Family reunions on my father’s side were like civic meetings of a small village. My father was one of eight children, and his mother was one of fourteen. There were people on my dad’s side of the family that I didn’t even know existed, at least not until I went to our family reunions. I suspect that it was because my family was so large that we needed those family reunions. Hundreds of us would gather in a fellowship hall somewhere, and there would be games, a festive lunch, and dancing. And there would always be Mass. The local priest would come with his Communion kit, a linen was thrown over a folding table, and we all shared in the breaking of the bread and in the prayers.
As I grew older and got above my raisin’, as we say in the South, I had less and less time for those family reunions. In my youthful arrogance, I thought I had moved on from the insularity of southeast Texas to the sophistication of the east coast, from guitar folk Masses to pipe organs and choirs (well, truth be told, I think I was right about that last one). My personal perspective had expanded from local to international, but when I was home for the summer, I still went to the family reunions anyway.
I’ll never forget one reunion when we were gathered for Mass. I looked over at Big MawMaw and Big PawPaw, my gentle and loving great-grandparents. I saw their clear blue eyes. Yes, that was certainly a reminder of where my own blue eyes came from. I noticed their tears as the priest spoke of the Blessed Sacrament, and I was reminded of my own love for the Eucharist. I had come home to my roots, and there was no way around that fact. My roots were in this huge, down-to-earth Cajun family and in the sacramental life of the Church. I was the progeny of two devout, big-hearted people whose children had spread out across the nation. No wonder we had family reunions so often. Our immensity risked diluting us into a diffuse, scattered lot. We needed to be concretely reminded of our roots.
In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus comes home to his roots in Nazareth right after a period of testing in the wilderness by the devil. He moves from a confrontation with the mystery of evil back to the specificity of his hometown, a small hamlet far from Jerusalem. The local boy who is beginning to amass a favorable reputation comes home. It’s his custom, after all. Week after week, without fail, Jesus, like his fellow faithful Jews, shows up in the local synagogue.
Jesus hasn’t gotten above his raisin’. He’s not above ensconcing the beginning of his mission in his small hometown. The global thrust of his Gospel isn’t too large to come home for a bit, to a local context, nor is it too universal or general to be incisive and specific. Jesus is handed the scroll of the prophet Isaiah, and with laser-sharp focus he sifts through the scroll until he finds the one passage that is for this day, this time. But it’s also for every day, every time. It’s as if he says, it’s time to be specific, lest we forget our roots.
Before his mission really begins, he needs to give a summary of it, a precis for a confused world. In such a world, with problems as intractable as our own, Jesus stands up to read from the scroll, and he needs to be perfectly clear. The unspoken question to him is, who are you, really? What are you really about? And then Jesus stands up to read.
He reads the specific words of God’s eternal promise of release and freedom, of forgiveness, and of God’s unbounded love and care for his children. And now, in the hearing of this local family reunion, as the vibrations of Jesus’s voice resound in the cochleae of their ears, they begin to understand who he is and what he is about. So, now we should be specific about what the Gospel really is. Let’s come home to our roots.
In Jesus, good news is preached to the poor, not just the spiritually poor, but to the materially poor struggling under the boot of the empire. In him the captives are released, not just those enslaved to sin but the real prisoners, the ones to whom Jesus offers a second chance of redemption. In him, the blind recover their sight, and physical and spiritual healing happen. In him, freedom is given to those who are oppressed, the marginalized, the stranger, and the forsaken. Yes, this is the acceptable year of the Lord. Not tomorrow or at the end of the age, but now, today. Let’s be specific.
Jesus tells the family story, the story whose specific thread is woven throughout the epic story of God’s people from creation until Jesus stands up in that synagogue. But the thread has become confused over time, splayed and frayed, and the people have often forgotten their roots. This is why Jesus must be utterly clear with them before he even begins his work. This is my mission, he says. This is your story. And when he sits down, all their eyes are fixed on him. In him, they see the hope of their family story manifested in a human being. In him, they see who they’re called to be. Now, it has become specific.
And that family story is ours, too. We, the Church, are heirs of that story, which gives hope to the poor, the imprisoned, those in need of healing, the oppressed, and the forgotten among us. But as inheritors of this story, there’s more, so let’s be specific. We’re Christ’s body on earth. The mission God has given us is as specific as Jesus’s was in that synagogue in Nazareth. By the power of the Holy Spirit, we are the ones God is charging, with his help, to turn what can seem like empty words into a reality.
At the present time, the Church seems to be grasping for a mission. Maybe we’re overwhelmed by the problems and complexities of the world and don’t know how to respond. Perhaps we feel inadequate for the task. But maybe we’ve forgotten something else that’s highlighted in today’s story from Luke’s Gospel. Maybe we’ve forgotten to come home, as should be our custom, week after week, not on the Sabbath but on the Lord’s Day. We’ve forgotten our specific roots in this grand story of God’s unbounded love, mercy, and tangible power to bring righteousness to pass. It’s here, in our family in Christ, that the seeming vagueness of our mission finds great specificity, a clarity that might make us uncomfortable at times. Let’s be clear. It’s here, in the Word proclaimed and in the Bread broken and shared that we fix our eyes on Jesus and discern what God is asking us to do.
Let’s be specific. If you’re feeling overwhelmed by life and are grasping for next steps, come here. Week after week. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Let him teach you. Let him remind you of our collective story, a story that isn’t too broad to be specific, a story that the world so desperately needs to hear. Let’s be clear. Our mission is not limited to empty speech. It’s not judging or condemning others. It’s not vilifying our enemies and taking sides. The Gospel is none of these things because the Gospel can only be good news. Our task is one thing: to fix our eyes on Jesus and the Gospel, and then to live as if its words are really true, not only in the future, but right now, today.
So, let me be specific. Here’s the mission entrusted to us by God. By his power, we must proclaim good news to those who can hardly pay their bills and to those have no homes and are looking for shelter in the frigid cold. And we must help them. We must work to find forgiveness for our enemies and work towards the freedom of that forgiveness in the justice systems of our own society. We must work for the physical and mental healing of those who suffer. We must work tirelessly to advance freedom for those who are the most ostracized and marginalized among us. We must offer a home for those who seek safety and refuge.
But let’s be specific. We can only sustain this work if we come here, week after week, on the Lord’s Day, to be nourished in our true home. We can never get so above our raisin’ that we can’t come back home, to the local context, where things get specific. We should never take our eyes off the One who will give us life and who sends us out in his name to give life to others.
When I went back home for those family reunions, even when I didn’t feel like it, I learned something about myself. I learned that I was a larger person than I thought. I belonged not only to myself or to my immediate family but to a giant, extended family. I was reminded of my specific roots in an anonymous, nameless world.
It’s the same with us. When we come here, week after week on the Lord’s Day, we’re nourished with heavenly Food and given the strength and wisdom to learn that we’re so much bigger than we thought. We’re reminded of the universal family of God of which we’re members. And together, with our eyes fixed on Jesus, we remember the heart of the Gospel. In this worldwide family, if we remember our story, the impossible is possible. Let’s be specific: if we fix our eyes on Christ, the world will never be the same again.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday after the Epiphany
January 26, 2025