This bag weighs a ton. Worst day ever. My parents will kill me. I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse. I’m drowning in tears.  

Those are common things we hear all the time, but they’re exaggerations. There’s a Greek word for them. It’s called hyperbole (two Greek words – hupér, meaning above and beyond, and bolus, the target or the goal), so it’s an overreaching.  

How ‘bout this? I’ve told you a thousand times to stop exaggerating.  That’s hyperbole about hyperbole.  

There’s also another Greek word that we need to know for today’s Gospel, and that’s anachronism (from two Greek words - ana and khronos - beyond or before the time). From khronos you get English words like chronicle. I tell you that because Jesus, very frequently in His conversations and His teaching, used both hyperbole and anachronism. And there’s an anachronism in today’s Gospel that you really need to notice.

Terror! Terror on every side. That pretty much sums up what we have seen over the last quarter of a year. The only thing that moved the Coronavirus story off the front pages of the newspapers and the lead story on the evening news was an equally important and frightful event – an eruption of demonstrations about racial justice the like of which we have not seen since the late 1960s. I’d like to tell you two stories - the first is kind of innocent, the second maybe not so much. When I was in grammar school, our neighborhood was made up of all Caucasian people. There were Italians, Irish, Polish, Germans, a smattering of French and English, but we all looked somewhat alike. We kids called each other in conversation by those ugly names that each of those ethnic groups has in street slang. But we didn’t mean anything by it. We all got along well together.

Our churches were suddenly shut down in the middle of Lent, and all of a sudden, instead of the things we planned to give up for Lent, we gave up the way we were used to living, both in our private lives and in our life as a parish. It became a true Lent of tremendous drastic abstinence. Many of us entered into our own Gethsemane, where we cried out to a seemingly absent God, “If it is your will, let this cup pass me by.” But it didn't. So many of us then found ourselves - like Jesus on the night before he died - alone, seemingly abandoned or forced to abandon, those who we loved and things that we loved. And so it was a kind of crucifixion. And there were those, sadly, who like the women watching the crucifixion from afar, were only able to wave up at windows to loved ones in a nursing home or hospital, unable to touch, unable to speak. And we were entombed, all of us, in our own homes. 

Because the news headlines of the past few months have seemed to be unrelentingly disturbing and depressing, I am eager to share some good news. Daily Mass began earlier this week in the parishes of the archdiocese in Dutchess, Sullivan, Ulster, Orange, Rockland, Westchester, and Putnam counties, and Sunday Mass will begin in those same counties this Sunday, June 14, providentially the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ – Corpus Christi! In addition, funerals, weddings, and baptisms can also be held once again. (The solemn obligation to attend Sunday Mass continues to be temporarily suspended.) Of course, we must follow the advice of health professionals and limit attendance to no more than 25% of a church’s capacity, keep social distance, wear masks, and observe all of the health and safety requirements that have become such a part of our daily routines. Understandably, parishes in Staten Island, The Bronx, and Manhattan must wait a few more weeks until New York City enters Phase 2 of the New York State’s re-opening process. However, churches in those boroughs remain open for visitation, prayer, and the sacrament of confession, and we look forward to the resumption of Mass in these parishes soon.

Holy Trinity: One God, Three Persons. Easy to say; hard to comprehend; still harder to embrace.   Do you like to dance? Do you dance well? One of my favorite memories of growing up in the 1950s is that of me and two of my friends, on the cusp of being teenagers, gathered at someone’s house, trying to teach one another how to lindy. Two years after the “birth” of rock ’n roll, OUR music was everywhere. And meant a lot to us. Someone had “borrowed” his older sister’s records and we played them over and over for over. I couldn’t lead; I couldn’t follow. I never got it.   But dancing is magical. In 1952, my aunts took me to see “Singin’ in the Rain.” I was mesmerized by the famous dance scene. To this day, whenever I watch the movie again, I’m still enthralled. Gene Kelly, even drenched with rain, makes it seem so effortless, so enjoyable. I get the same reaction from those old Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers musicals - corny plots, great music, wonderful dance routines.