John Dubois Built a Life
Anniversary of the Dedication of the University Chapel
Yesterday we observed Ox Day, a newer tradition here at the Mount that commemorates when in 1805 Father John Dubois and the locals cleared the land for the site of the first church on our mountain. At the end of the day, they celebrated by roasting an entire ox. We engaged yesterday in some smaller projects and feasted, more modestly, upon grilled cheese sandwiches. Nevertheless, I found my first experience of Ox Day to be profoundly moving.
Since arriving at the Mount this summer, I’ve been drawn to the figure of John Dubois. In particular, I’ve been trying to imagine what was his vision for this mountain. Now, we all know that he founded this University and Seminary and began what would become the Grotto. But I think it’s overlooked that what Dubois first did—what we commemorate on Ox Day—was to build a church. Now, to build a church requires certain material—stone, wood, bricks, et cetera—but there can be no church without people, the living stones who turn a building into a house of God. What I love most about John Dubois’ vision is that he saw this mountain as a place on which the Church (with a capital C) could live—and that meant that there would be people living here, praying here, being formed here, and from here being sent out into the world. It could be said that what John Dubois founded on this mountain was, simply, a life. A life to be lived by people. A life to be lived by us. Because in the end, what John Dubois built no longer stands—the church, the buildings, all of it’s gone. What remains is the life, and that life will remain so long as there are people on Mary’s Mountain to live it.
One of our Ox Day projects got me thinking about this life—and what threatens it. A number of us worked for several hours in the woods off the Grotto parking lot. The task was to rescue the trees by the road from the vines that have been growing over them and killing them. Now, I don’t know much about anything in general and even less about nature. So to my eye, from the road the trees looked fine. After all, they are covered in green, and green is a sign of good health. Or so I thought. But upon closer inspection, you can see how the vines grow up and constrict the trees, weighing down their branches, inhibiting their growth, and, eventually bringing them down. I stepped over one dead tree on the ground with vines around it six inches thick. By cutting the vines at the root, we hoped to save the other trees in the area from meeting a similar fate.
As I worked, I thought about my own life. How everything on the surface can appear good and healthy but if I stop to look more closely I can see how the vines have been creeping up beyond my notice. And as I thought about John Dubois and the life he established and cared for on this mountain, I thought also about what kinds of vines might be growing in and among us, even beyond our notice, threatening the very life we cherish here.
Today is a good day to ask these questions because today we observe the anniversary of the dedication of this chapel. Although it became part of this campus over a hundred years ago and over a hundred years after John Dubois built the first church, this building bears witness to the life all generations of Mounties are meant to have. Because this chapel, too, is built of stone and wood; yet to be not merely a building but a house of God, it needs to be built of living stones, God’s holy people. So the celebration of the dedication of this chapel is, really, the celebration of ourselves as a people—a people called from many diverse places and walks of life, gathered here on Mary’s mountain, formed by the teaching and example of Jesus Christ, and sent out into the world in service of God and neighbor.
I haven’t inspected every inch of the chapel, but I don’t think we have a problem with vines growing up its stones. But can we say the same about the stones that we are? Now, I don’t presume anyone came to church today under the presumption that they’re perfect and have nothing to work on. We’re aware of our faults, at least some of them. However, I wonder whether we are aware of how our faults contribute to the faults of the whole. Because if we are one body, one family, one people, sharing one life upon this mountain, then we’re all connected. What I do affects you, and what you do affects me. How I live, how I tend to the vines within my life, and how you do the same are equally important for the health of each individual and the whole. What I’m describing is a mystery—the mystery of our unity in the Body of Christ by our baptism—but if you want to get a sense of what it looks like, go play in the woods. Find a tree that’s covered in vines. Get in there. Try to distinguish one vine from another. See what kind of damage even a single strain can do. That will show you something of what it means to be a community and how much we all matter to each other.
My point in saying all this is that we need to take our lives seriously. We need to think about how we live. And we need to root out what takes away our life. Not only for our good, but for the good of our whole Mount family. At the same time, I want you to know that this is not primarily your work, but Christ’s.
The Gospel passage of Zacchaeus is traditionally read on the feast of the dedication of a church because it is a model of our own lives. We are short in stature and struggle to see Jesus, but he sees us with ease. He calls us to come down out of our sycamores—our self-constructed ways of thinking more and better of ourselves—so that he can enter our lives as they really are. Christ invites himself into our house, which is probably far from being neat and tidy. But it’s by his presence, by welcoming into our lives, that he makes things right. That he cuts away the vines. That he restores us to life.
And so, my brothers and sisters, we give thanks today with Zacchaeus. We give thanks that Christ has come to this mountain everyday for 218 years and counting and to this holy place for the past 113. We give thanks for the work he has done in thousands of lives and for the work he is doing in ours. Let us work with him, for our good and the good of all his holy Church. For our brothers and sisters around us. And for the generations who will come after us and who will call this mountain ‘home.’ May the graces received in this chapel give new life to all who worship here now and for as long as these stones shall stand. Amen.
Homily preached Octoer 28, 2024 at Mount St. Mary’s University