When we were preparing the liturgies for this joint celebration of our anniversaries of ordination, Fr. Bertoli and I both agreed that the suggested Gospel of the day – Jesus’ parable of the “dishonest steward”, the corrupt manager who, when he learns he is about to be fired, “cooks the books” to give himself an exit strategy with his master’s debtors, might not be the ideal text to have to preach on!!

So instead, we decided to use the texts that were proclaimed at my ordination Mass 25 years ago.  On August 30, 1991, along with my brothers Lou Cerulli and Herbert Schulz, I received priestly ordination through the laying-on of hands by our Archbishop, Jean-Claude Turcotte.  These readings bear witness to a vision of priesthood which Fr. Bertoli and I share.  In the words of the prophet Isaiah, that we have been anointed by the Holy Spirit, called to proclaim the Good News, to announce God’s justice, freedom, and mercy. In the beautiful text of thanksgiving that is the opening of Paul’s letter to the Philippians, that we are grateful for all those with whom we have been privileged to serve the Gospel of Christ, and for the communities which have so graciously received our ministry – especially this parish of St. Monica, which we have served for a total of 61 years between us!!

Most poignantly, in the text from John’s Gospel, we receive anew the call to love and friendship with Jesus, to generous service as shepherds of his flock, to self-gift and surrender to God’s will.  This has been possible not primarily because of any special talents and abilities on our side, but ultimately by the grace of God, by the generous support of loving family, by friends of integrity, by our co-workers here in the parish, and by this supportive parish community of St. Monica’s, to whom and with whom we serve.  For all of these, we are profoundly grateful!    

If you permit, I’d like to focus my homily on this beautiful Gospel text of the encounter on the beach between Jesus and Peter, which has always played a central role in my walk with the Lord: as his friend, his disciple, his priest. 

When I was on retreat at the end of August, in the context of a talk about the difference between “falling in love” and “choosing to love”, Fr. Philip Chircop told us a funny story.  A couple, 35 years married, is sitting in the back yard at the end of a long day.  As sometimes happens with husbands and wives, they sort of take each other for granted, and much of that initial spark was gone.  The husband is having a beer and reading the newspaper; the wife is weeding the garden.  Suddenly, the wife hears her husband say: “I love you.”  Not having heard those words in many years, and by this time a little cynical, she says to him:

• “Was that you talking, or the beer?” 
• He replied: “No, it was me talking TO the beer!”  

Obviously, this couple needs some work!! But let’s do a quantum leap back now - about 2000 years back, into the scene of the Gospel story we have just heard. This time, it is Jesus and Peter who are in dialogue; the topic of the conservation is still love. But this time, it isn't a lovers' quarrel, but rather a moment of great intimacy, and yet some discomfort, between two friends. 

Put yourselves into Peter’s shoes – the shoes of the fisherman, you might call them! You're on the beach with Jesus, the Master, who has risen from the dead.  You’ve seen the empty tomb; you’ve met Jesus in the upper room. You felt his breath upon you, experienced the gift of his Spirit.  You have just brought in the biggest catch in your career as a fisherman, remembering Jesus' promise when he first called you that from now on, you would catch people.  You sit and have breakfast with Jesus, and you remember the time he fed that huge crowd with those five loaves and two little fishes.  There's no mistaking it; it's really the Lord.

But then, Jesus takes you aside.  Three times, he asks you the same question:  "Do you love me?"  And three times, you answer - the third time, with some hurt and aggravation - "Yes, Lord, of course, you know that I love you."  Three times, he gives you the same instruction: "Feed my lambs, take care of my sheep."  You may be wondering at this point: what's wrong, is Jesus deaf?  Doesn't he know that I love him?  Why does he have to keep asking?  Why didn't he seem to believe me the first time?

Now think back a couple of weeks ... with all the joy and excitement since Jesus' Resurrection, you’ve begun to forget the trauma of that evening when Judas betrayed Jesus, when he was taken away, when you followed behind to see what they would do to him.  Three times, you were asked, "aren't you one of his disciples?"  And what did you say: "Hey, you must have me mixed up with someone else.  I don't even know the man!"  And all this after swearing just a couple of hours earlier that you were ready to die with him.  You remember how awful you felt when after denying him the third time, he turned and looked at you - with sorrow, but also with compassion, without judgment.

Now you understand why he's asked you this question three times.  Because it's such an important question.  Because he has an important job for you, and he wants to make sure you're on the right track.  He doesn't ask: "Do you have a Ph.D?"  "How much money will you make?"  "Will anyone take you seriously?  Can you show me some results?"  Instead, he asks, "do you love me?"

Ultimately, this is all that Jesus cares about: not whether we are relevant, popular, or powerful, but the quality and depth of our love.  Love for God, for self, for others.  Jesus knows that in this world of loneliness and despair, we need men and women whose love is rooted in prayer.  People who know the heart of God, a heart that forgives, cares, heals, reaches out to others.  People who, having experienced the unconditional love offered by Jesus, are empowered to respond to that love, to return it, to share it with others.

Now I begin to understand.  Jesus wants me to know that in spite of my sinfulness, my brokenness, he has never stopped loving me.  His questions are his way of reminding me that our friendship is still so important to him.  Then he gives me a task: "Feed my sheep.  Take care of my lambs."  So often, Jesus speaks of himself as "the Good Shepherd."  "I am the good shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me, and I lay down my life for my sheep."  To be a shepherd like Jesus seems an impossible task.  And yet he entrusts it to me.

Jesus is telling me here that if I wait to be perfect before I go out and nourish others, I'll never reach anybody.  He asks not for perfection, but faithfulness.  Ministry in his name does not require me to be an "expert" who can solve everybody's problems or a "professional" providing services to “clients”.  Jesus is the one who heals, who reconciles, who gives life.  He has chosen me and he calls me - sinful, broken, vulnerable, and limited though I may be - to be the channel of his own unconditional and unlimited love. 

He tells me that even when I am exercising authority, or ministering to someone, I need them every bit as much as they need me.

Finally, Jesus says the strangest thing yet.  The world teaches the ethics of upward mobility: work hard, move up in the company, get ahead.  Then as you grow older, you become more self-confident, more independent, more important, and most importantly, in total control.  In our jobs, our families, our social relationships, we strive after these goals.  But then he says:

“When you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and go wherever you wished.  But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you would rather not go."

Jesus tells us here that the true leader is the one who allows God to do the leading; it is to be so deeply in love with Jesus that I am ready to follow him wherever he guides me, trusting that it is only with him that I will find the abundant life to which he calls me.  Even if this means confronting my worst fears, the demons of my past, even suffering and death - it is the pathway to a deeper and better life.

Finally, Jesus says, "Come, follow me."  He tells me that to be his disciple is to choose the way of love, of service, of vulnerability.  He invites me, with outstretched arms, to follow him.  And he leaves me free.  Maybe I'm not ready yet?  He understands.  But eventually, I must answer.  What will my answer be?