Homily July 18, 2020

Please Don’t Pull the Weeds

Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

July 19, 2020

Many people in this valley had the opportunity to work on the tobacco farms. When I was in college, I got to go in early, as soon as classes ended, and so I got to see more of the whole process: planting, cultivating, and hoeing. From time to time, I would take a step back to admire the work we were doing. When the weeds were removed, and the rich, dark soil was turned over, how beautiful it all looked. It made me feel like the steward of creation, the tender of the Garden of Eden as in the story of Adam and Eve.

Weeds have a way of taking over the world in unwanted ways. Several years ago, I went to the Expo, a world’s fair, in Montreal. It was a magical place, with unique exhibits, food from around the world, beautiful sights and sounds and smells. Then some years later, I returned to the site and discovered that most of it had been abandoned—I guess there’s not much you can do with large, hulky building made for masses of people. What struck me the most was how nature was taking back the place: huge weeds forced their way through cracks, creating a kind of forest of ugliness.

My earliest experience with weeds, however, was when I was a young child. My mother was weeding the flower garden, and she had to go in to answer the phone. So, I decided I was going to help her out. I started pulling left and right, until she came out and yelled for me to stop. The problem was that I couldn’t tell a weed from a flower, and so I was pulling out the good with the bad.

And as I reflect on it now, I wonder if there is some wisdom in my childish ways—a kind of dangerous wisdom. Let me explain. First, weeds can be a relative thing. Certainly weeds in a tobacco field are unwanted, but who would want tobacco suddenly springing up in your beautifully manicured lawn? Rose bushes are beautiful, but if they suddenly started appearing, helter skelter all over the lawn, that might be nice for a while, but it would make lawn mowing rather difficult.

Now, in the story Jesus tells, he notes that weeds and wheat are so intermingled, if you try to pull up one, you might take the other with it. That happened to me recently when I was trying to weed around some Easter lilies I had planted. For some reason, the weeds, with quite a strong root system, wanted to be best buddies with the lilies. I yanked out a weed and the lily came up with it.

If you apply this to people, this is where dualistic, black and white thinking gets dangerous. If we divide people into winners and losers, worthy and unworthy, useful and useless, likeable and unlikeable…this can lead to: racism , in which one group is considered racially superior to another; or ageism , in which those who cease to be productive can easily be cast aside as unuseful to society; or sexism in which one sex is considered more important or preferable. If you divide people into wheat and weeds based on their race, culture, sexual identity, religious preference—and you think you have the right to cherish one and denigrate, despise or cast aside the other—that’s dangerous.

Now, sometimes we don’t even realize that we are doing it because it’s part of our ordinary way of seeing the world. For example, when I was a child, I remember an explanation of sin and its effect on the soul. We would start out with a bottle of white milk. With each sin we committed, a black blotch would appear, and the milk would get blacker and blacker, at least until you went to confession, and then the milk would be white again. Did you ever stop to think that this can lead to thinking, at least subconsciously, that white is good, and black is bad? Or how about some of the western shows we used to watch? Weren’t the good guys often in white hats, and the outlaws in black? That’s part of our subconscious, too. And so, we live in a world in which we have to be reminded that black lives matter, that women matter, that Jews matter, that gay people matter. Sure, we all matter, but for some it doesn’t need to be said because it’s implied in the very way we see the world. We’ve divided the world into weeds and wheat, and we often don’t even recognize it. We don’t know one from the other, any more than I knew a weed from a flower as a child.

And that’s why Jesus’ advice in today’s gospel is so important. He’s saying that in this case the weeding is above our pay-grade, beyond our understanding, best left up to God and the angels at the end. We’re simply not qualified for the job, and when we’ve tried it, we’ve made an awful mess.

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Father's Homilies

Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter April 19, 2026

By Charlene Currie • April 25, 2026

Born to Look … Learning to See Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter April 19, 2026 The scoutmaster used to take his troops on hikes along wilderness nature trails. After each hike he would challenge the scouts to describe what they had observed on their excursion. The boys invariably hadn’t seen a fraction of what the scoutmaster had seen. He would wave his arms in great circles and shout, “Creation is all around you, but you are blocking it out. Stop wearing your raincoat in the shower. You were born to look, but you have to learn to see.” You were born to look, but you have to learn to see. One of the questions that always arises about today’s gospel passage is: Why didn’t the two disciples recognize Jesus? Let’s spend some time reflecting on the possibilities. One obvious answer is that they were disheartened. Their lives are at their lowest point. They are sad and confused. The one they had pinned their hopes on had been humiliated and crucified in a horrible way. How could such a disaster be anything but a total defeat? How could a Messiah, or Savior, allow himself to be beaten and put to death? In addition, the two disciples are probably terrorized, full of fear. The leaders of the people, both religious and political, had made their point. Anyone who rocks the boat and challenges authority will be dealt with swiftly and brutally. If the two were recognized as followers of Jesus, his fate could also be theirs. Let me share another story with you, a story which shows how expectations can color what we see and experience. ---------------------------------- A young man from a wealthy family was about to graduate from high school. It was the custom in his affluent neighborhood for the parents to give the graduate a car as a graduation present. Bill and his father spent months looking at cars, and the week before graduation they found the perfect one. Bill was certain that the car would be his on graduation night. Imagine Bill’s disappointment when, on the eve of the big day, his father handed him a gift-wrapped Bible! Bill was so angry, he hurled the Bible across the room and stormed out of the house, vowing never to return again. Bill and his father never saw each other again. Yet it was the news of his father’s death that brought Bill back home again. One night, as he sat going through his father’s possessions that he was to inherit, Bill came across the Bible that his father had given him. He brushed away the dust and opened it to find a cashier’s check, dated the day of his graduation—for the exact amount of the car they had chosen together. ------------------------------- As the scoutmaster said, “You are born to look, but you have to learn to see.” What does today’s gospel passage want us to learn to see? One obvious answer is that the privileged place to encounter Jesus is in the celebration of the Eucharist, or Mass. In the gospel Jesus does two things: he interprets the Scriptures and how they apply to him; and he “breaks bread” with the two disciples. We thus have the two halves of the Mass: the liturgy of the word and the liturgy of the Eucharist. The Bible is telling us where to look, and it is teaching us to learn to see. Like the cashier’s check in the Bible, Jesus’ presence is not always obvious or straightforward. So, where and how should we look? The first place is the Bible. We need to take time to read God’s word slowly, savor it, and allow it to speak to us. If you are having difficulty, a commentary will help. Turning to those who know the Bible better that we do, and asking for clarifications and advice, will also help. The second place of encounter with Jesus is the Eucharist. The mystery of Emmaus is that the disciples recognize Jesus in the “breaking of bread,” which was one of the phrases used for the celebration of the Eucharist. Try to enter the Mystery more and more by giving yourself totally, without distractions, to each part of the Mass. Savor what it means to gather with open minds and hearts; to listen to the message of Scripture, the inspired word of God; to take the message of the homily home with you and reflect on it; to ask for forgiveness and to pray for peace; to intercede for our needs and the needs of the whole world; to receive our Lord mindfully, and not just hurry through the motions. Finally, in the Emmaus story, Jesus approaches his people who are depressed, disappointed and broken-hearted. At first, they do not recognize him. But as they listen more and more, their hearts start to burn within them. So, another way to experience the presence of Jesus Christ is to do as he did, to find value in what he taught and how he acted. He clearly said that he could be found in the poor and vulnerable: I was hungry, and you gave me food; I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was naked, and you clothed me; I was ill, or in prison, or lonely, and you visited me. Today’s gospel gives us a blueprint for encountering Jesus and feeling his presence. But we have to give ourselves to it wholeheartedly. We were born to look, but we have to learn how to see. The Bible has a treasure in it, and it’s not a cashier’s check. The Eucharist has a presence in it, and it’s something more than bread. The people around us are children of God. They have a spark of the divine within them. We were born to look, but we have to learn how to see.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter April 12, 2026

By Charlene Currie • April 25, 2026

Will You Still Need Me? Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter April 12, 2026 One hot summer afternoon a woman was working strenuously, weeding her flower beds and pruning the plants. The flowers were especially magnificent. A passerby asked, “I really like those flowers—do you?” As she wiped perspiration from her face with a dirty hand, the woman’s weary response was, “Only when they bloom.” The passerby thought how many folks have a similar attitude toward church, family, work, or life in general—“I only like it when it is in full bloom and beautiful.” The passerby thought of those necessary times of hard work—mulching, weeding, cultivating, pruning and transplanting—as well as seasonal dormancy, which are all necessary to bring about the blooms which precede the bearing of seeds and fruit. --------------------------------- I mentioned during one of my homilies during Holy Week that I was always bothered that the risen Jesus, with his risen body, still had the wounds. I compared it to buying a shiny, brand-new car, and insisting that there be dents on the fenders and leaks in the engine. As I thought about it more and more, however, I came to understand that the wounds were there for a purpose. In the case of Thomas, the wounds were the evidence he needed. But, beyond that, the wounds serve as a reminder that Jesus’ love for us is total, down to the last drop of blood. The wounds help preserve the memory of how painful true love can be. It’s easy to love that which is perfect and beautiful, is it not? But Jesus chose to show us a love of that which is less than perfect, and clearly not beautiful. Perhaps the clearest example of that is that he was there for the lepers of his day, those who had a contagious disease that rotted their flesh and forced them to live in isolation. But it was true of others, as well. Jesus went out of his way to embrace public sinners, foreigners, enemies, even those who were involved in putting him to death. From the cross he prayed, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” The risen body of Jesus, still bearing the wounds, means that our Lord is present in a special way to those who are wounded: those with cancer or another life-threatening disease, those who have lost a loved one, those who have been bullied, those carrying the wounds of a failed relationship, those who feel they cannot be forgiven, those who know they are less than perfect. Jesus is there for those living with the daily threat of war, terrorism, violence, domestic abuse, betrayal. In short, the less than perfect resurrected body of Jesus means that now, as then, he is present in a special way to those who are less than perfect. ------------------------------------------------ I was reminded of an early hit by the Beatles. Do you remember a song entitled When I’m Sixty-Four, released in June 1967? Here are some of the lyrics: When I get older, losing my hair Many years from now, Will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine? If I'd been out till quarter to three, Would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four? Ooh … I could be handy mending a fuse When your lights have gone. You can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings, go for a ride. Doing the garden, digging the weeds, Who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four? -------------------------------------------------- In a similar way, Jesus’ wounds remind us that he’s not a fair-weather friend, only there for the good times. He’s there, always, and especially when we’re wounded. So, if you’re struggling, if you’re dealing with something painful, don’t run away. Don’t make the mistake of thinking the Lord doesn’t understand, or care. Instead, go to the wounds. Allow yourself to feel what true love is like when you need it the most.