When we must mix our blood with His

26th Sunday in Ordinary Time
Fr. Anthony Brankin
Gospel: Matt. 21:28-32 Parable of the two sons

Full homily text: I surely hope that no one is put off by our discussions of “feast days.” I know that for the past 40 years we have become accustomed to hearing homilies based on the readings of the day. A homily is a wonderful thing, but I think it is most effective on a big feast day when the readings relate directly to that which we are celebrating.

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Lately, however, even the Bishops have come to understand that the old style instructional sermons helped to keep us all catechized—and may sometimes be more effective than homilies. As well—if nothing were said on Sundays about all the feasts that take place every day in the life of the Church, it would seem to be a great loss to the Catholic people who can no longer go to Church every day. So to discuss on Sunday the feast day of a saint is still a celebration of Christ and a lesson to us— from that saint—on how we relate to both Christ and to the world He saved.

So when there is a singular celebration during the week and it is not offset by something we need to address on Sunday, let us keep talking about the saints.

Januarius and other saints

For example, last week we celebrated a number of really unique and interesting Feast Days. Monday was the feast of 4th Century Bishop and martyr, Januarius. Tuesday we celebrated the 136 Korean martyrs—while Wednesday was the Feast of St. Matthew the Apostle and Evangelist. Friday, of course, we feasted Padre Pio—who was contemporary with almost all the adults in church today. Let’s see how they are all linked.

First of all let us look at St. Januarius. He lived in the late third Century, dying in the early 4th Century. He and his Christian companions were martyred brutally by the Romans—right outside of Naples in Italy. His disciples—the ones who loved him most dearly—and who weren’t themselves killed, saved a portion of his spilled blood and they scooped it up and slid it into a glass container. They just wanted something to remind them of how faithful to Christ and how good he was, and how they ought to be. For them, the blood was a holy relic by which they could stay—humanly speaking—in touch with their beloved Gennaro.

They could have never foretold that that vial of blood would liquefy on his feast day almost every year—and sometimes twice a year—for the next 1700 years.

This kind of thing just does not happen. It is not just rare—it is not just odd or peculiar or strange. This does not happen in any circumstance.

Scientists stumped

And for 1700 years, scientists have tried to discover the secret, the reason, the means of the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius. And they cannot figure it out. But that is the definition of a miracle, isn’t it? —that there is no natural explanation. And by definition, then, something SUPERNATURAL is happening.

This liquefaction happens almost every year. They bring the vial to the head of the tomb of Januarius, and the dried, powdered, 1700 year old blood starts bubbling and gurgling. If it doesn’t happen, the poor Italians start fearing a disaster somewhere in Italy—which often enough happens. But that is not why God works this miracle. He is not providing an early warning system for Italian earthquakes and volcanoes.

No. God has another more important reason.

St. Pio and the stigmata

And we can understand that reason when we talk about Padre Pio, St. Pio, another Southern Italian Saint—from our own times. During his life Padre Pio was probably the most beloved and holiest priest in the world.

Everyone for decades knew his story—how he endured physically in his own body the very sufferings of Christ. God gave him the stigmata—the wounds of Jesus in his hands and in his feet and in his side. Padre Pio bled a pint of blood every day of his life for over 70 years. Doctors could place their fingers in his wounds and go in and out as if nails had pierced his hands and feet and sides—and yet there was never a healing and never an infection.

Padre Pio cured the sick, the blind, the lame, the dying. There was a little girl in Italy—she is probably now a grown woman—who can see even though she does not have pupils in her eyes. It was the prayers of Padre Pio that healed her.

He read souls

He fixed broken hearts and souls as well as bodies. Thousands came to him for his far-seeing advice. He could even read the souls of those who came to confession to him. He could say to a penitent, “You have not told me everything. Tell me about this in your life…” The penitent would be shamed into finally making a good confession. And Padre Pio heard confessions every day for hours.

Padre Pio also had the gift of bi-location—he could be in two places at the same time. There are scads of stories that give testimony to that miracle. When Padre Pio died, the bloody gaping wounds in his hands and feet and side, the mark of the Cross, the emblem of Christ’s love that Padre Pio had worn for most of his adult life—just evaporated. The wounds disappeared, as his soul went home to the God he loved and who so loved him.

What must I do?

For most of the Twentieth Century the whole world heard about Padre Pio and millions were stopped in their tracks at the stories and the photos, and they were forced to ask themselves: “Could all this be true? And if so what should I do about my own life in response?”

Those are the only questions, aren’t they? “Is it true? And if so what must I do?”

I mean, think of it, why would God fashion these marvels, these wonders? From the liquefaction of San Gennaro’s blood to the bleeding wounds of Padre Pio? Is this supposed to be some series of divine parlor tricks to keep us entertained? To tease us? To fool with us?

Absolutely not. These miracles are God’s way challenging us and teaching us (even we who live in the Twenty-First Century) that there is God and it is He who is God, and that He still deals with this world on an intimate basis and powerfully so.

Bubbling blood

God shows us in these miracles (and in any other way He chooses to work [which might even be a healing that comes from Extreme Unction in the hospital]) that He who created the Universe out of nothing is still the Omnipotent God of the Universe, and He is still in charge and if so we need to make some conclusions about our own lives.

In other words, a seemingly insignificant miracle that happens regularly for almost 1700 years—blood bubbling in a vial—or wounds appearing in the hands and feet of a priest—these wonders teach us so surely that that which we have learned in our Catholic Faith—about God, about His Son, about His Salvation and His Church—is true. And it is true because only the religion that is the recipient of such miracles can be the true religion. Those miracles are unique to the Catholic Faith. We do not see any phenomenon like these miracles in any other religion; they are the most beautiful proof that the Catholic Church comes from God and is the One True Church.

Shake unbelievers

But these miracles are also designed to shake unbelievers out of their sleep—to show to unbelievers, the atheists and agnostics and pagans who create our modern culture, the ones who print our newspapers and magazines and film our movies and produce our television shows—that despite all their wealth and influence they are not God, they are not all-powerful, that there is a true God above them to whom one day they will answer.

And if the movers and shakers of our society were a fraction as smart as they think they are, they would take heed from something like the miracle of the Januarius’ Blood, or the life and marvels of Padre Pio.

They would have to meditate upon the Source of such wonders, God Himself, and maybe start to re-think who they are and what they should be doing in this world. They would have to ask—as we must ask: “If these miracles are true, then this Catholic faith is true; and if this Catholic faith is true, then what am I going to do about it?”

If our religion is true…

If the truth be told, they (and we) must respond positively. We must either become Catholic—or at least better Catholics. Now we arrive at the other feasts from last week: that of the Korean martyrs who were killed by their government in the 19 th Century, or the Feast of Matthew the Evangelist—who himself was martyred. We see in their lives and deaths the conclusion that if our religion is true—and the miracles prove it—then we just might have to suffer for the sake of that truth!

At first we might suffer for our beliefs by having to endure the stares and incomprehension of members of our own family.

They think we’re nuts

When our children or grandchildren or brothers and sisters or cousins and friends no longer get married, no longer go to Mass—or refuse to have children or when they do have them refuse to get them baptized—when all our circle of family and acquaintances defend the right to abort and the sanctity of gay marriage and the necessity of mercy-killing—when everyone we know and love seems to spend all their money and energies and intelligence believing what the politicians and media and television tell them to believe, and when our own family thinks we are nuts, and tell us so because we believe not what the world tells us—but what Christ and His Church tells us, then we will suffer for the faith.

Because we believe that our faith is true, and they don’t, they will make us feel a little inadequate in their presence—a little old-fashioned—a little out of style—a little mean—a little judgmental and harsh. That is what has been called a “white martyrdom.”

White martyrdom turns red

But that is just a prelude to the day the government decides to come after us for those very same beliefs and our white martyrdom will turn to red. Maybe it will mean forced indoctrination camps, or jail, or even possibly water-boarding. Do you think they won’t penalize parents who refuse to let their children be indoctrinated into the gay life? How about soldiers and military personnel who have conscience problems with all this? How long before they are forced to take sensitivity classes to re-educate them—and God have mercy on them if they resist.

Well, that is when we will remember the red blood of San Gennaro that still bubbles and boils somewhere in Naples. That is when we will remember the bloody wounds of Jesus in the hands and feet of the little Italian priest in Pietrelcina, and the martyrs of Korea or Vietnam or Spain or Mexico—and we will remember that in all that miraculous blood— God is proving Himself true—and more powerful and more loving than anything—and that He has our back.

We needn’t worry if we must add a little of our own blood to that of His saints and to that of His Son. Because in the irony that is the true faith, blood proves ultimate victory, His and ours.