Homily by Father Ambrose, November 8, 2009 -- 32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time

The first reading and the gospel this morning tell us about people who made personal sacrifices in the name of religion.  The poor widow of Zarephath, a Sidonian town, gave a little water and bread to the prophet Elijah at his request; and in Jerusalem, another widow, though she, too, was poor, deposited all of her money in an almbox at the Temple.  It's true that most of the stories in Scripture are about what God has done for people, rather than what people have done for God.  So the few instances - few in the New Testament at any rate - of offerings, or sacrifices, made to Christ are all the more noteworthy.  One thinks first of the Magi at the Epiphany, laying their offerings of gold, frankincense and myrrh in the manger of Bethlehem.  Then there was Mary of Bethany, who poured over Jesus' head an alabaster jar of very expensive oil, who anointed his feet and wiped them with her hair.  In all of these examples, what was important was not the intrinsic value of the thing offered - which could be very little - but rather the generous spirit and love with which it was offered, and the dignity of the person to whom it was offered -- in the first instance, a prophet of God; in the others, God himself.

And so it has always been Catholic custom to offer things, big and little, to God.  During Lent we might give up favorite foods.  We might also say more prayers than usual or attend Mass more frequently.  Or whenever we meet a difficult situation - some disappointment, a personal proberlm, an ailment or illness - we say that we are offering it up to God.  All of these practices are worthwhile as far as they go, but they all involve some kind of extra effort, if not actual discomfort.  Maybe some of us also offer to God the joys and pleasant things of our lives, too.  The pleasures we have. The little successes and victories. We might want to go to Mass to offer thanks as well as to pray for pressing needs, although it seems to be a tendency of human nature to apply to God mostly when we need him and to forget to thank him when things are going well for us. Yet, what is more fitting than to offer our happiness to God, who is the author of all good?

Really, we have to get into the boat of offering the whole of our life to God, not just occasional parts of it.  The Offertory of the Mass, which we are about to begin, reminds us of this dedication, of what our priorities ought to be...;In fact, we have brought nothing material with us into church this orminging to place upon the altar - not even a widow's mite, though a few of us have put money in the e poor box or brought food.   Yet, bread and wine have been prepared and will soon be brought to the altar and offered on our behalf. The priest will say, "Pray, brothers and sisters, that our sacrifice may be made acceptable to God the almighty Father" - but since we have not brought the gifts, what meaning do they have if they do not represent ourselves and our very lives?  When the priest raises the paten with the altar breads on it and the chalice filled with wine, he is offering the gift of our life to god.  The third Eucharistic Prayer explicitly says, "May he make us an everlasting gift to you...;"  Indeed, may every Eucharistic celebration be an act of genuine self-giving to God through our Lord Jesus Christ.  For, as we know, this gift does not remain ours.  No, the bread and wine will be transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ, just as our lives will be blessed through the divine grace that the Eucharist offers to us in return.  Therefore, we can renew our offering at Mass by making a daily offering of our life to God.  When the alarm clock goes off in the morning, instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, or reaching out for the radio, or immediately turning on the TV, let us take just a few seconds to make the sign of the cross and to offer the new day entirely to God - and then, throughout the day, put a little more effort into doing everything the very best we can for God.

Not long ago, there was a monk who, in this very church every day before morning office, used to kneel down and say this prayer:

"Jesus crucified, in the dawn's dim light, before the morning's burst of glory, I creep into Thy House to lay upon the lowest step that leads up to Thy altar the offering of my day.  This that I bring is very little:  only the hours of one day, my day, empty for thy filling with what Thou desirest of me:  prayer, work, pain, loneliness, and perhaps an hour of joy; boy's tiredness, sweet rush of love, patience, time given, understanding, fellowship, sympathy; faith, courage, penitence and sorrow for days not given, for a life far-spent and not, alas, for Thee.  But this day I can give, Lord, empty for Thy filling and Thy holy use.

"One day is so little, Lord, that I shouldn't dare to lay it here before Thee, in the richness of Thy treasury; but Saint Mark tells us of the widow's farthing. This is my farthing, my offered, only mite.  When thy priest comes, he will lift his hands up high, raising the Host, the frail white Host, that holds all the world's sorrow and its joy - all wisdom, strength, purity, and beauty ineffable, Thy gift, Thy perfect sacrifice.  Then take, Lord, my little gift of a day, and offer it with Thy offering, unite it with Thy sacrificial gift.  Taken unto Thee, made particle of Thy gift, washed with Thy precious Blood, laid on Thy Mother's heart, it becomes gold, rubies, frankincense, sweeter than myrrh, prized above emeralds.  Accepted, filled, worthy of use, not my day, Lord, but Thine."

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