Some of you may have heard the news last week: the pope was in town.

The deacons and their wives all got tickets to Yankee Stadium. So my wife and I – along with 60-thousand others – were able to share in the celebration of the Eucharist last Sunday with the Holy Father.

It was a remarkable event for a lot of reasons.

I knew it was going to be different when we got on the Number 4 train headed to the Bronx, and I noticed several people on the subway all praying the rosary. I knew then that we were all headed to the same place.

First, I can’t remember the last time I’d seen so many priests and nuns and deacons in one place. I had the strange experience of walking into the men’s room at Yankee Stadium and seeing all these men in line wearing robes and vestments.

I could only imagine what Babe Ruth would have thought.

But second, there was a tremendous sense of Catholicity – in every sense of the term. The last time I felt that way was when my wife and visited Rome. In Rome, every corner has a church, every street is named for a saint, and everywhere you go you are surrounded my priests, bishops, nuns, monks – you are constantly being reminded of where you are, and of the remarkable place that city occupies in our faith.

And at Yankee Stadium last Sunday, there was a similar sense of connection.

We were all there for the same reason – bound by the same faith, the same hope. Christ Our Hope, as the Holy Father’s theme put it. So sitting in the stadium, with the wind whipping around us, you’d look around and see some of Mother Teresa’s nuns, bundled in winter coats, reading their breviaries. You’d see high school boys in khakis and navy blazers. You’d see grandparents and babies and Dominicans and priests from all over the country, quietly, patiently, waiting, praying, watching, laughing, sharing.

You got a beautiful sense of the universality of our faith – catholic with a small “c.”

You sensed it most beautifully during mass, when we all sang the Our Father. I don’t think I’ve ever done that with 60-thousand other people. You could not help but feel a part of something epic – something great. Something bigger than all of us.

In that ballpark, there was no mistaking it: we were Church.

And for a couple of hours last Sunday, we were not that far removed from the people of the early Church.

Listen, again, to the reading this morning from Acts.

“Philip went down to the city of Samaria and proclaimed the Christ to them. With one accord, the crowds paid attention to what was said….There was great joy in that city.”

Last Sunday, there was great joy in this city!

Our challenge now: how do we keep that joy alive? How do we carry that fervor into the world every day?

I think we do it – in part — by remembering the gift we have been given.

Jesus tells us today: “I will not leave you orphans. I will come to you.”

He came to us last Sunday in Yankee Stadium.

He comes to us again, every Sunday – in every mass – in every Eucharist.

He comes to us also in prayer…and in his word, the scripture. He comes to us in the beautiful sense of community that we share, not just in great stadiums with thousands of people…but here, in this church today. He comes to us, as well, even with just a few people, a family, gathered around a kitchen table, holding hands, saying grace.

He has not left us orphans. He has stayed with us. And the great work goes on.

In so many ways, it was fitting that the pope came to us during the last days of the Easter season – when everything is new, and all the readings these Sundays have been brimming with possibility. We have spent the last several weeks hearing again the accounts of the early Church, and how it spread.

Like the early apostles, we are poised to embark on a great new adventure, and carry our faith to others.

The letter from St. Peter today reminds us of that.

“Always be ready,” the author writes, “to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope.”

The reason, of course, is Christ – “Christ our hope.” As the Holy Father wrote: “One who hopes lives differently.”

My friends, how will WE live in that hope?

Emily Dickinson once wrote about that subject in a way that I think Pope Benedict would appreciate. She used a delightful image that has always reminded me of the Holy Spirit – the Spirit who is mentioned again and again in the readings today, and who we will soon celebrate on Pentecost:

She wrote:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the song without the words
And never stops at all.

Let us pray that the hope that “perches in the soul” – the Hope that is Christ — will always sing in our hearts…so that everyone can hear it.