing meals with them. That served a certain purpose in that society, just as judicial proceedings and imprisonment do in our society.

Yet, when Jesus says treat him as you would a Gentile or a tax collector, he may be muddying the waters a bit, because, of course, we can all recall how Jesus himself sometimes treated Gentiles and tax collectors. Such people may indeed be outside the community, and that may be because of their own bad behavior, but they’re not forgotten. In the divided, highly conflicted North African Church of the fourth century, Saint Augustine (354-430), speaking of the heretical and schismatic Donatist Christians he had to oppose so vigorously, famously said: “My friends, we must grieve over these as over our brothers. Whether they like it or not, they are our brothers” [Commentary on Psalm 32 (33)].

 

For years, I was a fan of medieval mystery stories, like Ellis Peters’ 20 Brother Cadfael Mysteries (set in 12th-century Shrewsbury).  In these mysteries, Brother Cadfael - over and above his avocation as an amateur but very effective detective - is, first and foremost, a Benedictine monk. But, In the 20th and final Brother Cadfael book, called Brother Cadfael’s Penance, Cadfael has, sadly, broken his vow of obedience. But then, at the end of the story, he returns to the monastery and kneels before his Abbot, and the Abbot simply responds: “Get up now, and come with your brothers into the choir.”

 

Unlike Cadfael and his brother monks, we live in a conflict-obsessed society driven by social media and what some, on both sides of the political divide, have taken to calling “cancel culture.” Clearly, we cannot be unaffected by all the vitriolic conflict that surrounds us. Yet, whatever we are or do as a community of disciples, our goal can never simply be to cancel one another. Rather, it must always be to bring us all back together, so that we may eventually all be together, here and now at this altar, and forever in God’s kingdom.

Homily for the 23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY, September 6, 2026.