THEN I FOUND THIS

CHANGES COMING

2010-12-15T21:38:00.000-08:00

I have recently moved copies of all posts to this blog, "Then I Found This," to another location, Alive on the Edge.

In the indefinite future I may discontinue "Then I Found This," because it can be tiresome, sometimes, maintaining two blogs. It's just a thought.

In the mean time, I suggest you visit Alive on the Edge and get acquainted there.

Thanks for your past visits here!

Third Sunday of Advent

2010-12-12T00:39:00.000-08:00

He Who Is To Come

From his cell in prison John the Baptist had heard stories about Jesus, and he sent some of his followers to find out if Jesus is the messiah. Are you ‘He who is to come’ or do we look for another? they asked Jesus.

Jesus had to reply in such a way that John would have no doubt about the genuineness of his messianic activity, and the message he sent back to John was about the blind receiving their sight, the lame walking, the lepers being cleansed, the deaf hearing, the dead being raised, and the poor having good news brought to them.

He did not say a word about people praying more or going to the synagogue or making God the center of their lives: The age of the messiah, as expressed in this report, does not concern “religion” in the traditional sense of the word.

One knows that the messiah has come because a real change has taken place in society, a change that involves the liberation of those who have always been cut off from the ‘main branch’ of society.

Jesus is the messiah because those who are blind, crippled, diseased, and poor have been liberated from the things which make them the victims of injustice.

We can turn the statement around to say that if the dregs of society do not experience liberation, then Jesus is not the messiah.

But Jesus is the messiah, and so the dead have come to life: those who have been unable to ‘live’ in a society that has written them off, are now alive with hope.

“The gospel has truly been a leaven of liberty and progress in human history, even in its temporal sphere, and always proves itself a leaven of brotherhood, of unity, and of peace. Therefore, not without cause is Christ hailed by the faithful as ‘the expected of the nations, and their Savior’ (Antiphon O for Dec. 23).”
Vatican II, Decree on the Missionary Activity of the Church (1965) 8

Third Sunday of Advent

2010-12-12T00:02:00.000-08:00

We can bring about a revolution

When people are going through a hard time we sometimes search for words to comfort them. "There, there, everything is going to be okay." They probably appreciate our attempts to commiserate with and comfort them. After all, in a truly difficult situation or calamity there often is not much we can do to fix things. So, we speak the most heart-felt and assuring words we can. But in the back of our minds we and the person we are trying to encourage, know they are just words. They don’t have the power to get rid of or solve the problem. We speak our words and hope for the best.

The Israelites are in Babylonian captivity. Things couldn’t be worse and mere words could not bring much relief. "There, there, everything is going to be okay" just doesn’t cut it. The most powerful nation in the world has enslaved them and mere words are not going to get them out; nor will empty promises give them much to hope for.

But the prophet Isaiah is not speaking to them on his own. He is speaking for God and the promises he is making have God to back them up. He addresses the exiles in images reminiscent of the Exodus. Their Creator God, who led them out of Egyptian bondage and formed them into a chosen people, will do it again for them another Exodus. God, the Liberator, is coming and going to free them from their oppression. Once again, despite their doubts and temptations to give up on God, they will experience God’s personal love for them.

The people are in a weakened condition, so God is going to make the trip as easy as possible. The parched desert will be transformed for them and bloom. The people will be restored: feeble hands strengthened and weakened knees steadied. More than physical strength will be given them, for the frightened of heart will be emboldened. How could the enslaved exiles not be encouraged, they will have their mighty Creator accompanying them! God is coming, the prophet announces, you have nothing to fear!

The prophet is promising salvation for the people. Notice what is envisioned, not just an inner spiritual rebirth. Salvation will encompass all of creation; nature will be transformed; people’s flagging bodies restored and they will be made fully whole. The blind will see, the deaf hear and the mute will sing.

The way out of slavery is a holy highway, a direct and freeing road with no detours or delays. You can almost see the jumping, skipping freed slaves on that God-prepared road. It looks like a jubilant religious procession and so it is, with God leading the way home to safety and a new future.

We used to call today "Gaudete (Rejoice) Sunday." Note the Entrance Antiphon from Philippians (4:4-5): "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice! The Lord is near." We might despair if we were left on our own in our own guilt and captivity. What could we do for ourselves? But we can celebrate, "Rejoice Sunday" because, "The Lord is near." Or, as Isaiah points out, "Here is your God, who comes with vindication...." Our just God is going to set things right. That should give us hope and determination to continue (or, begin!) our efforts to set right the things in the world around us. We are not relying on our own efforts, because God is close, "Here is your God."

Jesus obviously knew today’s quote from Isaiah for he referred to it when he responded to the question put to him by the emissaries of John the Baptist: "Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?" Jesus doesn’t just quote biblical passages, he points to the tangible signs that give him authenticity. People then and now, didn’t need pious words and best wishes to free them from their captivity: they needed visible proof that the promises God made through the prophet were actually coming to pass.

One of my chief delights in giving parish retreats is the people I meet good people who are trying to live as prophetic signs of the kingdom of God’s presence in the world. Though they would probably not describe themselves in such terms! In any of these parishes one might meet: a middle aged single mother who is also caring for her mentally challenged 50-year-old brother; a lawyer who took a huge pay cut to take cases for undocumented immigrants; a mother and father who take their three children to the parish pantry to give food to the poor. Plus, all the many every-day good people who like the Good Samaritan in Jesus’ parable, see a person in need, are moved with compassion and do something to help.

They, like Jesus, manifest visible signs that the day Isaiah promised has begun when: the eyes of the blind would be opened, the ears of the deaf cleared, the lame leap like a stag, and the tongue of the mute sing. While all that Isaiah promised has not yet come to fulfillment, Jesus has begun to lead us along the "holy highway" on our journey home to our God. Along the processional way, God’s Spirit is with us and so we have already seen visible results that salvation has begun for us. In Jesus we have the promise that we will enter the holy city, "leaping like stags" to be "crowned with everlasting joy." Our sorrow will be no more.

Can we trust those words and our God who backs them up, to sustain us when the "highway" we travel in life doesn’t feel so "holy" but, is instead, filled with potholes and cracks like a neighborhood street in Chicago after a particularly cruel winter?

John the Baptist’s disciples asked Jesus for authenticating signs to prove he is the one whose arrival they have been anticipating and whom John has been announcing in his preaching. We, the members of Christ’s body, are called to be a messianic people who take the prophet’s and Jesus’ promises seriously enough to put flesh on them in our daily lives. We demonstrate that their words are believable and livable and not just pious and pat-on-the back empty words.

Just as Jesus was faithful to his mission, the Spirit makes us faith-filled witnesses. Like Jesus we can bring about a revolution in thinking, judging and acting in a non violent way. We can offer loving service to one another, even to accepting the pain and many dyings that accompany such service. We can meet the evils of the world and heal them and persevere in hope even when the concrete signs of our discipleship are not always obvious, or when they seem defeated.

We are a messianic people who pray today to be faithful signs to the world that the ancient longings of an exiled people have been fulfilled in Jesus Christ. We try to follow Jesus’ example so that we can also say to others what Jesus said to validate his witness, "Go and tell [others] what you hear and see, the blind see... etc."

People will never believe us until they can see our lives as authentic sign of Jesus’ on-going presence in the world: until they see us guiding the footsteps of the blind; carrying or car-pooling the crippled to places where they can receive help; finding ways to help the voice of the poor be heard. To the question of inquirers, "Was Jesus the one who was to come?" The witness of our lives should be a resounding, "Yes!"

Jude Siciliano, OP

Second Sunday in Advent

2010-12-04T20:06:00.000-08:00

Light in the darkness of fear

This Sunday we will light the second candle and that will make sense if darkness is real. A light shining within light does not do much for either light. We have all been afraid of the dark since we were little persons. We have been afraid also of our own personal darkness since we began bumping into our self-disappointments.

We can prepare for the coming of the Light by our sitting within the context of all that we and our culture urges us to run from. Lighting a little candle might be an encouraging setting for a little comfort.

REFLECTION

The reading from Isaiah a prophetic poem, is very long. There are some familiar images which we will be reading on Christmas cards, but for all the words and pictures, there is one important promise made.

David is the eighth and last son of Jesse. The poem paints a picture of the Messiah who will come from the lineage of David, the great king of Israel. This person will have prophetic wisdom, a sense of what is right and just. His very breath will be that of the creating God.

Much of the poem has a strong backdrop of the biblical Garden of the “uninjured” creation. All of God’s creation lived without fear of each other or of itself. What we call “natural enemies” were “natural friends”. Animals and humans lived with “integrity”, the word comes from the Latin “integer” meaning “whole” or “Uninjured”. This Messiah person will reverse the consequences of the original injury.

The ending of the poem makes a quite surprising prediction. This person of justice and peace is not to come only for the people of David’s stock, but for even the gentiles who will seek for this peace and harmony in and through the Messiah’s life and words. The first creation was from the chaos and this Messiah will come to again bring peace, justice and integrity out of a second chaos, our human complexities.

John the Baptist makes his first Advent appearance in today’s Gospel. At this time John is conducting a purification ritual in the Jordan River. The Jews had fled through water and were purified from their state of slavery. Baptism was a cleansing from their not living perfectly as the unslaved and now free people of God. This baptism was the occasion of a visit from leaders of two separate religious parties. They were both suspicious of anything not within their control and John confronts their merely ritualistic and perfectionistic approach to God and God’s people. They were aware also that people were coming to John for purification and not relying on their old rites. We hear John’s harshest words for them.

John warns them of a coming “One” Who asks for fruitful lives not self-righteous conformities. They say they have Abraham for their father and that is enough. If they were living as children of the faith of Abraham they would repent from their insides and prepare for the Messiah of Whom Isaiah spoke. This Messiah will lay the axe to the roots of pretense and blow away the cheep-chaff while collecting what is alive.

The Pharisees seem to be fear-based and spread perfectionism as religion. In the time of Jesus, orderliness, exactness, was a reflection of the orderliness of God. Holiness of God was meant to be lived in a rigidity and rule-based performing. There is a certain sense of security in our being perfect. God would just have to let us in with all the right tickets we would have accumulated. Ah, but there would always be the fear that we didn’t have enough of the right ones. In a sense, we would be adoring ourselves.

The Advent question then is what should we be doing and what is Advent doing for us? It is hard to love God, fearing God is easier. We can love the experiences of God’s creation, but the very person of God is too out-there. We can love persons in whom we see how God loves and that helps. We can feel unreligious, because we obey God kind of okay, but we are not much for feeling love for God.

In the movie, Talladega Nights, Ricky, the racecar driver, leads the Thanksgiving Day dinner Grace by praying to “Sweet Baby Jesus in the Golden Fleece diapers with a balled up fat little fist.” He is challenged by his wife who tells him that Jesus grew up. Ricky tells her that she can pray to a grownup Jesus or a teenage Jesus, but he prays to a sweet baby Jesus.

We are moving prayerfully toward receiving the birth of God-Made-Man and perhaps this mysterious God gives us this Baby to attract our hearts. He does grow up, but not to frighten us or bind us to legalistic conformity. John the Baptist sounds angry and severe toward the Pharisees. The grown-up Jesus can frighten us as He speaks to them during His public days. We find it difficult to have affection for authorities who rule with the harsh tone of power. We can admire the strength of heroes, but as for having love for them, that is not easy. Jesus possesses power and we might find Him gentle only a few times.

This Advent we long to do more than admire and stand off in wonder. He will be born again with all the love we can receive. The poverty of the stable reflects the poverty we are experiencing in our love for Jesus in return. Fear is easy to be experienced in our hearts; power can do that. These days of Advent we can hope that our love for the very person of Jesus can enlighten the darkness of our fear of God.

“Rise up, Jerusalem, stand on the heights, and see the joy that is coming to you from God.” Bar. 5. 5

Larry Gillick, S.J.

It will be a holy night.

2010-11-27T16:05:00.000-08:00

Seeing Daylight

“Now is the hour.”

Symbols are rarely unambiguous. Even the image of the dove or the lion has its shadow. Water is life-giving, but it can take away your life just as surely. It may cleanse, but it is also treacherous. Fire is furious; fire is comforting. Clouds have silver linings. Countless images have their positive and negative faces.

So it is with night. Nights have starry skies that inspire philosophers like Kant and artists like van Gogh. The night brings rest and quiet. It signals not only endings, but expectancy.

But night, at least in Advent-time, has less ambiguity than most imagery. It is something to escape. Utter night, without the promise of morning, is deepest gloom. Endless night, without the glow of candle or star, is a void. Even ordinary and partial night is more scary than starry.

It is best we sleep in the dark. At night violent armies clash. Streets clatter with shouts and gunfire, sometimes even until the break of dawn. Debaucheries, betrayals, carousing are heard faintly in the distance. Nearby, once “the night is far spent,” Paul phrases it, the stumbling home from wild desires sounds a city night’s death-knell.

Sudden shadows that leap and loom trouble us at night far more than the tame shadows of daytime. If we are startled from a midnight sleep, we may feel a terror greater than at any other time: some gaping darkness, some unexpected anxiety, some uncovered dread. If we sleep again, our unconscious has its say, unkempt, untrammeled, unmanageable in its better dreams, horrific in its nightmares.

Sadly, even in the day we often sleep-walk as we eat, drink, and parent, too often unknowing and unconcerned. When we do manage to stir ourselves to action, we routinely play out a strident score written by our conductor of night—the dark unconscious. Freud’s find, the libido, stalks the world day and night for prey or power or pleasure. Our quarrels, jealousies, and wars are works of darkness, even though they haunt our days.

Darkness was the lifeless void of Genesis, the ninth ominous plague of Egypt foreshadowing its terrible tenth: the death of all firstborn.

Isaiah promised that the works of dark and sleep would all be changed in God’s bright presence. “They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; one nation shall not raise the sword against another, nor shall they train for war again .... Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” To see in the light of eternity is to change. If we knew as God knows, if we were “instructed in God’s ways,” if we walked in God’s paths, not only would our nations disarm, we would tear down our more private defenses. We would never again make war against each other, against our very hearts.

The Fourth Gospel announced God as light in whom there is no darkness, the light that shines in human night, irradiating our world. It was light, the First Letter of John would teach, that opened the way to life and love.

Paul advises the Romans (they themselves knew their dreadful nights) to be conscious of the day. They are to live now what they want forever. Salvation is nigh, Paul says. Be awake. Walk with the armor of light.

The Ephesians were to be children of the day, awake and vigilant. “Wake from your sleep, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”

Since we do not know the time when our lives stop or the earth melts, every day must be one of presence. Vigilance is for now. The watchful eye, the expectant heart, is for this moment. If we are sleep-walking our way through life, now is the time to “come to.”

Advent. Enter. To “come to.” To wake up. To enter life, here and today. Let God enter it all and now. And let us enter it all, even the darkness, now with God.

If we go into our lives and permit God to enter with us, then we shall see, even though it be night. Revelation—enlightenment—will come to us, not in shrouded nightmare, but upon a midnight clear. Then we shall no longer be the walking dead. And even though we walk through the valley of darkness, no evil shall we fear.

The clamor of the streets will be stilled, for it will be a silent night. The deceptions of the dark will be uncovered, for it will be a holy night. Night itself will be transformed, transfigured, when all is calm, when all is bright.

And we shall sing with Zechariah his canticle of illumination, a song of the life that is light.

In the tender compassion of our God

The dawn from on high shall break upon us

To shine on those who dwell in darkness

And the shadow of death,

To guide our feet into the way of peace.

John Kavanaugh, S. J. of Saint Louis University

Coming to our senses: always a good idea

2010-11-23T22:54:00.000-08:00

Wait A Bit

St. Louis has a custard stand that many people think of as the heart of the city. It’s not actually near the center of the city at all, it is on the South Side. But it is THE place people gather on summer days. Its name is Ted Drewes.

Every evening, hundreds, literally hundreds, of hungry folks gather outside the many serving windows of this old time frozen place, waiting in line for a chance at the tasty stuff in all its variations (“concrete,” “Terra Mizzou”—as in the nickname for Missouri—“Cardinal Sin,” and so on).

One evening I even saw a just-married couple pull up in a horse-drawn buggy, wearing their formal wedding clothes, and order frozen custard (with the obligatory pictures being snapped), and then go on to their honeymoon. Quite an important place.

The funny thing is that no one in line is in a hurry. They talk, they enjoy the weather, they enjoy being in “the” place. If someone is needy, that person can cut into line and no one cares. The people seem to have turned waiting into a social affair, a time of lingering patiently together.

What does this have to do with Advent? Well, look at it: in Advent, we too wait. Jesus is to be born, and in fact we have experienced him many times before at Mass. We join each other not around frozen custard but around the peace and goodness that the birth of Jesus will bring to our hearts and our relationships. We will line up together at this Sunday’s Mass, and God will turn our waiting into a social, prayerful event.

Ordinarily we do not like to be delayed. Think of traffic jams, lines at the grocery store, etc. We project our minds forward to the many things we have on our list besides wasting time. But is there really nothing to interest us as we wait in mundane situations? At the custard stand, of course, there is the pleasant St. Louis air, people to talk with, and of course the promise of a tasty reward that will do its will with our taste-buds. Our senses open up.

Is there anything we can open to when highway traffic is creeping along at six miles per hour?

Yes. If we come to our senses we will not need a hot fudge sundae to make it worth our while to wait. In the present moment, as you read these words, hundreds of real and God-filled objects are all about you. Did you ever really feel the texture of the steering wheel you grasp every day? How about letting in the colors of the trees? The people in other cars—visible to you at six miles per hour? If you stay in the present instead of mainly the future or the past, you will find subtle and obvious beauty all about you. Your goal will arrive when its time comes. Meanwhile, the present tense is still happening.

Advent is like this. A time to pull in our scope a bit and realize that emptiness is a healthy and normal part of our lives. We are continually refilled if we let ourselves be. Strange to say, waiting for fulfillment is also itself a fulfillment. It lets us be what we are—not God but human.

May the real world be born to you as you wait.

Fr. John Foley, S. J. of the Center for Liturgy

Christ the King

2010-11-19T14:05:00.000-08:00

An Upside-Down Kingdom

Today’s liturgy presents us with two perspectives on Christ the King. The first is Jesus Christ, the King of the universe, Christ, the King of all creation, he who is the beginning, the first-born of the dead, so that primacy may be his in everything. The other perspective on Jesus is the one inscribed over his head as he hung on the cross: THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS.

Jesus is King of the Jews. Who were, and are, the Jews? They were the slaves of Egypt. They were the captives of Babylon. The were the despised people on the fringe of the Roman Empire. Down the centuries, they have been the landless outcasts of Christian Europe.

In our own time, they were the declared enemy of the “master race,” which hounded, tortured, and brutally killed them. And Jesus is their King!

Christ the King rules from a throne made to execute criminals. His Kingdom is a place of death outside the city. His subjects are the poor and outcast, the rejected of this world. In this upside-down Kingdom, it is not the executor but the executed who will be with Christ in paradise.

“What Jesus proclaims by word, he enacts in his ministry. . . . His mighty works symbolize that the reign of God is more powerful than evil, sickness, and the hardness of the human heart.

He offers God’s loving mercy to sinners, takes up the cause of those who suffered religious and social discrimination, and attacks the use of religion to avoid the demands of charity and justice.”
U.S. Bishops, Economic Justice for All (1986) 42

Coming up this Sunday

2010-11-18T14:48:00.000-08:00

The Solemnity of Christ the King C

November 21, 2010

Reading I:
2 Samuel 5:1-3

Responsorial Psalm: 122:1-2, 3-4, 4-5

Reading II: Colossians 1:12-20

Gospel:
Luke 23:35-43

What It Takes

What is most striking about the readings this week is their view of what it takes to join Christ the King in his greatness and glory.

Christ’s kingship was manifest in suffering and death, in love and not in power. Real kingly glory was more present in Christ’s passion and loving death than in all David’s pomp and power.

To be partaker of David’s kingly greatness a person had to be a great warrior or a great politician, a very wise or wealthy person or a someone of royal blood. That was David’s world.

But it is not the world of the King of Kings on the cross. Look at the thief being crucified with Christ. He has nothing going for him. He has no power, no wealth, no greatness of his own to recommend him to the King. He is just dying in his sins on the cross.

But as he is dying, he turns his suffering to Christ and opens himself. Remember me, Lord, when you come into your kingdom.

And Christ replies, Today you will be with me, the King, in heaven.

Remember us too, Lord, in your world. Draw us to the inner circle of the real King.

Eleonore Stump, Professor of Philosophy, Saint Louis University

All around us

2010-11-12T19:16:00.000-08:00

Reading the Signs of the Times

“Teacher, when will this happen? And what sign will there be when all these things are about to happen?” (Lk 21:7)

There’s a story told about Anna Akhmatova, a Russian poet, who used to go each Saturday morning and stand in lines outside a prison in St. Petersburg where she, along with other women, hoped to drop off letters and packages for loved ones who had been arrested during Stalin’s purges. The lines were interminably long, the women were cruelly treated by the guards, and they didn’t even know whether their loved ones were still alive or if the letters and packages they dropped off would ever be delivered. Their waiting was an exercise in frustration. One Saturday, waiting in this way, Akhmatova was recognized by another woman. The woman approached her and said: “You’re a poet, can you describe what’s happening here?” “Yes,” Akhmatova replied, “I can.” Then, the story goes on to say, something like a smile passed between them.

What had happened here? What passed between these women in that covert smile?

There’s something very important in the naming of things. Just to be able to name and describe something is a political act, a prophetic act, a defiant act, and an act that in some way makes us transcendent to whatever circumstance we happen to be caught up in. Naming something is also an act of prayer. How so?

Jesus challenged us to “read the signs of the times”. The challenge here is not so much to have an intellectual insight into a particular event as it is to see the finger of God in that event. John of the Cross says: “The language of God is the experience that God writes into our lives.” To read the signs of the times is to look at each event of our lives and ask: “What is God saying through this event?”

The Jewish scriptures are already a wonderful example of this. We see there that, for Israel, there were no pure accidents, no purely secular events. God’s finger was everywhere, in every event, in every blessing, in every defeat, in every victory, in every drought, in every rainfall, in every death, in every birth. If Israel was defeated in battle, it wasn’t the Assyrians who defeated her. God defeated her. If she reaped a bountiful harvest, it wasn’t simple luck, God was blessing her. Nothing was ever purely secular or simply accidental.

Israel wasn’t so naive or fundamentalistic, of course, as to believe that God was actually the efficient cause of these events or that, in the case of death and disaster, God even intended those events. But, nonetheless, in her view of things, God still spoke through those events. The finger of God and the voice of God were seen in the conspiracy of accidents that made up the outer events of her life. To discern the finger of God in the everyday events of life was, for Israel, a very important form of prayer.

My parents and my many of their generation understood this well. Reading the signs of the times was a spontaneous practice for them. They believed in something they called “divine providence” and, for them, like Israel, the finger of God was everywhere, in every event, good and bad. There was no such thing as pure accident or simple good luck. God was in charge, somehow behind everything. Sometimes they took this too far, believing that God actually started wars, burned-down houses, caused someone to get sick, or broke somebody’s leg to teach a lesson. But, generally, they weren’t that naive. Despite the language (“God did this to us!”) they believed only that God spoke through the event, not that God caused the event.

Whatever our religious strengths today, we no longer search in this way for the finger of God in the ordinary events of life. For us, adult children of the Enlightenment, there is a lot of pure accident, pure secular event, simple good luck, sheer luckless fate. In most of the events of our lives, we’re on our own, orphans without God, at the mercy of fate, victims of a pure conspiracy of accidents.

Thus, we look at the events in the world and the church and we see only historical accident: In September 11, only terrorism, not God, speaks; in the sexual abuse scandal in the church, only the media, not God, speaks; in our incapacity to create peace and justice, we hear only human voices, not God’s; and in the personal blessings and tragedies within our lives, we hear only the voice of luck or fate, not the voice of God.

Partly our instincts are right. God didn’t cause September 11, God didn’t send AIDS as a punishment for sin, and God doesn’t single out some people to win lotteries, while causing sickness and tragedy for others. A conspiracy of accidents does that. But God speaks to us through all of those accidents, good and bad, and one of the most important tasks of faith is to search within that conspiracy of accidents to try to find there God’s finger and God’s voice.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

Mass disruption: The new translations

2010-11-12T14:21:00.000-08:00

The new translation of the liturgy will speak volumes about the church that prays it.

November 28, 2010, the First Sunday of Advent, marks the beginning not only of a new liturgical year but a countdown to "welcoming the new Roman Missal," as the U.S. bishops' website calls its preparation program for the new translation of the Mass. Over the coming year English-speaking Catholics around the country will relearn prayers they have long been able to recite or sing by heart.

Why the change? Many reasons have been offered, but there is really only one: The directive of the Second Vatican Council's liturgy constitution that, in the reform of the liturgy, the "full and active participation by all the people is the aim to be considered before all else" has been replaced by the goal of translating Latin texts into the vernacular as literally as possible. How else can one understand the restoration of the archaic "And with your spirit" as a response to "The Lord be with you"?

It has become a fad in liturgical circles to explain "theologically" that the response addresses the Holy Spirit in the priest and reminds the priest that he is about to act in the person of Christ-a curious stretch based on one ancient homily. The exchange does mark important transitions in the liturgy, but there is no need to make it more than it is. Besides, while "And with your spirit" may directly translate "Et cum spiritu tuo," it doesn't make much sense in 21st-century English.

Or consider the only change to the Holy, Holy: Where we now praise the "God of power and might," we will soon sing to the "God of hosts"-armies, not communion wafers. The expression translates sabaoth in the Sanctus, which is Hebrew, not Latin. But why choose the confusing hosts instead of the clearer armies? Perhaps, in this age of faith-driven violence, Catholics would recoil at praising the "God of armies," hence the amorphous hosts. Still, "God of power and might," both accurate and clear to the assembly, was judged too "loose" a translation of the "Latin."

These examples reflect only some of the changes to the people's parts. The prayers spoken by the presider, many now rendered as a single, long, complex sentence in English to reflect Latin sentence structure, will be exceedingly difficult to proclaim in a way that the assembly can understand.

I could certainly be accused of sour grapes here; I am a student and proponent of the liturgical reform of Vatican II and have never been a fan of the aims of the "reform the reform" crowd, whose critiques seem rooted in nostalgia for a liturgy that never existed outside a monastery.

And I'm not against revisions to the translation of the liturgy. To me the greatest disappointment of the liturgical reform was Rome's rejection, for reasons that remain unclear, of the 1998 translation of the Mass after 17 years of work and approval by supermajorities of the English-speaking bishops.

But the real problem here is the replacement of the pastoral principle of Vatican II with an ideological one. Instead of seeking "that fully conscious and active participation in liturgical celebrations," which is the "right and duty" of the faithful "by reason of their baptism," the Roman authorities have instead insisted on a narrowly conceived "fidelity" to the Latin text. The resulting archaic translation once again makes the language of the liturgy alien to the common tongue of the faithful, as Latin was before it.

Proponents argue that this new "liturgical English" is more worthy of God's praise than common speech, but it will in effect make the Mass less directly connected to daily life. As our Sunday praise of God grows more remote from our weekday reality, the challenge of becoming the sacrament of God's kingdom in the contemporary world-one of the purposes of our Sunday liturgy-becomes less apparent.

In the end, I wonder if that is not the point of this rollback. A liturgical reform driven by the full, conscious, and active participation of the faithful has not surprisingly produced a church in which the faithful expect and exercise a full, conscious, and active role. Those who would prefer a more demure faithful are wise to remake the liturgy in such a way that withdraws it from the daily language of those who celebrate it. In such a Eucharist a passive and disenfranchised peasant church will-through priestly courtiers-"humbly implore" a remote and disinterested God, that he may, "with a serene and kindly countenance," deign to hear us.

Bryan Cones, managing editor of U.S. Catholic. This article appeared int the December issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 75, No. 12, page 8).

A reasonable, settled concern

2010-11-08T23:45:00.000-08:00

A Spiritual Revolution

Listen to this consoling sentence from Sunday's First Reading.

You who fear my name,
for you there will arise
the sun of justice
with its healing rays.

Justice. Healing rays. We have wanted this for a long time now. But what about the fear part? A lot of people want to know about this.
The scripture is not talking about the fear we get in horror films. Not that strange noise when you are alone in the house. Fear of God is a reasonable, settled concern, an awe before what is very much bigger than you. This is the older meaning of the word, a reverential wonder toward the creator.
Spiritually speaking, this kind of "fear" is completely necessary for us. Only when we have it can we be ready to start relating to God, to begin maturing in our relation with the Most High. Only then do we begin to suspect what it really means to say that God is Love.

Sane as the last sentence may be, understanding it requires a continuing revolution in our lives, like the one Copernicus caused. He showed that the sun does not revolve around the earth but rather that the earth circles the sun. Notice: Most of us are pre-Copernican spiritually. God's job is to circle around us, we think, as if we were the center of the universe. We are just small planets but we say that God is there to help us, to answer our prayers, to make us peaceful, to make our side win the ball game, and so on.

Nothing is really wrong with any of these.

But we stand in desperate need of a Copernican revolution. God does not exist to serve me. Just the opposite. God is center of the universe, not me! God quietly maintains in existence all that is: stars, galaxies, lands, oceans, cities, humans hearts, butterfly wings. We owe such a Being reverence.

It takes a spiritual transformation to think in this way. What would happen if you or I tried it?

First, we would be living in truth instead of pretense. The truth of our lives is that human beings are constructed to have the real God within them, the source and goal of who they are, instead of the latest fad. If God is greatest, why would we make something else the center of our life?

Second, the "sun of justice with its healing rays" would shine upon us. God's love would appear to us in truth instead of as just a bauble to play with, or a way to find a parking place. We would begin to see God as the gentle source of life and the affectionate mother of the entire universe.

Advent is coming very soon. The Church will be preparing to see tender love shown forth in a child. In pre-Advent (now) we have to take in God's grandeur in its awesome and fear-invoking stage so we will be humble enough to prepare ourselves for the baby.

That is why the First Reading and the Gospel thunder on about the day of reckoning when "nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom" and so on. These readings do indeed bring forth awe and fear. They show us who is at the center of the universe . . .
. . . waiting for us to climb down from our thrones.

Fr. John Foley, S. J. of the Center for Liturgy

Is Día de los Muertos the same as All Souls Day?

2010-10-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

For three days every year Mexicans and Mexican Americans gather for Día de los Muertos. In cemeteries and homes people come together to remember their deceased loved ones. The last of those days, November 2, falls on the traditional Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed—All Souls Day. Are the two celebrations the same?

Is Día de los Muertos the same as All Souls Day? | USCatholic.org

2010-10-29T22:23:00.000-07:00

Unveiling the Truth: “Mr. Clean, Mr. Pure, Mr. Innocent”

The story of Zacchaeus is rich in possible interpretations.

The most popular interpretation is to view the story in terms of conversion. Here is a rich man who has not cared for the victims of poverty and injustice until his encounter with Jesus. His conversion makes a strong statement about the affluent caring for the needs of the poor.

It has also been suggested that what changed in Zacchaeus was his concern for those whom he had defrauded. He had always been generous with the poor, but now he cared about all the oppressed. In other words, his growth was from charity to justice.

Recent biblical scholarship has tended to view the story more in terms of the vindication of a person whom society considered a sinner. Everyone thought Zacchaeus was a terrible person because he collaborated, as a tax collector, with the hated occupiers. Jesus unveiled the truth about the man, who in reality was concerned for the welfare of others. The judgmental world was once again proven wrong. Listen to what Mediterranean cultural insights reveal about his true character.

ZACCHAEUS THE “RICH” MAN

The people who populate the pages of our Bible believed that all things of value in life already existed, were limited in quantity, and already distributed. This included honor, semen, wealth, blood, anything else one could think of.

If someone suddenly lost some good, it was suspected that someone else had gained it. The one who had suddenly gained something had to prove it was not stolen. There was no honorable way to increase one’s goods.

The word “poor” therefore described people who had temporarily fallen out of their status. It was their task to resume normal status as quickly as possible. In the Bible, the poor are frequently clustered with “widows and orphans.”

Widows could regain their status by remarrying. The status of orphan is characteristic of childhood. One could be adopted by others or eventually grow into adulthood and marry, leaving the status of orphanhood behind.

One ancient understanding of “rich” people is those who did not have to “work for a living.” Such were very powerful patrons served by clients, servants, and others who carried out their wishes. Zacchaeus the “rich” man belonged in this category.

Sometimes “rich” can mean “greedy” in the Bible, but as this story progresses it will become clear that Zacchaeus does not seem to be greedy.

As a toll collector, Zacchaeus bid to Rome for the right to collect tolls, not personally but through agents. When Rome accepted his bid, Zacchaeus paid them the toll for his region in full. Then it was up to him to recoup his bid by collecting the tolls and trying to make a profit if possible. He relied on agents to do that work.

Enviable as it may sound, few toll collectors managed to recoup their bid and fewer still managed to make a profit. Zacchaeus was rich in that others, hired agents, did his work for him. In his case, “rich” did not mean “greedy.”

ZACCHAEUS THE “RIGHTEOUS” MAN

When Jesus invites himself to Zacchaeus’ house, the Pharisees grumble that he is a “sinner.” Zacchaeus defends himself quite pointedly. Indeed, he literally stopped the procession to his house to publicly demonstrate that he is not a sinner as charged.

First, he admits to giving half of his possessions to the poor. Zacchaeus uses the present tense, which in the Greek language describes repeated, customary practice. Zacchaeus does this on a regular, ongoing basis. Most translations use the future tense (“I will give”), which is grammatically possible but less plausible. In Luke, giving alms is a sign of righteousness (6:30-31, 38; 11:41; 12:33; 16:9; 18:22, 29).

Second, he pronounces a conditional clause: “IF I have cheated someone,” whose form in Greek does not imply that he consciously committed extortion but only that if he discovers that he has cheated, then he has a plan whose details are truly amazing. He restores what he has inadvertently cheated fourfold (400 percent)!

The Torah (see Lev 6:5 and Num 5:6-7) demanded the restoration of the object plus one-fifth (20 percent) interest. Roman law required fourfold restitution only from a convicted criminal. Zacchaeus has surpassed the Torah’s requirements and met the most stringent of terms in Roman law.

THE NAME “ZACCHAEUS”

This name appears only here in the New Testament. In the Old Testament it occurs only at 2 Maccabees 10:19. The Hebrew word from which this name is formed means “clean, pure, innocent.” Luke has reported the story of “Mr. Clean, Mr. Pure, Mr. Innocent,” but poor Zacchaeus has unfortunately rarely been presented as such.

Scholars are divided about whether Zacchaeus “converted” on the occasion of meeting Jesus or had done so earlier in his career. I side with the scholars who claim Zacchaeus converted earlier and was misjudged by the grumbling Pharisees.

In this interpretation of the Zacchaeus story, contemporary Western believers can find in this much-maligned character an excellent model of self-esteem. Jesus recognized his worth by calling him “Son of Abraham” rather than “Son of tax collectors.”

Jesus knew and publicly proclaimed Zacchaeus’ true identity. Zacchaeus is a fine example of how to resist and survive the critical comments of others.

John J. Pilch of Georgetown University

Sunday, October 24

2010-10-24T11:40:00.000-07:00

"to those who were convinced of their own righteousness…."

In the parable of the Pharisee and tax collector at prayer, the Pharisee is often depicted in a negative light - he’s the bad guy in the story. How vain and arrogant he is! But he wouldn’t be seen as the bad guy to those listening to Jesus. The tax collector would be the villain in the story to them. His job meant he collected taxes for the Romans. When Jesus mentions his presence in the parable his hearers would have instinctively thought, "Traitor - lowest of the low!" What’s more, if there were any doubt about the quality of their lives, both men stated their moral status quite clearly, as we can hear in their prayers.

The Pharisee is a good person who would have been admired by his contemporaries. He was so "holy" that he did more than was obliged by religious law. Deuteronomy required that a tithe be paid on the fruits of the flock and the harvest. Note that the Pharisee tithes his "whole income." He was going above and beyond what he was obliged to do.

So, we can presume that his description of his moral life is accurate: he is, "not like the rest of humanity - greedy, dishonest, adulterous." He leads a better life than "even this tax collector." His problem isn’t that he is not a good and observant person. People observing the Pharisee leave the Temple after prayer that day would have agreed with his self assessment. He was to be admired for his exemplary behavior; while the tax collector would be despised for his morally bankrupt life. The lines are clearly drawn - case closed.

Not so fast! Remember Jesus is telling a parable and parables never go in the "proper" direction - the one we anticipate and consider inevitable. Trying to use mere human logic and reckoning never really works with the parables. The parables don’t conform to conventual human wisdom. Today’s parable is a good example that when we enter into the world of the parable we are in a whole new reality. It’s called "the kingdom of God."

No one could ever call the kingdom Jesus came to proclaim "logical." Thank God! What chance would we have if logic and pure human justice were applied to our lives? Instead, today’s parable shows us once again that God’s ways are illogical by human reckoning. God’s justice is about grace, and grace is not measured out using balancing scales like the kind depicted in the hands of our famous legal statute of Blindfolded Justice. Today’s parable is about God’s justice - it’s given to the truly sorrowful and missed by those who think they have to earn it.

If what the Pharisee said about himself was true, what’s the problem? Well, he is looking in the wrong direction. He is praying with his focus on his own life. Notice for example, how many times he refers to himself - " I". God seems no more than an outside observer to the man’s prayer and his list of accomplishments.

Some people think our prayer can change God’s mind. Actually, true prayer will change us. But there was no chance that the Pharisee’s prayer would have any transformative effect on him. He seems to think that his extra good life has earned him the reward of salvation; that God owes him a reward for his religious good works. People seeing the Pharisee leave the Temple that day would have seen a very satisfied person who had performed his religious duties.

But can you recognize the heresy of works in his focus on his own achievements? Where is the gift of God in the man’s life? The Pharisee is so focused on his good works that he fails to see God’s activity in his life. The source of a person’s goodness doesn’t begin in the person, it comes from God. God is the gift giver and our goodness reflects God’s goodness in us.

Luke tells us that Jesus address this parable "to those who were convinced of their own righteousness…." It’s a cautionary tale about a tendency we religious people and religious institutions can have: the conviction that we alone possess the truth and know the way people should behave. The self-righteous Pharisee condemns anyone who does not meet his standards. The "righteous" draw a conclusion about the sinner and leave no room for dialogue and open exchange.

The tax collector focuses not on who he is, and not what meritorious things he has done, but on who he is not and what he has failed to do. In fact, unlike the Pharisee, he quickly turns his gaze away from himself and towards God. He is in need of God’s blessing and cannot achieve it on his own. He is totally reliant on God and surrenders himself into God’s hands. When he left the Temple that day he would look the same to those observing him. But Jesus marks the difference they would not be able to see in him - he "went home justified." In biblical language that means he was delivered from his sin. How did that happen? What did the tax collector do to "merit" this forgiveness? Nothing. He was a sinner who turned completely to God for forgiveness and God’s mercy responded.

The person who is in touch with his or her humanity will know that our relationship with God and others is a gift from our good God. But, if we are in touch with our humanity, we also know how fragile and sometimes fickle we can be and our potential to sin. So, the tax collector’s prayer today is our prayer as well, "O God, be merciful to me a sinner." We have placed our trust in our God who has created us and provided us with ample reason to give praise for all the beauty and goodness within and around us. We also know we can trust the same God to forgive us when we have turned away and made ourselves the primary focus of our lives -like the Pharisee.

Jude Siciliano, OP

REVERSAL

2010-10-21T13:25:00.000-07:00

Historical Cultural Context | The Center for Liturgy Sunday Web Site: "In the Bible, when no human agent is identified, the agent is then understood to be “God.” Thus whoever humbles self will be exalted (by God, of course); and whoever exalts self, will be humbled (by God, of course)."

Shameless Behavior

2010-10-16T22:54:00.000-07:00

Historical Cultural Context | Dr. John Pilch

"Grant me justice . . ."

2010-10-16T15:59:00.000-07:00

Litany of Remembrance

I remember the children of the world. As Jesus called to the children to come to him, so I gather in prayer the children of my world who are hurting. I embrace them with loving kindness and with a desire to mend the systems that bring such pain to their young lives. I remember the children:

... who will go hungry today,

... whose parents are on drugs,

... who have no one to teach them to read,

... who are handicapped and unattended,

... who do not know love,

... who live in filth and degradation,

... who have no friends,

... who are not listened to,

... who have never been sung to or read to or taken by the hand or experienced earth’s mystery and beauty,

... who do not have anyone to tuck them into bed at night,

... who are shunned or mistreated because of their color, their religion, or the place where they live,

... who have no awareness of their inner goodness,

... who have stopped believing in love,

... who are filled with anger and hate,

... who are receiving a poor education,

... who are ill or in pain,

... who are grieving the death of a loved one,

... who are suffering from AIDS or drug-related diseases,

... who feel lonely, desolate, and unloved,

... who are filled with fear for their lives,

... who hear only harsh words and hostile language,

... who have been bruised, beaten, and mutilated,

... who are victims of incest, rape, and pornography,

... who hide in fear from the sounds of war,

... who are ill and have no medical attention.

Yes, I pray for the children of my world today and I pray for each man and woman of this world, including myself, that we will do our part to create better living conditions for these children. Show us the way and prod us into action, God of justice and compassion!

Sister Joyce Rupp

Jesus is dedicated to calling all of humanity away from the leprosy of self-righteous pharisaic posturing.

2010-10-09T13:07:00.000-07:00

Daily Reflections:

"The “one” represents each of us when coming to our senses; we get in touch with what it means to be redeemed by Jesus. We get in touch with our soul’s sicknesses. We touch into how disordered, depressed, angry, and or violent we once were and immersing ourselves seven or more times in the river of the redeeming Jesus, we both enjoy the freedom from, and the freedom for, the living out of His touch.

“The rich suffer want and go hungry, but nothing shall be lacking to those who fear the Lord.” Ps.34, 11"

HEALING CHALLENGES BOUNDARIES

2010-10-09T13:01:00.000-07:00

Historical Cultural Context | The Center for Liturgy Sunday Web Site: "Jesus as healer was constantly challenging existing boundaries and pushing them ever outward. Sinners, the blind, the lame, and lepers were welcome within the boundaries of the holy community Jesus was forming. Healing, technically, means restoring meaning to life; curing technically refers to resolving biomedical problems."

Encountering Jesus in the Scriptures

2010-10-08T18:51:00.000-07:00

For Sunday, October 10

2010-10-07T23:05:00.000-07:00

Praying When We Don’t Feel Like It

“Ten were cleansed, were they not?. . . Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?” (Lk 17:17b, 18)

Most of us find it difficult to pray. We want to pray, make resolutions to pray, but never quite get around to actually praying. Why?

It’s not so much that we are insincere, ill-motivated, or lazy, it’s just that invariably we are too tired, too distracted, too restless, too emotionally preoccupied, too angry, too busy, or feel ourselves too distant from God to feel that we can actually pray. We have too many headaches and too many heartaches. And so we come home after a long day and simply can’t work up the energy to pray and instead call a friend, watch television, rest, putter round the house, or do anything to soothe our tiredness and wind down from the pressures of life, except pray.

How can we pray when both our bodies and our hearts are chronically stressed and on over-load?

By understanding what prayer really is. Prayer, as one of its oldest definitions puts it, is “lifting mind and heart to God.” That sounds simple but it is hard to do. Why?

Because we have the wrong notion of what that means. We unconsciously nurse the idea that we can only pray when we are not distracted, not bored, not angry, not emotionally and sexually preoccupied, and not caught up in our many heartaches and headaches so that we can give proper attention to God in a reverent and loving way. God then is like a parent who only wants to see us on our best behavior and we only go into his presence when we have nothing to hide, are joy-filled, and can give him praise and honor. Because we don’t understand what prayer is, we treat God as an authority figure or a visiting dignitary, namely, as someone to whom we don’t tell the real truth. We don’t tell him what is really going on in our lives but what should, ideally, be going on in them. We tell God what we think he wants to hear.

Because of this we find it difficult to pray with any regularity. What happens is this: We go to pray, privately or in church, and we enter into that feeling tired, bored, preoccupied, perhaps even angry at someone. We come to prayer carrying heartaches and headaches of all kinds and we try to bracket what we are actually feeling and instead crank up praise, reverence, and gratitude to God. Of course it doesn’t work! Our hearts and heads (because they are preoccupied with something else, our real issues) grow distracted and we get the sense that what we are doing—trying to pray—is not something we can do right now and we leave it for some other time.

But the problem is not that our prayer is unreal or that the moment isn’t right. The problem is that we are not “lifting mind and heart to God.” We are trying to lift thoughts and feelings to God which are not our own. We aren’t praying out of our own hearts and own heads.

If we take seriously that prayer is “lifting mind and heart to God” then every feeling and every thought we have is a valid and apt entry into prayer, no matter how irreverent, unholy, selfish, sexual, or angry that thought or feeling might seem. Simply put, if you go to pray and you are feeling bored, pray boredom; if you are feeling angry, pray anger; if you are sexually preoccupied, pray that preoccupation; if you are feeling murderous, pray murder; and if you are feeling full of fervor and want to praise and thank God, pray fervor. Every thought or feeling is a valid entry into prayer. What’s important is that we pray what’s inside of us and not what we think God would like to see inside of us.

That’s why the Psalms are so apt for prayer and why the Church has chosen them as the basis for so much of its liturgical prayer. They run the whole gamut of feeling, from praising God with our every breath to wishing to bash our enemies’ heads against a stone. From praise to murder - with everything in between! That is indeed the range of our thoughts and feelings. The Psalms are a keyboard upon which we can play every song of our lives - and our songs aren’t always all happy or pious. The Psalms give us an apt language to help us raise mind and heart to God.

What’s so unfortunate is that, most often, because we misunderstand prayer, we stay away from it just when we most need it. We only try to pray when we feel good, centered, reverent, and worthy of praying. But we don’t try to pray precisely when we most need it, that is, when we are feeling bad, irreverent, sinful, emotionally and sexually preoccupied, and unworthy of praying.

But all of these feelings can be our entry into prayer. No matter the headache or the heartache, we only need to lift it up to God.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

For Jesus there was no "other."

2010-10-06T13:03:00.000-07:00

A Prayer When I Feel Hated

Loving God, you made me who I am. I praise you and I love you, for I am wonderfully made, in your own image.

But when people make fun of me, I feel hurt and embarrassed and even ashamed. So please God, help me remember my own goodness, which lies in you. Help me remember my dignity, which you gave me when I was conceived. Help me remember that I can live a life of love, because you created my heart.

Be with me, loving God, when people hate me, and help me to respond how you would want me to: with a love that respects others, but also respects me. Help me find friends who love me for who I am. Help me, most of all, to be a loving person.

And God, help me remember that Jesus loves me. For he was seen as an outcast, too. He was misunderstood, too. He was beaten and spat upon. Jesus understands me, and loves me with a special love, because of the way you made me. And when I am feeling lonely, help me to remember that Jesus welcomed everyone as a friend. Jesus reminded everyone that God loved them. Jesus encouraged everyone to embrace their dignity, even when others were blind to seeing that dignity. Jesus loved everyone with the boundless love that you gave him. And he loves me, too.

One more thing, God: Help me remember that nothing is impossible with you, that you have a way of making things better, and that you can find a way of love for me, even if I can’t see it right now. Help me remember all these things in the heart you created, loving God.

Amen.

James Martin, SJ

The Feast of St. Francis

2010-10-04T14:43:00.000-07:00

"Francis of Assisi is a good example of why the legends should never overshadow the life. For within his life lie many surprises awaiting those who are willing to meet Francis on his own terms."

America Magazine In All Things:

Sunday, October 3

2010-10-03T00:47:00.000-07:00

Midwives of God

“Strong, loving and wise.”

Why is there disorder everywhere? The meanness of discourse. The destruction of life. The sly celebration of evil. The collapse of mercy. The breaking of promises. The pathologies of culture.

With Habakkuk we plead for help, but God seems not to listen. “I cry out to you, ‘Violence!’ but you do not intervene.” There is ruin in our cities, misery for the voiceless old, and skepticism for the hungry young.

Wounds abound: Alzheimer’s and liver disease, congenital handicaps and ancient vengeances. Even the earth groans with ominous quakes and atmospheric disturbance. Hurricanes follow drought.

What is more, we witness within ourselves awesome malevolence. Wars are waged; women are degraded; children are disposed of. We destroy the earth and its species. We uproot and wipe away its peoples. “Destruction and violence are before me; there is strife and discord.”

Sometimes it is too much to bear. The scale of the inequity crushes us. The scope of the iniquity, even in one’s heart, dwarfs virtue. The good die young. Deceivers prevail.

Streets of Manhattan, Hanoi, Johannesburg, and London are lined with empty stares. Automatons move dexterously. There is no eye contact. Politics is posture. The media medicate us. Where is hope?

What reasons can be offered to loving spouses that they should bring children into this world? Increase my faith, I say. Give me some reason to believe. Show a sign. Make a promise.

“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this sycamore, ‘Be uprooted and transplanted into the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

Faith. Hope. Love. I have often asked what these paltry human acts might mean to the sweep of history, to the portentous powers of culture, to the lost. How can they give birth to goodness in a world that so often seems to gestate death?

A story I cling to—now recalled from so long ago that I have to ask myself whether memory is true—returns.

There was a religious sister who was a midwife. She taught in a university and she practiced her profession in a city hospital. Into the hospital walked a lost, young teenager, many months pregnant, not even aware of the fact, but sick.

“I’ve got news for you,” the midwife said. “You’re pregnant.” There was no boy or man who might claim the name of father, no family, no support group, no promise. As I recall, the young girl did not even know how or when she became pregnant, so meager was her knowledge of “reproductive rights.”

The sister-servant promised the young mother-to-be that she would be there for her. Each week a visit could be made and lessons taught: how to eat properly and take care of a pregnant body, how to prepare for delivery, how to live. And each week, visits were made. After the novena of months passed, birth came. One new mother’s child, with the midwife’s guidance, was fed rightly, nursed and cleaned, cared and worked for.

Then the young mother disappeared. She was gobbled up by this heartless world, lost in the maelstrom of this culture, the American dream, which for her and her child was a nightmare. She went defenseless before the pimps of pleasure and power. She vanished into the dangerous night.

She was not heard from again until, I think, six years later, when in her early twenties she wrote a note to her midwife-mother. It was an invitation, the message now blurred in my mind. “I am sorry I waited so long to thank you, but I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to be like you, since you were someone so good and loving.”

The invitation was to a graduation for Licensed Practical Nurses. Somehow, stronger than all the threat of violence and abuse, more appealing than any seduction of the moment, was the gift and promise of a person’s witness.

The good is like a frail fire. It expends itself once it is lit, bringing light to those around. Even though slight, it can illuminate a big dark room, helping you make it to the other side. Like love and wisdom, it lives in being communicated, being given.

My midwife-sister-friend did that for a young girl. She did that for me. You just do not know how faith bears fruit. You just do not know how love lives anew.

“I remind you to stir into flame the gift of God bestowed when my hands were laid on you. The Spirit God has given us is no cowardly spirit, but rather one that makes us strong, loving and wise. Therefore, never be ashamed of your testimony to our Lord . . . but with the strength that comes from God, bear your share of hardship which the Gospel entails” (Second Reading)

John Kavanaugh, S. J. of Saint Louis University

The Word Engaged | The Center for Liturgy Sunday Web Site

2010-09-26T01:38:00.000-07:00

Fat Cats Pay Attention!

Amos, who was a “trimmer of Sycamores” and a simple shepherd, has been given the prophetic word to address to the fat-cats humming, strumming away their lives. Whatever was passing for luxurious the religious leaders were indulging in it early and often.

There is going to be a time of change for them, not only because of their wanton ways, but their lack of concern for “Joseph” which is one of the names for Israel. Their hangover will be in exile and Israel will also suffer the consequences of their disinterest. It seems the truth again that where there is a lack of care and compassion, or where there are addictions or indulgence, others suffer. It is not a tragedy that a tree falls in the woods, but that it falls on smaller trees to their destruction.

It is very important to listen to the parable in terms of exactly to whom it is addressed. Some parables are addressed to the followers of Jesus and they are usually a description of some aspect of God. The parables addressed to the Pharisees are directed at their lack of concern for the poor and needy. This is the theme of today’s Gospel.

There is a rich man and his self-preoccupation prevents him from tending to the poor man at the rich man’s gate. Both die and the rich man goes to a place of great want and deprivation. The poor man is pictured as being in the abundance of God’s covenantal love. This is the first part of the parable.

The second part has to do with the conversation Lazarus (the name is taken to mean, “The One God Cares For”) has with Abraham, and the suffering rich man cries out for just a little something. Now remember, the Pharisees hold fast to the traditions of Abraham and now they hear Abraham telling the rich man that he had much during his life, but forgot that all was not just for him. The parable is beginning to tighten their shoes.

The rich man asks for help for his father and brothers, but Abraham tells them that the father and brothers have Moses and the prophets for enough guidance. See, the parable is explaining to the Pharisees that they too have not only Abraham, but Moses and the prophets to assist them in how they are to live, especially in relationship with the poor. The conversation is not over yet.

The rich man asks that Lazarus be allowed to go, somebody from the dead whom the father and brothers would certainly listen to. Then the important line which ends the Gospel’s reading. The Pharisees will have a Someone rise from the dead and they will not listen to Him. The message is clear. Abraham, Moses, the prophets within the religious tradition of the Pharisees all have been saying the same things about caring for the orphans, widows, the sick and needy. Jesus is saying the same thing and the Pharisees continue arguing the point.

The rich man kept Lazarus at a safe distance. He refused to reach out, to touch a very needy person. He also resisted being touched by the poor man. Here is just a simple statement. Every person I know who has been touched through their personal contact with the poor, in its many forms, is a deeper person for that contact. That depth has to do with the awareness of the more important values of life. Generally speaking one might notice that the rich are forced to live more on the surface where wealth is easily displayed. So then they are the poorer in spirit and in relationships. Lazarus had something of real worth to offer the rich man and when death came the transmission of Lazarus’ gifts became impossible. Maybe it is this: the less our hands are wrapped around things for our identity and meaning, the more they will be open and available for receiving and sharing. To receive is sacramental. To grasp, cling to, and protect as ultimate, is sacrilegious.

“O Lord, remember the words you spoke to me your servant, which made me live in hope and consoled me when I was downcast.” Ps. 119, 49-50

Larry Gillick, S.J.

A Great Chasm

Pope John Paul II saw a terrible abyss separating wealth from poverty, a chasm that bodes ill for the poor in this world and for the privileged when they face the next.

It was in North America, at a Mass in Edmonton, Alberta, that his homily on Christ's last judgment reminded us of the fate of Lazarus and Dives:

“In the light of Christ's words, the poor South will judge the rich North. And the poor people and poor nations—poor in different ways, not only lacking food, but also deprived of freedom and other human rights—will judge those people who take these goods away from them, amassing to themselves the imperialistic monopoly of economic and political supremacy at the expense of others.”

Needless to say, these words were no more welcomed than the Ten Commandments, the prophecy of Amos, and the parables of one who would “rise from the dead.”

These interventions from God are not made merely to make us feel guilty. They are meant to empower and free us.

If we open our eyes to the Word of God and unstop our ears to hear the cry of the poor, we will not automatically endorse some political or economic policy. But we will insist that any politician or party must welcome and care for Lazarus. We must do this for the sake of Lazarus. We must do it for our own sake.

Paul's First Letter to Timothy reveals the kind of persons we might be: people of integrity, kindness, piety, steadfastness, and love, people who fight the good fight of faith, people of true nobility.

This passage in chapter 6, however, is framed by two warnings. It is prefaced by Paul's remark that, if we long to be rich, we will become trapped into dangerous ambitions that plunge us into ruin. The way of Christian nobility, however, is a life of generosity.

Warn those who are rich in this world's goods that they are not to look down on other people and not to set their hopes on money, which is untrustworthy, but on God, who, out of his riches, gives us all that we need for our happiness.

Tell them that they are to do good, and be rich in good works, to be generous and willing to share.

This is the way they can save up true capital for the future if they want to make sure of the only life that is real.

I did not dream up that passage to make anyone feel bad. Paul wrote it to help us find joy.

John Kavanaugh, S.J. of Saint Louis University

2010-09-19T00:42:00.000-07:00

The Dishonest Steward

ANCIENT ECONOMICS

In the preindustrial world of Jesus, agriculture was the heart of the economy. Modern contrasts such as “rich” and “poor,” “urban” and “rural,” “industrial” and “agricultural” are irrelevant to this time. The chief issues were who controlled the land and the agricultural production, and who had the power to extract the surplus.

The landowner (16:1) has a steward who manages the agricultural production of his property. The debtors owe the master produce: olive oil and wheat. Money in peasant economies is neither the only nor the predominant medium of exchange.

The Mishnah (postbiblical tradition in Judaic literature) identifies three kinds of renters: some pay a percentage of the crop; some pay a fixed amount of the produce; some pay rent in money. The debtors here seem to be in the second category. A rough modern approximation of their fixed rent is 900 gallons of oil and 150 bushels of wheat. The amount of the debt forgiven by the steward, though different in terms of percentage, nevertheless approximates five hundred denarii.

THE STEWARD’S GENIUS

A steward, or estate manager, was entitled to a commission or fee on each transaction, which itself was recorded, principal and interest, in a public contract. There is no evidence that a steward could extract a fee as high as 50 percent. Peasants would have immediately informed the landowner or would have rioted if a landowner were in collusion with such extortion.

The Mishnah also decrees that an agent should pay for any losses he caused his employer. This steward is extremely fortunate. He is simply dismissed, not fined or imprisoned. The steward is both stunned and inspired by his master’s mercy.

The dismissal is effective immediately, but the shrewd steward realizes he has a “window of opportunity” before the news reaches the renters in the village. He summons debtors and instructs them to “sit down quickly” (v. 8) and generously alters their debts.

THE MASTER’S DILEMMA

When the master discovers the steward’s strategy, he faces a genuine dilemma. If he rescinds the steward’s new contracts, as he is legally entitled to do because they are unlawful, he will alienate the renters and the entire village. They have already been celebrating the master’s generosity!

If he allows these reduced contracts to stand, he will be short of produce this year, but his “honor” will spread far and wide (as also will the “honor” of the shrewd steward for arranging the deals). People will praise the noble and generous landowner.

John J. Pilch of Georgetown University

2010-09-19T00:30:00.000-07:00

“You cannot give yourself to God and money.”

Today’s liturgy contains a double-barreled attack on the rich. The Gospel warns us that you cannot give yourself to God and money. We cannot serve two masters, trying to worship at the altars of both God and wealth.

The first reading is harsher. It contains Amos’ diatribe against the wealthy who trample upon the needy and destroy the poor of the land!

Contrasting this image of rich people at war with the poor is the image of God lifting up the poor and of Christ becoming poor to make us rich out of his poverty.

I am the Savior of all people, says the Lord. Whatever their troubles, I will answer their cry. God saves both rich and poor and answers the cry of both rich and poor.

The important thing to notice is that in God’s world, unlike the world we have created, the poor are heard and they are lifted up. In God’s world, it isn’t just the rich who have it all.

If we worship the true God, and if we want to enter the world that God rules, then we will do as God does, hearing the cry of the poor and lifting them up. To ignore and mistreat the poor is to invite God’s justice: Never will I forget a thing they have done.

“We ought to sharpen the awareness of our duty of solidarity with the poor, to which charity leads us. This solidarity means that we make ours their problems and their struggles, that we know how to speak with them.

This has to be concretized in criticism of injustice and oppression, in the struggle against the intolerable situation which a poor person often has to tolerate, in the willingness to dialogue with the groups responsible for that situation in order to make them understand their obligations.”

Latin American Bishops, Medellin Documents,

Poverty of the Church (1968) 10

Gerald Darring

Lest anyone be misled

2010-09-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

It was Pius XII who first used the term, “The Laity are the Church” in an allocution to the College of Cardinals in 1946. AAS 146/February 20th 1946.

Sunday, September 12

2010-09-10T00:21:00.000-07:00

The Perils of Safety

“He said to his father in reply, ‘Look, all these years I served you and not once did I disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my friends’” (Lk 15:29).

I was raised to be cautious, physically and morally: “Be careful! Don’t make a mistake! Be safe! Don’t do anything for which you’ll be sorry!” I inhaled those words, literally, through my years of childhood, my years of seminary training, and through most of my years in the priesthood.

In fact they were the last words that my father, one of the truly moral men I have known, spoke to me. He was dying of cancer in a hospital and as my brother and I left for the night, not knowing that he would die before morning, he cautioned us: “Be careful!” He was referring to our driving on icy winter roads. But this caution marked his character, his moral sensitivity, and his healthy solicitude for us, his children, and it was meant morally: “Be careful! Be safe!” This was his habitual warning.

Those words are now part of my genetic make-up. You inherit more than simple biology from your father, especially if you are lucky enough to have one who was uncompromisingly moral. And that caution has served me well. I’m grateful for it. I’ve made it through more than half a century essentially intact, physically and morally. No small gift.

But that caution sometimes brings with it other things for which I am less grateful. One can be intact, but so cautious and timid that fear rather than love becomes the compass for one’s life. The occupational hazard in always being scrupulously safe is that one can easily end up like the older brother of the prodigal son, that is, rigidly faithful in all things, but judgmental, jealous, and bitter of heart, dogmatically and morally uncompromising, while envying the amoral and being too paralyzed internally to truly dance. Sometimes a long, practiced caution in our actions makes for a heart that is more cautious than generous, more envious than affirming, and more judgmental than forgiving. Sometimes too it makes for a heart that understands love and forgiveness as things that must be merited rather than freely given and received. Too often too it results in a heart that is secretly gleeful when things go wrong for those who aren’t living as we are. That isn’t always the case, but it can easily be, and, speaking frankly and humbly, it has sometimes been the case in my own life.

The German poet, Goethe, once wrote: The dangers of life are many, and safety is one of those dangers. For some people perhaps the reverse warning might be more appropriate. But for those of us who were raised to be good and religious persons there is a disturbing truth in Goethe’s words.

Are we living too safely? Do we have the courage to look at our inhibitions, jealousies, and religiously-sanctioned angers with real honesty? Are our lives driven more by fear than by love? Can we enter the dance without judgment and bitterness? Do others perceive us as rigid? When is the last time we could truly forgive someone who hurt us? Are our lives really about love and generosity rather than fear and self-protection?

The danger in living too safely is that sometimes when we think we are defending life we are really defending the poverty of our own lives, sometimes when we think we are defending virtue we are really defending our inhibitions and fears, and sometimes when we think we are speaking for God’s healthy concern for the world we are, like the older brother of the prodigal son, really speaking of our own hidden jealousy.

The hero of the movie, Chariots of Fire, Eric Liddell, a wonderfully moral young man, was an Olympic runner who because of religious sensibilities refused to run an Olympic race on Sunday, even though he was heavily favored to win the gold medal. It would be easy to judge his action as stemming from moral and religious rigidity. In somebody else’s case that might be true. It wasn’t for Eric Liddell. Why? Because he wasn’t driven by fear or rigidity. He was driven by love. “When I run,” he famously said, “I feel God’s pleasure.”

Sometimes I ask myself that same question in relation to my religious and moral inhibitions: Does God take pleasure in my caution? Does God take pleasure in my sacrifices? Does God take pleasure in my anxieties about the world’s moral failings? Or is the Father standing with me, outside the celebration, pleading with me, as he once pleaded with the older brother of the prodigal son, to let up a little and come inside and join the dance?

I am grateful for my upbringing, despite the congenital reticence with which it has left me. It’s good to be careful. It’s a responsible and loving way to live. But I am growing more honest about its dangers. I am pretty intact much of the time, but sometimes I’m more fearful than generous, more self-protective than loving, more jealous than healthily solicitous. Sometimes caution doesn’t leave me with a big heart. Safety too has its dangers.

Fr.
Ron Rolheiser

What is...

2010-09-04T00:26:00.000-07:00

Mystery

The ultimate mystery of the liturgy is the paschal mystery. It has a twofold dynamic: the inflooding abundance of divine love and our response in conversion. The mystery that liturgy celebrates is our conversion through love into the very body of Christ. At the heart of our being, and at the heart of all creation, is the self-emptying redemptive love of God seeking to enable us to share in the life of the trinity. The aim of our worship is not to induce experiences of the holy, the sacred or the human. Rather it is to celebrate the mystery of that incarnational and crucified love through which the holy has been revealed to the human. This may be achieved in and through stunning architecture, compelling music, repetitive ritual and uplifting texts but, as the crafty, cave-waiting Elijah sensed (1 Kgs 19:9-18), those numinous experiences are not the mystery. The paschal mystery is made present in our conversion and life of love. Christian worship, when enacted as the celebration of that love, its call to us, and our response, manifests what it celebrates - the mystery of God.

Historical Cultural Context

2010-09-02T14:58:00.000-07:00

Risky Behaviors

On the face of it, Jesus seems to propose three devastating and inhuman requirements for becoming his disciple: hate one’s family (v. 25); carry the cross (v. 26); give up all possessions (v. 33) – even though “half” sufficed for Zacchaeus in 19:8).

As usual, the literary context and a culturally appropriate reading scenario help us “foreigners” to better understand our strange-sounding ancestors in the faith.

LITERARY CONTEXT
Jesus has been invited for a meal at the home of a leading Pharisee (Luke 24:1). The cultural world of Jesus required that people—especially the elite—“eat with their own kind, within their own class.”

The fact that Jesus is often a guest of Pharisees has led some scholars to suggest that Jesus himself was a Pharisee. Whatever the case, he never failed to challenge their beliefs and practices in the interest of offering better alternatives.

HATING ONE’S FAMILY
It is this Middle-Eastern understanding of “meals” that helps a “foreigner” to understand Jesus’ comments on discipleship in today’s reading,

A follower of Jesus who ceased “networking” by means of meals would jeopardize a family’s very existence. The disciple must then choose between allegiance to the family and allegiance to Jesus.

Choosing Jesus is thus equivalent to letting one’s family go, “hating” the family. Hate is more suitably translated “prefer,” that is, one who “hates” family actually prefers another group to the family.

Recall the tight-knit nature of the Middle-Eastern family. The ideal marriage partner is a first cousin. Sons, married and single, remain with the father. Everyone “controls” one another.

Life in these circumstances can be very stifling, very suffocating. Following Jesus and joining a new, fictive family would be very liberating and exhilarating.

CARRYING THE CROSS
There is, of course, a price to pay for such freedom. In the Middle East, the main rule of behavior is: family first! A disciple who deliberately cuts ties with family and social network will lose the ordinary means of making a living. This is the “economic cross” the disciple has chosen to carry.

True, by joining a new, fictive family consisting of other disciples of Jesus, a “family-hating” person presumably has a new source of livelihood.

No longer able to make claims to a livelihood based on blood ties and advantageous social network, members of this new fictive family have to rely on “hospitality,” which in the Middle East is extended exclusively by strangers to strangers (see Luke 9:4-5; 10:3-12). This risk-filled option is quite a cross to carry.

GIVE UP ALL POSSESSIONS
Clearly, a disciple who has accepted these challenging exhortations will effectively have given up everything. Therefore, a would-be disciple must seriously calculate the costs.

Two brief parables (about construction and waging war) drive this point home. Anyone who weakens and abandons this determination will become the butt of ridicule and shame. A disciple must remain firmly committed.

The behavior Jesus proposes is liberating and heroic but costly. Jesus’ attitude toward family values give his followers much to think about.

Contemporary believers are challenged to reflect upon the meaning of “family values” in the ancient Mediterranean world and whether it is possible to import them into other contemporary cultures.

John J. Pilch of Georgetown University

Historical Cultural Context | The Center for Liturgy Sunday Web Site

Humility for those invited and how the humble invite.

2010-08-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

It is common in the Wisdom liturature to praise humility. In fact, humility is one of the most valued qualities in our day in a friend, a spouse, a leader. We admire that rare, special quality of humility some people have. We find "know-it-all" characters, people who seem to talk down to everyone, or any form of arrogance quite unattractive. We all see in our everyday experience that a lack of humility is a key component in the breakdown of many relationships and the tragic downfall of many entertainment, sports, business, professional and political leaders. Upon reflection, we realize that humility rarely just comes naturally. It is often born and nurtured in an environment of faith and respect for others, and, quite often, it has come from some suffering. The word "humility" has its root in the Latin word "humus," which means "soil" or "earth." From this root meaning, "humility" gets its connotations of lowly or close to the earth, modest, rooted in reality, comfortable just being oneself. Quite literally, a humble person, like soil, has gone through a process which has involved some dying and transformation - a loss of ego and self-centered energy - and has grown to become a marvelously nurturing, for-others type of person.

Jesus looks around at this dinner party he's attending and observes guests jockeying for postion, "choosing the places of honor at the table." Jesus appeals to their own motivation and offers them a reflection on a very uncomfortable scenario. They could find themselves humiliated, quite humbled, if they had to take a lower postion at table because a highly honored person might arrive and be invited to take the place they had taken out of a lack of humility. The lesson: If we exalt (or falsely raise up) ourselves, we'll surely be humbled (or brought back down to earth). If, instead, we humble ourselves (or take our real position), then we will more likely be exalted (or recognized for our humility). For Jesus, the path to becoming humble is simple: act humbly. In relation to others, take the lower place. We can all try it out this week and discover many circumstances where it is so true, so helpful. We can practice being more humble with the primary relationships of our life - the people with whom we live - and then with the people with whom we work, and finally, in how we regard everyone with whom we interact.

The teaching of Jesus often takes a more serious turn, right near the end, and he delivers a message for us to chew on for some time. He offers us yet another path to life - to being his disciple and coming to the rewards of eternal life. Jesus addresses the host of this dinner party: "do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or your wealthy neighbors." Why not? Shouldn't the host be free to invite whomever she or he wants and enjoy the "payback" that will surely come from inviting these kinds of guests? Of course, Jesus affirms that there will be a repayment for this kind of inviting. But, Jesus calls us - as the guests he has invited to be his disciples - to a different level of inviting, a different level of association.

"Rather, when you hold a banquet,
invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind;
blessed indeed will you be because of their inability to repay you.
For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

Here's the heart of the Gospel for us. This is "great news" for us and our mission for living as his companions in a life of service for others. This is way beyond dinner inviting suggestions. Jesus is offering us communion with him in his mission, his mission from the Father. He is guiding all our choices, our very way of life, so that we include those he includes, we embrace those he embraces, we advocate for those he advocates for and we let ourselves be broken and given, as food, as banquet, for all those to whom he gives himself. And, he promises us that this communion with his very heart "will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

Lord, as you help us be more humble each day this week, help us hear, to see those who are without, those who are wounded or broken, those who are blocked or afraid, those who are caught in unjust structures. And bless us all as a community of your followers until we can say together, "Of course, we must invite these to share in the table of blessings you have prepared for all your children, until no one is hungry or left out, persecuted or sick without care, until all human life is treated with respect and the sacred dignity you give to every person."

Andy Alexander, S.J.

Ucluelet Harbour Live

2010-08-26T17:50:00.000-07:00

Here is a "live still shot" of the
Ucluelet Harbour

It changes about once a minute. You can use the "refresh" button on your browser to see birds disappear, etc...

A Person of Charity

2010-08-21T20:54:00.000-07:00

The Kingdom of God will not be restricted to a select few: People will come from the east and the west, from the north and the south, and will take their place at the feast in the kingdom of God.

Even among the Jews of the Mosaic covenant, who tended to be clannish, the message from God was clear: I come to gather nations of every language; they shall come and see my glory.

So go out to all the world and tell the Good News.

Go out to the poor and hungry and tell them to take their place at the feast of the kingdom.

Go out to the oppressed and persecuted and tell them to take their place at the feast of the kingdom.

Go out to the people on death row and tell them to take their place at the feast of the kingdom.

Go out to all the isolated and alienated, the lonely elderly, those dying of AIDS, the prostitutes and pornographers, and tell them to take their place at the feast of the kingdom.

Bring all your brethren from all the nations as an offering to the Lord: that is the challenge given us by the one who is the way, the truth, and the life.

“The missionary is a person of charity. In order to proclaim to all his brothers and sisters that they are loved by God and are capable of loving, he must show love toward all, giving his life for his neighbor.

The missionary is the ‘universal brother,’ bearing in himself the Church’s spirit, her openness to and interest in all peoples and individuals, especially the least and poorest of his brethren.

As such, he overcomes barriers and divisions of race, cast or ideology. He is a sign of God’s love in the world—a love without exclusion or partiality.”
Pope John Paul II, Redemptoris Missio (1990) 89

Gerald Darring

Re: Oblates in Africa

2010-08-20T16:39:00.000-07:00

Suggesting another face of Catholic engagement with Africa, my wife Shannon and I attended a dinner in Denver Wednesday night to support the mission of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate in Zambia. The Oblates are in the middle of raising $2 million to build a new seminary in Lusaka, the country's capital, in order to accommodate their burgeoning number of local vocations. (Although they arrived just a quarter-century ago, the Oblates already have 20 Zambian priests and 80 seminarians.)

In principle, there's nothing that made Wednesday night different from countless similar efforts to sustain various Catholic missions, projects and programs in Africa, except for its venue: The dinner took place in Denver's Boettcher Mansion, residence of the Governor of Colorado, and was hosted by Gov. Bill Ritter and his wife Jeannie, themselves former Oblate lay missionaries in Zambia.

Ritter, a Democrat, won the governor's job in 2006 and opted not to run for reelection this year. Until recently, he was one of two American governors with a background as a former Catholic lay missionary: Gov. Tim Kane of Virginia, also a Democrat, did missionary work in Honduras under the aegis of the Jesuits. (After his term ended earlier this year, Kane became the chairman of the Democratic National Committee).

Born in Denver, Ritter attended an Oblate junior seminary in Texas as a young man and remained friends with the order. After he served as a deputy district attorney in Denver in the 1980s, he and his wife were ready to try something else. They called an old friend in the Oblates, Fr. Bill Morell, to volunteer to serve in the order's Zambian mission. Morell said that at the time the Oblates didn't have a lay missionary program and were struggling just to keep their priests afloat, but as fate (or providence) would have it, he had opened a letter from a Zambian bishop asking for a lay Catholic couple to serve in his diocese just moments before Ritter called.

From 1987 to 2000, the Ritters ran a food distribution and nutrition education center in the isolated Western province of Zambia, trying to help chronically undernourished and malnourished locals develop the capacity to feed themselves and their children. They were certainly "all in" in terms of personal commitment; Jeannie Ritter explained that she brought one of their four children to Zambia, gave birth to a second there, and conceived a third. (Laughingly, she said the Oblates in Zambia joked that somebody needed to get this couple a TV, so they'd have something else to do with their time!)

As it happens, Jeannie Ritter was not a Catholic when she and the future governor headed off to Zambia. She was converted, she said, in part by the experience of serving the poorest of the poor in the name of the church, and in part by the witness of the Oblate priests she came to think of as members of her own family.

Political couples are, of course, adept at summoning fake enthusiasm, but watching the governor and his wife light up telling stories about Zambia, it seemed obvious the experience had left an impression. (That's all the more credible given that Ritter isn't running for anything at the moment.) The moral of the story is that when the church calls Catholics to serve, the payoff isn't just for the beneficiaries of the mission – in this case, the impoverished Zambians who are better fed because of the Ritters and the legacy they left behind. It also changes the missionaries themselves, giving them a different sense of the world and their place in it.

How that alters the trajectory of their lives is anybody's guess, but every now and then it may just land them in a governor's mansion.

Information on the Oblates' seminary project in Zambia can be found here: Help Us Help Others.

Secularism, Africa and characters in Rome | National Catholic Reporter

Sunday, August 15

2010-08-14T14:23:00.000-07:00

A Poor And Simple Girl

The song that Luke puts in Mary’s mouth when she visits Elizabeth speaks of a God who has deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places. Mary herself is a prime example of the lowly raised to high places: a poor and simple girl, a virgin from an insignificant part of the world, raised to the status of Mother of God, and today raised body and soul to the glory of heaven.

There is an attractiveness about God raising the lowly that makes it pleasing for us to accept, at least theoretically. We react positively to the raising of a Mother Theresa from the status of lowly servant of the hopeless to that of Nobel Peace Prize winner. We are less attracted to the idea of God deposing the mighty from their thrones, especially if we live in the “First World” and in the country that boasts of being first in the world.

Mary said: The hungry he has given every good thing, while the rich he has sent empty away. This should come as good news to the poor, and should be of some concern to affluent North Americans, who belong to the richest five percent of the world’s population.

“Let the entire body of the faithful pour forth persevering prayer to the Mother of God and Mother of men. Let them implore that she who aided the beginnings of the Church by her prayers may now, exalted as she is in heaven above all the saints and angels, intercede with her Son in the fellowship of all the saints.”

Vatican II, Constitution on the Church (1964) 69

Gerald Darring

Call for prophetic ministry

2010-08-11T14:52:00.000-07:00

Prophetic ministry protests idolatry and ideology, assumes a critical attitude and posture toward established power, reads “the signs of the times,” uncovering and meeting hidden and neglected human suffering, witnesses unyielding hope that resists despair, and bears the wound of knowledge of the pained heart of God.

We must resist the unintentional, but nonetheless real reduction of ourselves as church to the law-abiding, but lukewarm; the unthinking, but self-righteous; the domineering, but fearful.

True prophets are never on sale.

Wanted: women of spirit

2010-08-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

Wanted: women of spirit in our own time

Aug. 11, 2010

Sr. Joan Chittister

The Leadership Conference of Women Religious is meeting in Dallas this week under scrutiny from Rome and with a cloud hanging over its head.

What shall we think about such a time as this when the women religious who have built, carried, led and staffed every work of the church from the earliest days of this nation to this present time of turbulence and transition are being accused of being unorthodox, unfaithful, and unfit to make adult decisions about what they need to hear and who they want to have say it?

The problem is that in the face of opposition they have also been unafraid.

What shall we think about that? Think David, maybe, who confronted the giant Goliath; think Moses, perhaps, who faced the Red Sea with an Egyptian army at his back; think Judith and her handmaiden, certainly, who routed Holofernes and saved the city; think Shifra and Puah, without doubt, who refused the order to murder Jewish newborns and so saved the nation. Think Mary of Nazareth and Mary of Magdala who stood as independent women alone and unblinking. Think moment of decision.

Then think of the foundresses of every religious order you have ever known who came to the United States without money, without professional resources, often without the language, and commonly without support — even from the church — to deal head on with the social justice questions of their time and so saved the church in the process.

"Women & Spirit," the traveling museum exhibit mounted by the Leadership Conference of Women Religious that reviews the story of women's religious communities in the United States, bears witness to the role of religious life in church and society. It is the visual history of women who made astounding choices at all the crossroads in national history and made them when women were allowed to make few, if any, choices at all.

It is a story too often forgotten and too easily domesticated. "That's just what sisters were supposed to be doing," people say. Oh, please.

These were women who opened schools for girls in a world that considered the education of women a useless and uppity waste.

These were women who nursed soldiers on both battlefields of the Civil War, North and South, in an age when sisters didn't work with men at all, let alone nurse them.

These were women who worked with what was left of a Native American society that had been stripped of its dignity, robbed of its lands and denied its civil rights in a culture that defined both the American Indian and the women who served them as less than fully human.

These were women who taught blacks for centuries and then walked with them in Selma, Ala., to claim their full humanity — attack dogs at their heels, fire hoses in front of them -- and met disdain everywhere from Christians who used religion to justify first slavery and, after it, segregation.

These were women who gave their lives to insert Catholic children into a Protestant society as equal participants in the democratic dream all the way to a Catholic presidency.

Indeed, for hundreds of years, over and over again, women religious have found themselves at the junction between past and future. For hundreds of years they have consistently, persistently, confidently and courageously chosen for a necessary future — whatever difficulties the doing of it meant for them in the present. Over and over again, they chose for tomorrow rather than settle for a more convenient past.

The entire history of religious life in this nation has been a history of crisis and response, of need and resistance, of response and reaction.

It was not an easy time.

At a time when the sick died uncared for, and the uneducated died illiterate and the poor or addicted died destitute and minorities died invisible to the rest of society, women religious chose to challenge any and every system for the sake of the coming of the reign of God.

And in the end, they succeeded. But don't be fooled: They did not succeed because their numbers were large or their influence was great or their social support was either broad-based or obvious. They succeeded because they refused to allow the ideas of the past to become the cement of the future. They succeeded because of the courage of women who went where they were told not to go.

Now we are at another crossroads moment in time. This is a time, too, of deep crisis and great needs, of the rejection of those who raise new questions and a reaction against those who raise new ideas in a system trying to preserve the old ones in order to preserve itself.

It is a time, as it has always been, for leadership.

But leadership and authority are not the same thing. It can take a long time to learn the difference between the two but there is nothing in life that demonstrates the difference between the two better than a crossroad.

At the crossroads in life, authority goes one direction: back. Authority goes in the direction that's already in the book; the path that has been clearly trod before now, the way that is safe and sure, clear and certain, obedient and approved, applauded and rewarded.

Leadership, on the other hand, rewrites the book. It takes the direction that leads only to the promise of a better tomorrow for everyone however difficult it may be to achieve it now. "The seed," the Zen master teaches, "never sees the flower."

The times are clear. The needs are now. The time for new decisions is upon us. Authority is not enough for times such as these. We need leaders now.

As women religious meet in Dallas these days as a "Leadership Conference" rather than as a conference of "Major Superiors," may God raise up women among them who will lead.

It is a new period of crisis. We must determine to meet this challenge to spiritual maturity, to human adulthood now as did our foremothers before us meet theirs. We, too, must move beyond fear to the real, real faith that can, we have seen, move mountains.

It is another period in which public and even ecclesiastical approval must be second again to the needs of those who look to us for both vision and voice.

It is a period in which we must not forego reaching for what is necessary because others tell us it is not acceptable.

For the sake of religious life, for the sake of women everywhere, and, in the end, for the sake of the very integrity of the church itself, we are looking to you now to be "Women of Spirit." May we be to our age what our ancestors were to theirs. Whatever the cost to ourselves.

For that, we are depending now on you.
Wanted: women of spirit in our own time | National Catholic Reporter

'In the fullness of time, God's purpose will be revealed' | National Catholic Reporter

2010-08-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

The following are edited portions of Sr. Theresa Kane’s talk, “Woman, Why Are You Weeping?” given July 22 in Chicago at the Celebration conference on effective liturgy.

We see Mary of Magdala in the garden as someone who has experienced the torture and death of a close, intimate friend. She was a companion, certainly a benefactor to Jesus, and a disciple. We, too, have all wept at the death of loved one.

As we enter that garden scene, we feel the depth of grief, the anguish and pain at so horrible a death, and we also sense that Mary probably had a conviction that a grave injustice had been done. When one has a clear vision and insight about injustice, one weeps not only with anguish but from anger, even rage. Rage comes from courage, and at any injustice, all of us should be filled with rage. Such an emotion is core to righting the wrong, to bringing about justice.

Let me speak of the women of our Catholic community today. Why do we weep? Without the full incorporation of women into leadership, discipleship and all church ministries, full participation in the liturgy -- which was the vision of the council -- we do not experience community as women at liturgy, and we do not experience life-giving worship. Our presence at liturgy has become and continues to be a source of anguish, sadness, even emptiness. We continue in severe tension over exclusive, sexist language, and this has gone on for decades, the continued use of terms like man, his and mankind that deny our very presence.

In 1978, Pope John Paul I said publicly, and I have never forgotten this and continue to proclaim it, “We need to call God ‘mother’ as well as ‘father.’ ” It was a powerful statement. I can still remember him saying it on television. Because until we do that, our language of God remains exclusive, patriarchal and militaristic.

One of the real tensions is between the vision we have of community and a governance that is monarchical. I have been with bishops who say, ‘We are not a democracy.’ And the question to the bishop is, then, what form of governance are we? And do we not respect cooperation and participation and inclusion?

Catholic women weep because male Catholic leaders, many of them bishops and pastors, are culturally ignorant and culturally impotent regarding the presence, the potential, the human aspirations of women to be adult, mutual co-responsible collaborators. A wonderful word, collaborate. It means we co-labor. We are radically equal.

Why are we weeping today? We are in crisis. Many women have already moved out of traditional Sunday worship. Other women have begun very courageous, strong, alternative liturgies, which we believe are valid, mystic, pastoral, spiritual, all the qualities that are needed for the human soul.

Many are moving to other Protestant traditions or are doing feminist liturgies, taking turns presiding, co-presiding, and are perfectly comfortable with it. Maybe it is the beginning of a new church. Maybe this is how we have to look at Pentecost. I think we need to be willing to address it. To continue in an exclusively male priesthood is in my judgment both a form and expression of idolatry.

An example: A group of sisters in the Midwest were having their community assembly. Out of courtesy, they invited the bishop. We generally do not invite the bishop because we are such good friends and want to celebrate, but unfortunately -- and I feel very sad about this -- we do it because it is expected and out of courtesy. The bishop wrote back and said it must be in a parish church and not at the motherhouse, you must have altar boys come in to assist me, and no sister may carry the cross in the procession. They prayed about it and decided not to have liturgy. The real tragedy is that a magnificent opportunity was lost for a bishop to gather with a group of women to worship.

As Catholic woman, I continue to hope. Why? At gatherings such as this I meet so many women and men who are open and want to make this a new church. I go home inspired. I don’t really have a need to run back to traditional worship. There are many organizations that are very much alive, spiritual and Vatican II -- Call to Action, Women’s Ordination Conference, FutureChurch, and the congregations of women religious ourselves.

I find hope from the words of scripture. In the fullness of time God’s purpose will be revealed. When will the renewal come? In the fullness of time. It may be tomorrow. Maybe next week. But it’s God’s time, not my time. I also have the deep conviction that nothing is impossible with God. People say to me, “You can’t do that, it’s not possible.” With God, all things are possible. And this gives me great hope.

[Mercy Sr. Theresa Kane is a former head of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious.]

'In the fullness of time, God's purpose will be revealed' | National Catholic Reporter

Sticking with an imperfect (church) fit

2010-08-06T17:49:00.000-07:00

We may shop for churches, but stability makes community possible

Jul. 20, 2009
By Melissa Musick Nussbaum
Faith & Parish

Paul Lachine
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Parish Life

In his rule, St. Benedict describes one of the decrees of monastic life. The monk "is to promise, before God and his saints to be stable" -- that is, to settle in a place, one place, for life. It is not an assumption we share. Indeed, the notion of a grown man still living in the house where he was born conjures images of instability, mental and emotional. We imagine Boo Radley, afraid of the world beyond his porch.

Our world is shaped and defined not by stability of place, but by mobility and its partner, consumer choice. The premise of consumer choice is that, somewhere, the perfect fit between product and purchaser exists. It is the responsibility of the producer to offer it, the responsibility of the purchaser to find it. Shop till you drop.

American churchgoers no longer prize stability of place in worship any more than we prize stability of place in the rest of our lives. Accordingly, there is a body of literature on leaving one church and finding another. Little is written about choosing to stay, as sticking with an uncomfortable fit is never thought wise in a consumer culture.

In the books on religious mobility the consumerist tone prevails. The words are those of the marketplace and the dressing room. Church shoppers, like shoe shoppers, speak of the "right fit." Fit is individual, tailored to the person, to the self. And anything less than the right fit is unacceptable. "We will," we say, "take our business elsewhere. We'll vote with our feet. And with our checkbooks."

But what if, in the home-stitched and misshapen life of community, it turns out there is no perfect fit? Indeed, for long stretches of time, no fit at all? I have been married for 35 years. I raised five children. I confess that the fit of family life is often that of a too-tight pair of shoes, rubbing my feet raw and blistering my flesh.

But, then, I didn't buy my family. Children come to us as darling and disruptive strangers, gifts to be sure, but not purchases. If I were ordering a child, I would specify less attitude and independence, along with an operating system perfectly in sync with mine. I would check and re-check the SKU number, making sure I got the style and model just right for me.

And if it can be said that I chose my husband, I did so under the flattering light of what he calls "the fraud of courtship." We were young, beautiful and strong. We were our best selves before one another. We still had the refuge of our childhood homes in which to be difficult and sullen, picking fights for the nasty pleasure of it. The good night on the porch and the reluctantly shut door is enchanting. There is little like a shared bathroom to disenchant.

Let me put it this way: If we were overcoats, we'd have been tossed in the Goodwill bin long ago.

But we learned that neither of us is perfect, so perfection ceased to be a factor. We set about building a household in which people could grow and learn and forgive and be forgiven, a place where we were, and are, known to one another. And the only way for that to happen was for us to stay, together, in one place, in and out of seasons, weathering the flowering and the falling and the flowering again of affections. Stability makes community possible.

A parish is a community made up of the ecclesiolae -- the little churches -- that are our homes. Stability in the parish is as necessary as stability in the home. Like the home, the parish needs to be a place where brothers and sisters can be formed together, under one roof, sitting at one table, hearing family stories told again and again. But stability in parish life, as in married life, means giving up the hope of perfection.

(Notice I said "perfection," not "safety." The question of leaving a life-threatening situation -- in home or out -- is another discussion entirely. To stay where one is being killed is not stability but suicide. But most people don't flee murderous pastors any more than most divorcing spouses leave murderous partners. We flee boredom and disappointment, the sense of failed expectation when a purchase neither looks nor performs as it did in the ad.)

We have been members of our parish since we moved to town 27 years ago. We have a few grim tales to tell, some of them regarding over- or under- or self-involved clergy. Some of them are stories of parishioners who have transformed leaving in a snit into an art form. But we have many more glorious tales to tell: of the faithful woman offering us the blood of Christ as her hair fell out and her flesh withered. The cancer was claiming her body, cell by cell, but the Holy Spirit within her grew ever stronger. We remember Fr. Ted, who never had a dollar in his pocket because he gave to everyone who asked. We have learned that pastors come and go; the assembly remains. Sunday after Sunday, year after year we are all of us in the church, and it is in these faces we find strength. I think of the Sundays when it is only the visible sign of others' faithfulness keeping me, holding me fast.

Stability allows parish memory. Think this was bad? Let me tell you about the day the police shot a homeless man in the bathroom as Mass was being celebrated.

Parish memory is an antidote to nostalgia. There was never a golden age when we prayed without ceasing, cared for the poor without complaining and shunned gossip. There was never a time when our priests were all attentive and wise in the confessional, eloquent yet brief at the ambo and saints on the streets. Lay and clergy, they were like us, humans who try -- and fail -- to love God and their neighbors.

Parish memory is an antidote to "mall syndrome," the idea that just around the food court and past the Victoria's Secret lays the secret of our happiness, the perfect fit. Parishioners who leave one failing church to join a parish that appears to be ascending will discover the lead beneath the gold soon enough.

Though I'm sure they're out there, I've never met a long-married couple who wished they had divorced. Maybe when John lost his job they say, or during the years Jane was drinking, for those were bad days. But they knew, on some level perhaps too deep for words, that neither they nor their marriage were consumer items to be returned for imperfection. And, having come through the fire together -- in part because they came through the fire and they did it together -- they found it wasn't they who made the marriage; it was faithfulness to the marriage that made them: a couple, a household, a family. And in the hard work of fidelity, they have found something better than customer satisfaction. They have found joy.

[Melissa Musick Nussbaum is coauthor of Free to Leave, Free to Stay: Fruits of the Spirit and Church Choice to be published in this fall by Cascade Press.]
Sticking with an imperfect (church) fit | National Catholic Reporter

Intimations

2010-08-05T13:39:00.000-07:00

EARTHLING

Earthling am I

Earthing born

Earthling forever

From Earth to Earth

Creator’s pleasure pleases me
Light and life that center me

Center all and each

Make Earth my precious home
Other planets

Galaxies

Universes perhaps

Never home
Eternity

For me

Loving every

Blossom

Tree

River

Lake

Canyon

Falls

Valley

Peak

Range

Island

Rock

Perfume

Flavor

Texture

Color

Song
Loving every

Crawling

Swimming

Furry

Feathered

Human

Fellow earthling

With the One

Loving us to be
Sparkling in riffles

Misty caressing forested faces

Thundering prairie vastness

Lightly foaming raging rapids

Crashing boldly on rugged headlands

Standing stolidly before that self-same surge

All always with lovers and beloved

Glorying together

Like swooping sandpipers,

Silvery schools
Fun
I can hardly wait

A letter on the abolition of Yahweh

2010-08-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

Catholica Forum - Friday Forum: A letter on the abolition of Yahweh

Tribal Law and Order Act

2010-08-01T23:05:00.000-07:00

Daily Kos: State of the Nation

Perspective of Justice

2010-07-31T15:00:00.000-07:00

Our Other Desires

Today’s liturgy contains a very strong message to those who have much and to those who want more: Avoid greed in all its forms. We are to avoid the mistake of the rich fool, who saved up a fortune, only to die and have it left to others.

That is the way it works with the man who grows rich for himself instead of growing rich in the sight of God. Christians are challenged to be intent on things above rather than on things of earth; anything else is vanity and a great misfortune.

Our society, based on the civil religion of capitalism, perceives greed as good and desirable, for it fuels the drive to improve ourselves. “Greed is not a bad word,” said a prominent American economist and erstwhile Secretary of Treasury.

But in the Christian scheme of things, greed is a bad word, and money does not save: God is the only one who helps (us) and sets (us) free.

The Eucharist is a sign of the Christian commitment to satisfying basic human needs such as food; all our other desires should prompt us to fall on our knees with the prayer: Forgive our sins and restore us to life.

“Neither individuals nor nations should regard the possession of more and more goods as the ultimate objective. . . . The exclusive pursuit of material possessions prevents man’s growth as a human being and stands in opposition to his true grandeur. Avarice, in individuals and in nations, is the most obvious form of stultified moral development.”

Pope Paul VI, Populorum Progressio (1967) 19

Gerald Darring

Justice

2010-07-31T10:56:00.000-07:00

Leaning on God

by Joyce Rupp on Jul. 30, 2010

Which of you walks in darkness and sees no light? ... lean on God

Isaiah 50:4-10

Some people lean against fence posts

when their bodies ache from toil.

Some people lean on oak trees,

seeking cool shade on hot, humid days.

Some people lean on crutches

when their limbs won’t work for them;

and some people lean on each other

when their hearts can’t stand alone.

How long it takes to lean upon you,

God of shelter and strength;

how long it takes to recognize the truth

of where my inner power has its source.

All my independence, with its arrogance,

stands up and stretches within me,

trying to convince my trembling soul

that I can conquer troubles on my own.

But the day of truth always comes

when I finally yield to you,

knowing you are a steady stronghold,

a refuge when times are tough.

Thank you for offering me strength,

for being the oak tree of comfort;

thank you for being the sturdy support

when the limbs of my life are weak.

Praise to you, Eternal Lean-to,

for always being there for me.

Continue to transform me

with the power of your love.

THE OFFICIAL PRAYER

2010-07-27T15:16:00.000-07:00

“Thy Will Be Done”

Let’s take an extended look at the “official” Christian prayer.

It is very important to notice that the prayer our Lord taught us begins with “Our” and not “My.” The Lord’s Prayer is always a communal prayer, even when we pray it alone. It is the recognition that every human being who ever lived or will live is as dear to God as I am. It assumes the basic reality that every human being is simultaneously a child of God and our sister or brother.

In the days of Jesus, the father not only produced a child and fed, sheltered and clothed it. The father was in charge of everything in the child’s life. Father was supporter, disciplinarian, boss, mentor, teacher. The father had complete control over the child; he could even end the child’s life if he so chose. Father God took on the same duties and responsibilities. Father God conceived every person, was their ultimate authority, disciplined them, counted every hair, protected them. There was no life at all outside of the fatherhood of God.

We call on God “in heaven.” To the contemporaries of Jesus, heaven was physically imagined to be above the solid dome that covered the earth. Religiously, it was a place separate from earth and earthly concerns, a place that was all peaceful, good and lovely. Heaven was where God was at ease.

God’s name was holy (“hallowed”). And that did not mean pious or good or any human quality. The word holy means separate, totally other. Holy was not just an adjective, a qualifier such as “she is a holy person.” Holiness is not a quality of God but the essence of God. God’s name was unmentionable, God’s presence untouchable. When a priest caught the Ark to keep it from falling into the river, he died on the spot.

“Thy will be done” and “Thy kingdom come” are parallel petitions: two ways of saying the same thing. Where God’s will is done, there is the kingdom; and wherever the kingdom is, God’s will is done. This is a prayer to make earth look like heaven, operate like heaven, where evil is absent and goodness is automatic. A place of peace, justice and joy.

Our daily bread is more than dried dough. It is the staff of life, the symbol of every kind of food that sustains us. In the biblical sense, bread is the word of God broken open in scripture: It is the wisdom of God. And in a sacramental sense, bread symbolizes and actually becomes the body of Christ for our bodies. We are asking for all of these things when we ask for daily bread.

The petition for forgiveness does not mean only for this or that private sin. More importantly, it is a confession of our absolute inability to forgive others unless God first forgives us, and that we are not able to accept divine forgiveness unless we grant human pardon.

“Lead us not into temptation” and “Deliver us from evil” is another example of biblical parallelism: saying the same thing in different ways with perhaps a nuance. Ultimately, we pray that we end our life on the side of the good rather than the evil.
The Lord’s Prayer is not a throwaway, all-purpose prayer. It is the prayer of the Christian community that expresses our basic beliefs: the fatherhood of God, the sisterhood of all human beings, our total dependency on God for life, our forgiveness by God, our protection from evil and our final salvation by God alone. And if the Our Father does not include everyone, it is not the Lord’s Prayer.

Fr. James Smith

It makes a difference whether you're Catholic

2010-07-26T19:45:00.000-07:00

Not even the deepest frustrations and disappointments can undo the sense that belonging to the Catholic Church makes a difference—for ourselves and for others.

It makes a difference whether you're Catholic | USCatholic.org

Development and Peace

2010-07-22T10:55:00.000-07:00

Development and Peace responds to mounting food crisis in Niger

Many families in the vast West African country of Niger are looking warily at their bleak cupboards. The shelves barely hold enough food to last 10 days. These meagre reserves are a stark reflection of an unfolding food crisis in Niger - one that threatens an estimated 8 million people or 60% of the population.

As the Canadian member of Caritas Internationalis, Development and Peace and its Caritas partners are responding to this mounting crisis with a $3.7 million program that aims to help close to 250,000 people. The program includes activities such as screening children and pregnant woman for malnutrition and providing treatment, distributing food and seeds, and organizing cash-for-work programs to increase household incomes.

Help us prevent a disaster

Inconsistent rainfalls and rising food prices are having serious consequences on the availability of food in the country - consequences that could turn dire if quick action isn't taken. This emergency response, to which Development and Peace as already contributed $100,000, is bringing hope to Nigeriens - hope that they will not face hunger now or in the future. With your help, we can bring even more hope to the people of this country.

Please give today for Niger

Development and Peace

Sunday, July 18

2010-07-17T20:33:00.000-07:00

A Different Way

Martha understood the place of women in their society. Like Sarah in the first reading, women were to bear children and cook the meals. They were to clean the house, like Martha was doing, and they were not to sit at the feet of the master educating themselves, like Mary was doing. Martha demands that Mary be made to ‘play the woman,’ but Jesus will not go along with the stereotype: Mary has chosen the better portion and she shall not be deprived of it.

How much women have suffered over the centuries because of the perception of their proper role! How much they have filled up in their own flesh what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ!

We are called by God to a different way. He who does justice will live in the presence of the Lord. Justice to women is life in the presence of God: justice in the home, justice in the school, justice in the marketplace, justice in the business world, justice in the church. She shall not be deprived of it: such is the firm declaration of the Savior of men and women.

“Sixty percent of all women work in only ten occupations, and most new jobs for women are in areas with low pay and limited chances of advancement.

Many women suffer discrimination in wages, salaries, job classifications, promotions, and other areas. As a result, they find themselves in jobs that have low status, little security, weak unionization, and few fringe benefits.

Such discrimination is immoral and efforts must be made to overcome the effects of sexism in our society.”

U.S. Bishops, Economic Justice for All (1986) 179

Gerald Darring

From the cradle of life

2010-07-14T14:03:00.000-07:00

From the cradle of life

The pictures of oil-encrusted seagulls and cranes from the Gulf of Mexico glimpse only the surface of the death and destruction beneath the sea from the Deepwater Horizon/BP oil spill. Marine biologists fear for shrimp, oysters, crabs and untold varieties of fish endangered by the oil assault on the fragile ecosystem. The wetlands of Louisiana, a critical spawning ground for many species, present the next worry.

Our addiction to oil keeps 7,000 oil platforms with 35,000 wells in the gulf pumping crude to fuel our lifestyle of mobility and convenience. Yet, federal statistics reveal 172 spills of more than 2,100 gallons in the gulf over the last decade. The effects of the Exxon Valdez spill still linger in the coastal habitat two decades later along the Alaskan shoreline. Our petroleum economy with its drilling, shipping, refining and burning oil is killing the planet locally with poisoned water and air and globally with accelerated climate change.

While secular publications raise the issues of economic impact and legal liability, people of faith are reflecting on phrases like “common good,” “solidarity” and “care of creation.” The National Catholic Rural Life Conference (NCRLC) issued a statement encouraging people of faith to “ask for the wisdom to live in harmony with God’s plan and the courage to serve as stewards of God’s creation.” The statement implies our ordinary economic ways disregard God’s plan, especially when rural residents and the environment pay the price. (Disclosure: as board member, I contributed to the statement.)

Carelessly we ignored essential moral principles and consequently invited disaster. All workers have a right to a safe workplace, yet we complacently allow workers to risk their lives to supply our energy from oil rigs and coal mines. Eleven men died in the gulf rig explosion when only two weeks before 29 miners died in West Virginia’s Upper Big Branch Mine. The global economy demands productivity and profits, producing a corporate culture that occasions short-cuts and negligence. Regulations go unenforced and workers give their lives for a paycheck. Bishop Michael Bransfield of the Wheeling-Charleston Diocese in his pastoral letter, “On My Holy Mountain,” asks: “Why is it safer to travel in space than to work in a West Virginia mine?”

Extractive industries, now virtually controlled by giant corporations, operate for the enrichment of their stockholders. With a “least cost” incentive, frequently their methods reduce the rural area to a sacrificial resource colony. In the gulf those whose livelihoods revolve around fishing or tourism just got sacrificed. In Appalachia community people whose lives and well-being depend on their well water and forests just lost to mountaintop removal.

Care of creation comes directly from the Book of Genesis when God put humanity in the garden “to care and cultivate it” (Gn 2:15). God’s garden, i.e., creation, needs attention because it possesses inherit worth. God found it “very good” (Gn 1:31), and not just “useful.”

The NCRLC statement recommends that “we reflect about our own lifestyles that make undue demands on nature.” The United States with 4.5 percent of the world’s population uses 33 percent of all electricity generated each year and consumes 42 percent of gasoline refined. How many vacant parking lots are illumined all night, and how many computers are on “sleep mode” all weekend?

“In these days of anxiety, we encourage people of faith to assemble for prayer and sharing,” says the NCRLC statement. The gulf folks need one another’s support, but the whole Church needs to ratchet up care of creation to a higher ranking in the Gospel of Life.

Fr. Rausch is a Glenmary priest who lives, writes and organizes in Appalachia.

Excerpted from Arlington Catholic Herald - From the cradle of life

The ditch as God's dwelling place

2010-07-10T17:35:00.000-07:00

Living Image

God’s law is not so mysterious and remote; it is not up in the sky or across the sea, but is already in our mouths and hearts. And what is that law? To love God with everything we have, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.

We have difficulty loving God because we live in a world filled with lights contrary to the light of God’s truth. The Lord hears the poor, but our world scorns the poor. Our God makes peace through the blood of his cross while our world tries to make peace through the blood of soldiers and innocent civilians.

We have difficulty loving our neighbor because we do not understand ‘neighbor’ as Jesus did. Neighbor for us means people we like, people who are on our side, who work for a living, and who mind their own business. Jesus redefines neighbor as the hated stranger who is down and out, challenging us to stop what we are doing and care for his need.

The priest in the Gospel may have been going to the temple to worship God. Jesus is teaching his followers to see the ditch as God’s dwelling place: to love neighbor as defined by Jesus is to love God.

“One’s neighbor is not only a human being with his or her own rights and a fundamental equality with everyone else, but becomes the living image of God the Father, redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ and placed under the permanent action of the Holy Spirit. One’s neighbor must therefore be loved, even if an enemy, with the same love with which the Lord loves him or her.”
Pope John Paul II, Sollicitudo Rei Socialis (1987) 40

Gerald Darring

Sunday, July 11

2010-07-10T17:20:00.000-07:00

Searching for a New Maturity

But a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion at the sight. He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds and bandaged them. Then he lifted him up on his own animal, took him to an inn, and cared for him (Lk 10:33-34).

“Be in the world, but not of the world!” Great advice, but not easy to follow.

We struggle with this tension. On the one side, the temptation is to keep ourselves pure and unstained by the world, but at the cost of excessively separating ourselves from it, not loving it, not leaving ourselves vulnerable as Jesus did to feel its pains, and not modelling how someone can live inside the world and still have a vibrant faith and church life. The other temptation is the opposite: To enter the world and love and bless its energy, but to do so in a way that ultimately offers nothing in the way being salt and light for the world.

We will never be free of this tension. Such is the price of paradox. However in order to live within it more healthily, we need a certain theology and spirituality to guide us and we need a greater personal maturity to sustain us.

What kind of theology and spirituality can help us? What kind of personal and collective maturity is being asked of us?

In terms of a theology and spirituality, what we need is a vision that holds in proper tension our love for the world and our love for God. One may not be sacrificed for the other; they must be brought into proper relation.

We need to be able to love the world in such a way that we bless and honour its goodness, its energy, its colour, its zest, and its moral strengths, even as we stand where the cross of Jesus is forever being erected and speak prophetic words of challenge in the face of the world’s moral deficiencies, injustices, self-preoccupation, proclivity to greed, and less-than-full vision. But prophecy is predicated on love. Unless we first honour and bless what is good in the world we don’t have the moral right to criticize it.

We need to be in solidarity with the world in everything but sin, blessing it with one hand, even as we hold the cross of Christ with the other.

But that’s not easy. We don’t just lack the vision, we also lack the moral and emotional strength needed to imitate Jesus. He could walk with sinners, eat with them, embrace them, forgive their sins, feel the pain and chaos of sin, yet not sin himself. He could challenge the world, even as he blessed and enjoyed its energies.

And the struggle to do that is not abstract, but earthy: Mostly we can’t live as Jesus did simply because we lack the maturity to walk amidst the temptations, distractions, and comforts offered by the world without either losing ourselves in them, selling out our message, or unhealthily withdrawing into safe enclaves to huddle in fear, against the world, protected from it, but at the cost of denigrating its goodness, energy, colour, and zest.

It’s no accident that our church communities sometimes look fearful, grey, sexless, and uninviting in comparison to the freedom, colour, eros, and energy that’s manifest in the world. We remain religious, but often at the cost of being unhealthily fearful, timid, frigid, and depressed.

But Jesus was never fearful, timid, frigid, or depressed. We often are because we need to protect ourselves, given that we haven’t got Jesus’ maturity. And our timidity has its own wisdom, but . . .

In the 16th century, Ignatius of Loyola looked at the church and thought a new maturity was needed. He founded the Jesuits in response.

We need that today. Someone needs to found a religious community with no rules because, for its members, none would be needed. Everyone would be mature enough to live out a poverty, chastity, and obedience that does not need to be externally prescribed and over-protected by symbols that set it apart. Attitudes and behaviour would be shaped from inside and would emanate from a commitment to a community, a vision, and a God that puts one under an obedience that is more demanding than any outside rule. The community would be mixed, men and women together, but strong enough to affectively love each other, remain chaste, and model friendship and family beyond sex and without denigrating sex. The community would be radically immersed in the world. Its members, sustained by prayer and community, would be free, like Jesus, of curfews and laws, to dine with everyone, saints and sinners alike, without sinning themselves. This community would give itself to the world, even as it resisted being of the world.

Perhaps that’s naive, but whenever I voice this fantasy to an audience the reaction is always very strong: Where can I find that? I’ll join tomorrow!

The world needs mature Christians who, like Jesus, have the strength to walk inside the world, right inside the chaos of sin itself, without sinning themselves. Like the young men in the Book of Daniel, Christians must be able walk around inside the flames without being consumed themselves, safe, singing sacred songs in the heart of the blaze.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

What I believe

2010-07-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

Nobody gets to tell me that I’m not a Catholic.
What I believe - The Boston Globe:

Catholic social teaching finds church leadership lacking

2010-07-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

I think the moral authority of the church's leadership today has never been weaker. It is, therefore, important in my view that church leadership, instead of giving an impression of its power, privilege and prestige, should rather be experienced as a humble, searching ministry together with its people in order to discern the most appropriate or viable responses which can be made to complex ethical and moral questions -- a leadership, therefore, which does not presume to have all the answers all the time.
But to change focus a bit. One of the truly significant contributions of the church to the building up of a world in which people and communities can live in peace and dignity, with a quality of life which befits those made in God's image, has been the body of what has been called "Catholic Social Teaching", a compendium of which has been released during the past few years. These social teaching principles are: The Common Good, Solidarity, The Option for the Poor, Subsidiarity, The Common Destiny of Goods, The Integrity of Creation, and People-Centerdness -- all based on and flowing out of the values of the Gospel. Here we have very relevant principles and guidelines to engage with complex social, economic, cultural and political realities, especially as these affect the poorest and most vulnerable members of societies everywhere. These principles should enable us, as church, to critique constructively all socio-political-economic systems and policies - and especially from that viewpoint, viz. their effect on the poorest and most vulnerable in society.
However, if church leadership anywhere presumes to criticize or critique socio-political-economic policies and policy makers, or governments, it must also allow itself to be critiqued in the same way in terms of its policies, its internal life, and especially its modus operandi. A democratic culture and praxis, with its focus on the participation of citizens and holding accountable those who are elected to govern, is increasingly appreciated in spite of inevitable human shortcomings. When thinking people of all persuasions look at church leadership, they raise questions about, for example, real participation of the membership in its governance and how in fact church leadership is to be held accountable, and to whom. If the church, and its leadership, professes to follow the values of the Gospel and the principles of Catholic Social Teaching, then its internal life, its methods of governing and its use of authority will be scrutinized on the basis of what we profess.

The whole article: Catholic social teaching finds church leadership lacking | National Catholic Reporter

A Fear-based Church?

2010-07-09T09:54:00.000-07:00

Why not be "open and honest" with everyone?

America Magazine

Sunday, July 4

2010-07-02T01:10:00.001-07:00

Carrying Tension

“Go on your way; behold, I am sending you like lambs among wolves” (Lk 10:3).

One of the things we’re asked to do as Christians is to help “take away the sins of the world” as Jesus did. How?

Jesus “took away the sins of the world” by holding, carrying, purifying, and transforming tension, that is, by taking in the bitterness, anger, jealousy, hatred, slander, and every other kind of thing that’s cancerous within human community, and not giving it back in kind.

In essence, Jesus did this by acting like a purifier, a water filter of sorts: He took in hatred, held it, transformed it, and gave back love; he took in bitterness, held it, transformed it, and gave back graciousness; he took in curses, held them transformed them, and gave back blessing; and he took in murder, held it, transformed it, and gave back forgiveness. Jesus resisted the instinct to give back in kind, hatred for hatred, curses for curses, jealousy for jealousy, murder for murder. He held and transformed these things rather than simply re-transmit them.

And, in this, he wants imitation, not admiration. Christian discipleship invites us, like Jesus, to become a “lamb of God”, a purifier, that helps take tension out of our families, communities, friendship circles, churches, and work-places by holding and transforming it rather than simply give it back in kind.

But that’s not easy. Jesus did this, but the gospels say that he had to “sweat blood” to achieve it. To carry tension is to fill with tension ourselves and, as we know, this can be unbearable. We don’t have God’s strength and we aren’t made of steel. As we try to carry tension for others, what do we do with our own tensions? How do we carry tension without becoming resentful and bitter? How do we carry another’s cross without, however subtly, sending him or her the bill?

This isn’t easy, as every health professional can tell you. Tension wreaks havoc inside us, physically and emotionally. You can die of high blood pressure or of disappointment. But there are some rules that can help.

First, carrying tension for others does not mean putting up with abuse or not confronting pathologically or clinical dysfunction. To love someone, as we now know, does not mean accepting abuse in the name of love.

Second, we need to find healthy outlets to release our own tensions. However we should never download them on the same people for whom we are trying to carry them. For example, parents carry tension for their children, but, when frustrations build up, they should not angrily vent those frustrations back on the kids themselves. Rather they should deal with their own tensions away from the children, with each other and with friends, when the kids are in bed, over a bottle of wine. The same holds true for everyone: We should never vent our frustrations on the very person or persons for whom we are trying to carry tension.

Finally, in order to deal with the frustrations that build up in us, we need, in the midst of the tensions, to be connected to something (a person, a friendship, a hand, a God, a creed, a perspective) beyond ourselves and the situation we’re in.

Scripture offers some wonderful images for this. It tells us, for example, that as Steven was being stoned to death out of hatred and jealousy, he kept his “eyes raised to heaven”. That’s not so much a physical description of things, as every artist knows, but a commentary on how Steven kept himself from drowning in the spinning chaos that was assaulting him. He stayed connected to a person, a hand, a friendship, an affirmation, a perspective, and a divine power outside of the madness.

We see the same thing, just a different metaphor, in the story of the three young men who are thrown into the blazing furnace in the Book of Daniel. We’re told that they walked around, right in the midst of the flames, untouched by the fire because they were singing sacred songs. Like Steven, they sustained their love and faith amidst bitter jealousy and hatred by staying connected to something outside of the fiery forces that were consuming everyone else.

We need to contemplate that lesson. Like Jesus, and like everyone else who’s ever walked this planet, we all find ourselves forever inside families, communities, churches, friendships, and work-circles that are filled with tension of every kind. Our natural temptation, always, is to simply give back in kind, jealousy for jealousy, gossip for gossip, anger for anger. But what our world really needs is for some women and men, adults, to step forward and help carry and purify this tension, to help take it away by transforming it inside themselves.

But that’s not easy. Like Jesus, it will involve “sweating blood”. So, as we volunteer to step into the fire, it’s wise not to go in alone, but to stay connected to some hand, some friend, some creed, and some God who will help sustain us in love and faith, right inside the madness and fire.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

Sunday, June 27

2010-06-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

Take... follow...

Jesus makes a gesture in the opening line of today's gospel he has been building up to all through his healing and preaching ministry. Last week he told us that, "The Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised."

He has been traveling with his disciples and opposition to him has been mounting. If he continues on his current path he can see where it will lead him--to suffering and death. Last week he invited us to join him on his journey; deny ourselves, pick up our cross and follow him. Which leads us to the opening gesture Jesus makes and its dramatic significance. Luke tells us, "...he resolutely determined to journey to Jerusalem." (Another translation says, "He stiffened his face.") Not to be crass, but to use a slang expression, Jesus is "putting his money where his mouth is."

In other words, he turns and heads "resolutely" to the place that holds suffering and death for him. What he has asked his disciples to do, Jesus does first. He denies self and takes up his cross daily. From this point on each day Jesus will repeat his gesture "resolutely" and continue towards Jerusalem. He will do daily what he has asked of us. The journey to Jerusalem has begun in earnest and we are invited to follow.

Journey is a common theme in many religious and spiritual traditions. These traditions and their spiritual guides ask the devotee to leave behind their accustomed world with its allusions of security and its props that have supported their lives to this point and move on to a new, but unfamiliar place. Why make this shift; why inconvenience oneself, suffer loss and let go of the familiar for the uncertain? Why walk a precarious and unclear path when the well-worn and known are right before us? Because we sense the end of the journey will yield new light and meaning for our lives. Indeed, even along the journey we will get hints and glimpses that assure us we have made the right choice.

Jesus, our spiritual guide, invites his disciples to join him on his journey. Along the way he will continue to teach and show them what following him involves. He's not promising them answers to all their questions, or a resolution to their doubts. He advises them that sacrifice will be daily. While they won't have the satisfaction of always knowing what's going on, they will have Jesus with them each step of the way. He will correct them when they want to overstep their bounds and forgive them when they do. He will help them leave behind comfort and travel lightly. Whatever success they experience will not be due to their foresight and the equipment they carry, but to Jesus who blesses the poor in spirit.

The cost of discipleship stares us in the face today at the very beginning of the journey. Soon after today's episodes the disciples will start asking Jesus about what's required of a serious follower of Jesus. Evidenced by today's gospel they have much to learn. Jesus will teach James and John to put aside their vindictive and prideful ways, their feelings of rejection and anger because of the Samaritans' rejection and tell them that they must move on, "journey to another village." Isn't it hard to let go of an offense done us and get on with our lives? The One who's leading us on our journey can help us do that today.

It's clear that following Jesus is not a part-time endeavor. It requires full commitment; even if that means putting aside other important relationships. In Luke there are stories of the gentle Jesus who heals the sick, welcomes the stranger and eats with sinners. But today we don't want to water-down what he is asking of us: single-minded and total dedication. If what he says to the potential disciples in today's gospel unsettles us--so be it. Let's sit with his words for a while and reflect on where we are at this stage of our journey with him. What must we leave behind, what re-ordering must we do to respond again to a word from Jesus that's full of promise, "Follow me"?

All the road trips I've made end up back home. As much as I enjoy the new places and the people I meet, I look forward to returning home to my familiar room, neighborhood and to my community. I like returning to the security of the customary routines of my life. But there is no going home again when we follow Jesus -- it's a one-way trip to the unknown. What's worse, there's no map when a choice or fork in the road happens. I have been surprised by the twists and turns my life has taken. More than once in my life I've said, "I never thought I'd be doing this!" Or, "How did I wind up here?" Haven't you said the same, more than once, along the Christ-road?

Have you ever been lost in a new city and asked a stranger for directions and, instead of pointing out the way, he or she said, "Come, I'll show you"? You decided to trust them as they accompanied you a block or two and took you to your destination. Your trust in them was rewarded, you were no longer lost, but had arrived at your destination. Sounds like today's gospel: except we are still on the road, trusting and keeping our eyes fixed on the One who said, "Follow me," and who will take us where we want to go.

What about the homelessness Jesus predicts for those who follow him ("... the Son Man has nowhere to lay his head.")? Most people don't actually sell all and take to the road when they commit or re-commit themselves to following Jesus. But that doesn't mean they don't experience a form of homelessness as they find themselves: giving up some of the comforts of modern living to simplify their lives: making Christian choices that set them apart from their accustomed friends; deciding not to put the next room on their house and instead giving their money and their time to Habitat for Humanity. Ministry in Jesus' name may take us out of our homes ("homeless") once or twice a week to: visit a jail; help out at the parish; tutor an immigrant or donate our professional skills to students in need at the local school.

Following Jesus may require even larger sacrifices as we meet opposition and suffering for what we believe. This faith we have as Christ's followers isn't for wimps! But still, even among the strongest, who among us can fully live up to what he asks of us? The first disciples went on the road to Jerusalem with Jesus, knew him personally and walked side by side with him, and then failed him miserably. If we are going to complete the course then we are going to have to trust him. We can't go on without him on our own, we will get lost or sidetracked. Following Jesus for a few days might not be so hard; but staying on the journey to the and will require more than we have.

The Scriptures we hear today and the Eucharist we will receive are our food for the long haul. What we cannot do on our own we can do with Jesus. Today we hear again Jesus' invitation, "Follow me," at this new stage of our lives with all its challenges and obstacles to our faith. When we come up to Communion today we are answering the call we have heard and are coming to receive the One who will be with us each step of the journey that lies ahead.

Jude Siciliano, OP.

God in the Tangled Sheets

2010-06-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

If marriage is a source of sacramental grace, why are we as a church so uncomfortable about sex?

America Magazine - God in the Tangled Sheets

The Big Spill

2010-06-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

The Sacrament in the Gulf

The rig rests in the depths of the Gulf bleeding oil from its ruins, bleeding symbolically for the fishermen and workers it has visited with loss. A Tower of media Babel has risen above it, from which pundits analyze the wreck as an economic problem to be calculated, a political crisis not to be wasted, or an engineering puzzle to be solved. But even religious leaders have not yet spoken of this event as a spiritual Mystery that tracks our daily pilgrimage as a biblical pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night did that of the Israelites in Exodus.

Like the Titanic, Pearl Harbor, and 9/11, the oil rig disaster is a sensation but it is also a sacrament. We can never get enough of these earlier events in books, movies, and television documentaries because although we may resolve their historical details because they partake of Mystery with a capital M, we can never exhaust their revelation. We stumble on the hard rock of mystery with a small m when religious leaders, whose calling is to help us identify and enter into Spiritual Mystery, speak about great tragedies in pieties whose shallowness is mocked by the depth of what has occurred.

How can it be that so many of our leaders speak so comfortably of visions in far countries and enthusiastically lead pilgrimages to them when they cannot see the sacramental events that happen before their eyes?

For the terrible events in the Gulf are filled with the images of Mystery and of the themes of the Christian spiritual tradition. The rig went down in an explosion of earth, air, fire, and water, the elements of Creation, embracing men in its grasp as, like the Titanic, it descended into the waters that symbolize our own depths. We are all Jonah in the belly of the great fish in the Old Testament story that prefigures the death and resurrection theme of the New Testament. Are we not all fishermen standing on the shore waiting to cast our nets into the deep for its catch of spiritual Mystery?

The Jewish people passed into Egypt by water, through the well in the story of Joseph, and left Egypt through the waters by making their way safely through the Red Sea. The Gulf draws us to this Mystery about which Joseph Campbell asks, "Who comes out of the water? Who went into the water?"

Campbell answers that, if the Patriarchs went into the water, a People emerged from them. The Gulf speaks to our depths of this biblical motif, for Egypt was considered a land of mud but as the Jewish people arise from alien Egypt as the pearl does from the sea, so Christ rises from the tomb. Out of these same mythic depths come the themes of the fish as a symbol of belief and of the waters of baptism as our spiritual cleansing.

From the muddy bottom of the Gulf where the rig lies like the fated tree of Eden, a spiritual revelation speaks from behind the headlines to us. Religious leaders find it difficult to identify these mysteries because they were trained to be bookkeepers and administrators. Poets and prophets are not recruited for the bishopric resulting in the contented paralysis of clerical culture. Its members are trapped in the muddy earth and cannot easily pull free to identify the coral reef wonders of Mystery that glow with sacramental revelation in the depths of the Gulf.

The Mystery that bubbles out of the Gulf parallels the way Vatican I Catholics would allow Vatican II to bleed to death out of our sight. For if the Jewish Patriarchs went into the water but the Jewish People emerged, so the ecclesiastical Patriarchs went into the deep waters of Vatican II but a People of God emerged. In Vatican II the Church remembered that it was not a collection of buildings and laws controlled by powerful patriarchs, but rather the living Mystery of a People of God. The revelation for us is the reaffirmation of that vision of the Church as a People in the sacramental Mystery that now speaks to our depths from the depths of the Gulf.

[Eugene Cullen Kennedy is emeritus professor of psychology at Loyola University, Chicago.]

NCR

Vision test

2010-06-12T04:17:00.000-07:00

“Do you see this woman?”

The Pharisee looks at her and sees only a sinner.

Jesus looks at her and sees a sinner who repents.

He sees her tremendous humility,

her great sorrow,

her desire to minister to him,

her “great love,”

her saving faith.

What does Jesus see when he looks at us?

What do we see when we look at one another?

We tend to find it easier to stereotype people

than to look into their hearts

and really see them

for who they are.

As followers of Jesus

we are called to see others as he does.

Article of faith

2010-06-11T23:11:00.000-07:00

No caste system among the disciples of Jesus.

The Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus

2010-06-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

An excellent article in America Magazine.

What Works: Enjoy the Silence - Busted Halo

2010-06-09T19:38:00.000-07:00

What Works: Enjoy the Silence - Busted Halo

The Body and Blood of Christ

2010-06-05T14:17:00.000-07:00

A Hard Question

When the disciples came to Jesus with the request to dismiss the people to go find food, Jesus challenged them with the question: Why do you not give them something to eat yourselves? That question should haunt us today.

More than enough food is grown to feed everyone on this planet. Why do you not give them something to eat yourselves?

More than 60,000 people will die of hunger on this feast of the Body and Blood of Christ. Two-thirds of them will be children. Why do you not give them something to eat yourselves?

Nearly one in five people worldwide is chronically malnourished—too hungry to lead a productive, active life. Why do you not give them something to eat yourselves?

One-third of the world’s children are significantly underweight for their age. Why do you not give them something to eat yourselves?

The amount of money the world spends on weapons in one minute could feed 2,000 malnourished children for a year. Why do you not give them something to eat yourselves?

Jesus is our living bread. It is his obvious intention that we be well fed. The Eucharist, a great gift from the same God that sent the manna in the desert, should strengthen the determination of both the hungry and the satisfied to do what it takes to eliminate hunger.

“If a person is in extreme necessity, he has the right to take from the riches of others what he himself needs.”

Vatican II, Constitution on the Church in the Modern World (1965) 69

Jim Wallis on the Deepwater Horizon spill

2010-06-03T16:47:00.000-07:00

[Jim Wallis is an evangelical Christian writer and political activist, best known as the founder and editor of Sojourners magazine and of the Washington, D.C.-based community of the same name. He is author of God’s Politics: Why the Right Gets It Wrong and the Left Doesn’t Get It (Harper) and The Soul of Politics (HarperCollins).]

I interviewed him June 2.

What are your feelings about the Deepwater Horizon spill in the Gulf of Mexico as the technological solutions continue to fail?

I think the announcement last weekend that the top kill had failed marked a critical shift in the issue. The conversation up until then has been dominated by technological issues, how to make oil drilling safe. The fact that they can’t fix it now until late summer shifted the whole picture.

To me, it’s a picture of addiction. What happens with addiction is that after a while it makes your life not work. There’s a lot of denial until you lose your job or family or home or self respect, then finally there is a moment of epiphany and conversion. “Hello, my name is John S. and I’m an alcoholic.” That’s a moment of redemption and redirection.

What we see in the heartbreaking pictures of out-of-work shrimpers, wheezing clean-up workers, or oil-soaked wildlife are the effects of this addiction. I was doing the Chris Matthews show last weekend; his focus was on politics, BP and Obama. But now these pictures from Louisiana show that our life as we have organized it isn’t working. Our addiction to oil is making our lives dysfunctional.

Whether it’s the Gulf coast wetlands, tourism, or livelihoods -- when this touches Florida then it will become a national issue. Mississippi, Alabama or Louisiana are just southern states but Florida is America, the destination state for East coasters.

What does our Christian moral and spiritual vision bring to the discussion?

It’s heartbreaking as we see how this is spilling out of control. The only redemptive thing here will be if it really does change us, if we take a long look in the mirror. It reminds me of Chesterton when asked what he thought was most wrong with the world. He responded, “I am.”

We did a powerful piece on our blog by a young woman, Tracy Bianchi, who drove her family from Illinois to Wisconsin on the Memorial Day weekend. She reflected on being in bumper to bumper traffic as Illinois people conveyed themselves to Wisconsin “ …so we could be next to a lake watching all this unfold and criticizing BP. But rarely do I hear anyone getting angry with themselves. Really though, I am part of the reason for that oil spill. As I sat on the highway with thousands of motorists, all fresh off a weekend that chugged down gallons of gas to fuel boats and other recreational toys, I was reminded once again of the total dichotomy that is my life. On the one hand I want to sit back all smug and hope for the demise of BP and all things petroleum. But I cannot be so quick to hate the oil companies since I really like their product. It gets me from point A to B on a daily basis and it launches me into the state of Wisconsin whenever I need a vacation.”

It’s not just that BP is lying. BP is a lie. Everything BP stands for is a lie. It’s not just them, though, it’s our participation as well.

I’m not often touched by advertising but some of the ads I’ve seen of soldiers who come back from Iraq and Afghanistan, saying that to change our lifestyle would be hard but no harder than what we all asked those soldiers to do in Iraq and Afghanistan, have gotten to me.

“I was fighting because I thought my country was under attack, not for oil companies,” they say.

We’ve had many teachable moments over the last 10 years, like 9/11 or Katrina, which we chose to move beyond without learning much. Whether this can be another moment we can miss or one that finally gets our attention is the question.

The faith community can and should now get involved. When it was a who’s in charge, who’s going to pay issue, there wasn’t much role for us but now there is. Chris Matthews told me: “Well, Jim, you’re going further and deeper than we usually get on this show.” He was right: Further and deeper is what is called for.

The nation needs a moral teacher. Matthews is convinced it can only be politicians but I think we of the Christian faith community need to step in. To move from fossil fuels to clean energy sources will take a re-wiring of our energy grid but it also will take a re-wiring of ourselves, our assumptions, demands, expectations, our requirements. I think this could be the beginning of a serious national reflection about our whole way of life. I’m not saying it will be so, because the forces against that are enormous, to keep us from really looking at how we live.

We have a moment of opportunity, especially as the quick fixes fail. It’s clearly a moral issue. It’s time for moral reflection about our whole way of life, and the Christian community has a key role to play. It’s bipartisan as well. Both parties are equally guilty. Once you move beyond politics it’s about a conversion process, about changing our habits of the heart, our way of living.

National Catholic Reporter

Trinity Sunday

2010-05-29T14:47:00.001-07:00

“A Survey of God”

There are two basic questions about God. Does God exist? And what does God have to do with us?

The existence of God is a modern question. Ancient scripture said: “Only a fool says in his heart that there is no God” (Ps 1). Notice that the heart is the culprit. It was inconceivable then that anyone could look at the world and rationally conclude that it was self-starting. But if the heart were hardened, a person might talk herself into disbelief.

Ancient people knew so little about the workings of the world that they spontaneously handed the reins over to gods. And, lacking a sophisticated philosophy, they imagined their gods to be merely super-mortals.

Then came the monotheistic God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. This single God ruled unquestionably over every aspect of creation. And though he condescended to relate to humans, this God was so far above humanity that he could not be imaged or even named.

Then came the God of Jesus. Jesus was the human expression of the God who created, ruled, sustained, judged and saved humankind. This Jesus of history was slightly modified into the Christ of faith by the evangelists. Which paved the way for the God of the theologians, who analyzed God into three persons and Christ into two natures.

This was too complicated for the Deists, whose minds told them that there had to be an infinite Intelligence to run the world, but whose heart could not hold a personal relationship to that Infinite Mind. They described their god as a master clockmaker who created a mechanistic world, then left it on its own.

The world then felt so much on its own, felt so keenly the absence of God, that it decided God was dead. This was not a diagnosis of divinity, but of the human condition. Many people simply did not know what to do with God, so they decided to live as if there were none. Many said in their hearts: “There is no God.”

Every historical concept of God responded to the felt needs of that period. Otherwise, that God would not have been very popularly accepted.

When we deal with God, we must make sure we are not confusing God with the nature gods who control the weather, or mythical gods a level above us, or an indifferent mastermind who keeps order, or a make-believe spirit whom we pretend has left us to ourselves.

The Christian God is first of all communitarian. Tri-unitarian. God is primarily relational. Father, Son and Spirit are who they are by doing what they do: relate to each other. Then, God creates outside beings to relate to. God relates to rocks and maples and tigers and humans according to their capacity to respond. Absolutely nothing can exist outside of some direct relationship with God.

The relationship with humankind took a definitive step when God promised Abraham that his descendants would have a special covenant with God. And when God revealed himself in the humanity of Jesus. God’s future was forever linked with the destiny of humans. God’s life is henceforth incomplete without humankind; God’s happiness now depends on the happiness of humanity.

That means that God is intensely involved in each person’s life. While God watches over the unfolding evolution and the decline of whole civilizations, he also keeps his eye on every individual. God takes responsibility for every single thing that God has created. In the case of humans, God assumed personal responsibility for each one. It’s hard to believe that God cares so much about us. But a God who would not die for you is just another self-centered idol.

Fr. James Smith

Look into Oblate Mission Associates

2010-05-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

Oblate Mission Associates | causes.com

Have you ever thought about helping Oblate missionaries in Kenya, Latin America, and other places worldwide?

You can start by spreading the word to your friends who might be interested. You will be doing them a favour!

Thank you.

Solidarity in Doing Good

Spirit of God, teach us to collaborate
with the others who labour for the Gospel.
Inspire us with a welcoming attitude
toward believers in all religions;
teach us solidarity in goodness
with persons who pledge themselves
to promote the values of the coming Kingdom,
such as peace, justice, love, freedom.
Spirit of the Son, teach us to be like God, our Father,
who sees what is good in all persons of good will. AMEN
(Hervé Aubin OMI, adapted from the Oblate Constitutions and a text of Fr. Jette)

Loving Like Father, Son and Spirit

2010-05-28T12:55:00.000-07:00

The Kenosis of God

Not only that, but we even boast of our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance, proven character, and proven character, hope, and hope does not disappoint (Romans 5:3-5a).

(In 2002), in a presentation at a symposium on “Being Missionaries to our own Children”, Michael Downey posed this question: How do we speak of God inside a culture that’s pathologically distracted, distrusts religious language and church institutions, and yet carries its own moral energy and virtue?

That’s a key question today, when so many of our own children, siblings, and friends no longer go to church and are challenging our religious beliefs. They certainly fit Downey’s description: Distracted, distrustful of religious language and church institutions, yet carrying a lot of moral energy in their own way. Where do we go with that?

Downey’s answer? Among other things, he suggests that we need an image of God and of Jesus that can show what God does in these situations. What image of Jesus might be helpful here?

There are, as we know, many images of Christ, both in scripture and in our church traditions. Christ is presented variously as “shepherd”, “king”, “teacher”, “miracle-worker”, “healer”, “bread of life”, “sacrificial lamb”, “lover”, among other things. Different ages have tended, for their own reasons, to pick up more on one of these than the others. What might be a fruitful image of Christ for our culture, one within which so many of our own children no longer walk the path of explicit faith with us?

Downey’s suggestion: The image of Christ as the kenosis of God; Jesus as divine self-abandonment; God as emptying himself in the incarnation. What does this mean?

Scripture tells us that, in Christ, God offers a love so pure, so self- effacing, so understanding of our weaknesses, so self-sacrificing, so “self-emptying”, that it’s offered without any demand, however veiled, that it be recognized, met, and reciprocated in kind. In the incarnation, God, like a good mother or father, is more concerned that his children are steered in the right direction than that he, himself, be explicitly recognized and acknowledged for who he is and thanked for it. God, like any parent, takes a huge risk in having children. To have children is to leave yourself painfully vulnerable. It’s also to be called upon for an understanding, a patience, and a self-dethroning that, literally, can empty you of self. That’s as true of God as of any mother or father

What are the qualities of this “self-emptying”?

To “self-empty” in the way Jesus is described as doing means being present without demanding that your presence be recognized and its importance acknowledged; it means giving without demanding that your generosity be reciprocated; it means being invitational rather than threatening, healthily solicitous rather than nagging or coercive; it means being vulnerable and helpless, unable to protect yourself against the pain of being taken for granted or rejected; it means living in a great patience that doesn’t demand intervention, divine or human, when things don’t unfold according to your will; it means letting God be God and others be themselves without either having to submit to your wishes or your timetable. Not an easy thing at all, that’s why we’ve sung Jesus’ praises for two thousand years for doing it, but that’s the invitation.

We need a theology of God and an image of Christ that can give us an horizon and some hope as we struggle to be missionaries in the toughest mission field of all today, our own culture with its own innate virtue and its own innate inattentiveness to God and church. Downey’s suggestion that we take as our horizon God’s “self-emptying” in Jesus is, I believe, a very good one. Properly understood, that image can show us where and how to stand in faith inside a culture that likes to think it’s outgrown faith.

At that same symposium, a social-worker from Quebec, Vivian Labrie, in her keynote address, made this statement: “I believe that God is mature enough that he doesn't demand to be always the centre of our conscious attention.” While that statement needs some nuance, it is, in its own way, a commentary on the famous Christological hymn in Philippians (2:6-11) which describes Jesus' “self-emptying” in the incarnation.

When a mother or father sits down at table with the family, she or he doesn’t need, want, nor expect, to be the centre of attention, a prerogative a healthy adult generally cedes to the kids. What he or she does need and want is that the family be happy, respect each other, respect the ethos and aesthetics that the family values, and that everyone is essentially on the right track in his or her life so that each family member knows what’s ultimately sacred, moral, and important, even if a given member doesn’t, at this particular moment, recognize or credit the family for what he or she has been given to prepare him or her for life and happiness.

This is even more true of God, whose love, understanding, patience are beyond our own and who, like any good parent, doesn’t demand to be always the centre of our conscious attention.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

Whatever happened to the middle? | National Catholic Reporter

2010-05-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

“A house divided against itself,” the scripture warns, “cannot stand.”

Whatever happened to the middle? | National Catholic Reporter

New Verses

2010-05-24T23:15:00.000-07:00

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The Spirit's Gifts

In the great crises of poetry, what matters is not to denounce bad poets, nor worse still to hang them, but to write beautiful verses, to reopen the sacred sources.” So wrote Georges Bernanos, reflecting on what the church needed to do in the time of Martin Luther. Today, as the church faces a worldwide crisis over the abuse of minors by clergy compounded by failures of hierarchical leadership, and even corruption, Catholics are turning once more to the lifesprings of faith to write beautiful verse. The “living source,” fons vivus, of the Christian life, as the chanting of the Veni Creator Spiritus reminds us each Pentecost, is God the Spirit dwelling in us and flowing out from us to fill the whole earth. It is the indwelling Spirit who prays with unutterable groaning when we do not know how to pray. It is the Spirit who pours out joy into our hearts and provides us with words of witness when the faith is under attack—from without and within. It is the same Spirit who will enable Catholics, especially in these cloud-dark days, to sing new verses.

The first Pentecost is often described, poetically and theologically, as the birthday of the church. Almost 50 years ago, Pope John XXIII heralded the Second Vatican Council as a new Pentecost, and the council fathers and later theologians looked on it as a unique work of the Spirit in our times. Pentecost, however, is an ongoing event; God’s Spirit gives the church a new birth in every generation. With the Spirit working in us, we can be sure God will write new verses for the church to deliver. Pentecost is a time for the church to take note of the varieties of gifts through which the Spirit is already rebuilding the church following the failures of decades. Among those we would note are: the National Leadership Roundtable on Church Management, the retrieval by religious congregations of their founding charisms, lay pastoral associates, lay people ministering in hospitals and prisons, novel education programs for the poor and service by young people and seniors.

The council reminded us that the Spirit bestows gifts on each of us for the good of all. The council celebrated these charisms as building up the church in conjunction with the gifts of office. In intervening years, however, the very idea of a variety of charisms given for the good of the whole church has been depreciated. With the exception of a few notable movements, many charisms bestowed on the faithful have suffocated under the weight of office and been neglected or even dismissed as unwarranted in the established order of church life. Charism and office should be complementary gifts, as they have been in the Catholic tradition.

For his part, Pope Benedict XVI has been steady in his teaching that charisms bring vitality to the church. Addressing the clergy of Rome in 2007, he reminded his listeners that “new forms of life are being born in the church, just as they were born down the ages.” With pastoral sensitivity, he understood the necessity of a multiplicity of charisms to enable the church to thrive in surprising ways. He also had the wisdom to anticipate how necessarily disruptive and challenging God’s gifts can be, especially for administrators. So he counseled his audience to gentleness and patience in exercising their pastoral responsibility for coordinating gifts in the local community. “The first rule,” he told them, “is: do not extinguish Christian charisms; be grateful even if they are inconvenient.”

For the church to flourish anew, there needs to be a reciprocity of gifts among believers and between believers and pastors. Gratitude for the gifts others bring to church life ought not be given reluctantly, but should come as a spontaneous and active response, the better to strengthen the bonds that unite the community. Men and women of faith, as the council taught, “have a right and a duty” to exercise their specific gifts in the bonds of charity for the good of the whole church, and when they do so, they ought to “enjoy the freedom of the Holy Spirit.” In this ongoing Pentecost, there should be neither passivity nor domination, but mutual appreciation in pastoral relationships. The church suffers both from acquiescent parishioners and heavy-handed pastors, bishops and other church officials. Neither a passive faith, nor a domineering one manifests the Spirit or truly does the Spirit’s work. Only in reverent attention to and acceptance of the gifts of all is the Spirit not quenched (1 Thes 4:19).

In the church’s new birth, a birth by fire, some things must die. The heavy, static architecture of the overly hierarchical, pyramidal image of the church inherited from Rome and Byzantium is at the point of giving way to the more airy, light-filled style of the church as a community of disciples on mission, with the Spirit infusing and guiding the church at all levels—faithful, clergy and hierarchy. This Pentecost the Spirit is at work bringing new life to the church—if only we listen and do not quench the Spirit.

from America Magazine

PENTECOST 2010

2010-05-22T15:12:00.000-07:00

Remaining in the Upper Room

When the time for Pentecost was fulfilled, they were all in one place together (Acts 2:1).

Peter Maurin, the man who helped Dorothy Day found the CATHOLIC WORKER, used say: “When you don’t know what else to do, keep going to meetings!” Sound advice.

Jesus, it seems, would agree. At the end of Luke’s gospel, just before he departs this earth, he gives his rather shaky group of followers this counsel: “Return to the city and don’t leave until you feel yourself clothed with power from on high!” We find out later, in the Acts of the Apostles, how his followers interpreted that. They met and waited together in an “upper room” until they felt the fire of pentecost.

When one tries to name the present moment in the church, few metaphors are as penetrating, as fertile a field for reflection, and as descriptive of what is actually happening as is this biblical image—a formerly-confident-but-now-somewhat-deflated group of disciples is huddled together in an upper room, confused and out of gas, needing to be recharged with power from above. That’s us; except our upper rooms are legion - church meetings of every kind, diocesan synods, ministerial associations, congresses on how to refound religious life, ecumenical meetings, pastoral institutes, social-justice commissions, efforts in missiology, institutes on spirituality, and men and women all over the world (in kitchens and monasteries) feeling powerless and praying for God to come anew into our world. Our church meetings are “the upper room”.

Like the original upper room, our venues too are humble, church basements and church conference-centres, with their plastic chairs and disposable cups. The upper room is never glamorous, a de Vinci painting. It’s more like the meeting-room in your local church.

But that’s where we are today, by necessity, waiting for a new health and joy to return after a painful period within which we are being humbled and purified. This is not a time of pride for the church. Secular forces are increasingly marginalizing us; humiliating church-scandals, to the delight of the culture, frequently headline the front pages of our newspapers; and it’s fashionable to be anti-ecclesial and anti-clerical. This isn’t a time to hold one’s ecclesial-head very high.

Much of this, however, can be understood biblically, as a time of pruning, a time in the “upper room”. Much of what is happening in the church today is deserved, the chickens coming home to roost. We lived too long in a time of ecclesial and clerical privilege, forgetting that what we falsely idealize we will soon enough demonize. How we love to see the gods fall! A time of disprivilege will always follow its opposite. There was a time when the church couldn’t do anything wrong. Now it can’t do anything right. So Jesus has sent us back into the upper room, to pray and to wait, to sort out our confusion, and to re-root ourselves in the basics, so as to prepare to receive a new fire.

But that’s only half of it. We are in the upper room today for another reason too: Like the first-followers of Jesus, immediately after his departure, we also don’t know any more what we should be doing. So much of what used to work no longer does. We are finding it ever-harder to pass on our faith to our own children, to fire the religious and romantic imagination of our culture, and to make a religious and moral dent of any kind in the ever-hardening secularity of ordinary consciousness. What should we be doing in the face of declining church attendance, the emptying and greying of our seminaries and convents, the growing agnosticism of our world, and the ecclesial indifference of so many of our own children?

Biblically, this is our answer: Return to the city and remain in the upper room! What is meant by that? In Luke’s writings, “the city” refers to Jerusalem which, itself, is an image for the church, the faith, the dream that Jesus had instilled. To walk away from Jerusalem, as the disciples were doing in walking towards Emmaus, was to walk away from the church, the faith, and the dream. So now, like then, Jesus tells us: “Return to the city, to the dream!” And what is the upper room? The fundamentals. Our faith has some basics, some elementals, a rock-bottom foundation that we need always to fall back on. Too often, for every kind of noble reason, we forget that (irrespective of the importance of the moral or religious struggle we are engaged in) what God ultimately wants of us is charity, patience, understanding, hospitality, humility, prayer, community with each other, forgiveness, and a non-judgemental attitude. To enter the upper room is to re-root ourselves in these and then trust that God will save all those people that we can’t.

And we support others and ourselves in all of this by going to meetings! When you don’t know what else to do, return to the upper room—keep going to meetings!

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

The Ascension of the Lord

2010-05-15T21:42:00.000-07:00

The Mystery Of Saying Goodbye

“When he had said this, as they were looking on, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him from their sight” (Acts 1:9).

When I was 23 years old, in the space of just three months, both my parents died. They were young, I was young, our family was young—too young, we felt, to let them go. But they died despite that and their leaving left a gaping hole in our lives.

But after a time that void began to fill in and our sadness began to dissipate. It didn’t happen quickly. It took a couple of years, but eventually things changed. What was once a cold absence now became a warm presence. Our mother and father came back to us in a new way. We began to feel their presence as a warm nurturing spirit, as a permanent sustaining love. They were now present to us in a deeper way, a way devoid of tension.

When they were still alive, we loved each other, but, as with all families, that love was fraught with some tension. Love and concern can never be given and received without some shadow, some resistance, some irritations, without negative feelings too entering. It’s like that in all families and it’s like that even inside of our most intimate relationships.

Face to face, in this life, there is no such thing as intimacy without a shadow, clear-cut pure love. Mo matter how much we love someone, we will still always experience some feelings of resistance, of disappointment, of irritation, of boredom, of not being understood, of not being properly valued, of needing a private space at times, of being wounded too in this relationship.

But, after our parents died and our grief over their leaving dissipated, their love for us and their presence began to flow into our lives in a way beyond those tensions. We now felt their love without a shadow. In their going away, in their deaths, they were able to give us something that they couldn’t give us as fully when they were with us, namely, presence and love without a shadow.

Why? What happened? Was this simply a question of time healing the wound of death? A question of death making us forget about former tensions and disappointments with each other?

Partly, but there is something deeper involved. Intimacy is a curious thing, deep and paradoxical. Inside intimacy, presence and absence play on each other in such a way that, on a given day and in a given season of a relationship, it is hard to tell which provides the deeper connection.

Sometimes when we are physically present to each other we cannot give each other what we need to and we must go away, at least for a time, in order for that to happen.

Sometimes only our absence can deepen and cleanse our presence. Sometimes it is better that we go away, for a day or for a season. That is part of the mystery, the theology, and the psychology of the Ascension.

At one level, this is a mystery, yet we have a sense of how it works.

As a parent, you experience this when your children grow up and move away. First there is the pain of letting them go, but eventually there is the joy of having those same children come back and stand before you in a new way, as adults now who can befriend you and be with you in a way that they couldn’t as children. But, this doesn’t happen unless your children first go away. Good parents know that by hanging on too tightly, by not giving your children the space within which to be absent, you not only stunt their growth, but you deprive yourselves of eventually having a wonderful adult came back to you with something deeper to give then the dependent love of a child. That’s true in every relationship.

Jesus tries, painstakingly and repeatedly, to teach this to his disciples before his ascension. He tells them, again and again: “It is better for you that I go away. If I do not go away I cannot send you the spirit. You will grieve now, but later you will rejoice.”

It took me years to understand, even partially, what Jesus meant by those words and I’m still struggling, perhaps more in my heart than in my head, to accept that at times we have go away in order for our spirits to bloom more fully and be capable of being received by those we love most, beyond the tensions and irritations that forever cloud relationships.

When children leave home for the first time to begin lives on their own, in one fashion or another, they are saying to their parents what Jesus said to his disciples before his ascension: “It is better for you that I go away. If I do not go away I cannot come back to you in a deeper way!”

We speak those words too every time we walk out of a door, for a long time or even for just a day, and have to say the words: “Good-bye!”

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

Sunday, May 9

2010-05-08T11:38:00.000-07:00

The Holy Spirit Instructs Us

“Unless you are circumcised you cannot be saved.”

Some people from Judea were causing problems in Antioch. They were insisting upon stringent requirements for salvation. Paul and Barnabus appealed to Jerusalem, after which a settlement was reached. The new Gentiles were not to be upset or disturbed. They were notified that, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, the young church was “not to lay on you any burden beyond that which is strictly necessary.”

What was necessary? Abstention from meat sacrificed to idols, the non-consumption of blood and the meat of strangled animals, the avoidance of illicit sexual unions.

Now that is interesting, not only for what is mentioned, but also for what is not. To be sure, the community of Jerusalem was presupposing dedication to the cause of the Lord Jesus, but they were also reluctant to pile obligations onto their new converts.

What about strangled animals and blood? Are these still prohibited? What about idolatry? Might there be some contemporary parallel to this, when animals are slaughtered and sacrificed for the golden calves of money and power? If these practices are currently permissible, have others taken their place in the catalogue of what is strictly necessary?

One can read in the First Letter to Timothy that women ought not to speak in the assembly. The Letter to Titus, for its part, directs that bishops must be of irreproachable character. They ought not to be heavy drinkers or money-grubbers. And they should be married only once—their children solid believers and properly respectful. Now that’s a new twist on the celibacy debate.

On the other hand, what are the practices today that we deem strictly necessary? Inclusive language? Latin Masses? Male homilists? Short sermons?

One of the most seductive temptations of the believer is to identify the will of God with the will of the believer, and not the other way around. God’s will is squeezed into patriotism, leftism, capitalism, feminism, hierarchy, civil law, financial success, ecclesiastical tradition. In extreme cases, the supposed will of God can be harnessed to justify leaving a spouse, breaking a promise, even killing someone, whether Communist, criminal, or oppressor.

The same delusion has occurred when philosophers have mauled the eternal and necessary “law of nature” on behalf of cultural prejudice, class interest, or personal preference. Natural law has sometimes been used to justify the most horrendous of crimes. More often it has been manipulated to legitimate slavery, domination of women, and the exploitation of the poor.

Among the churches, has it ever been heard that a certain practice can never be changed, since it is the will of God? And yet, has the practice been much more significant than the act of circumcision? Clearly circumcision was an important issue. But some of the antagonists seem to have given it the status of unchangeable law.

When I was a novice, a supremely confident novice in the year ahead of me made the pronouncement that two things would never occur. These impossibilities were: a Roman Catholic liturgy in English and a Roman Catholic president. So much for prophecy.

How do we escape fooling ourselves? How do we avoid servitude to merely human laws while we neglect the law of God? How do we guard against the tendency to worship our temporal and cultural fabrications?

Jesus, in the fourth Gospel, promises the Holy Spirit to instruct us in everything and remind us of all he revealed. Is this what led the Jerusalem community to forswear putting heavy burdens on its new believers?

It is Jesus and his word that we ought first and always to remember. Thereby the Holy Spirit instructs us. When we look at Christ, primarily in scripture, it is clear what he is saying: We need repentance; salvation is offered us in his redeeming death and resurrection; and we are called to imitate him in our mission to the world. We likewise encounter him in our community, the church, which from the beginning has given us his word. The scriptures came from the community, under the blessing of the Spirit. So also came our foundational creeds. Moreover, our holy sacramental signs recall and reenact Jesus’ saving power.

Our hierarchies, traditions, teachings, and laws all help us remember. Our holy ones, called saints, and our pieties, called devotions, have ever called us back to his truth. We also see him, as he promised, in the least of our brothers and sisters.

While no one of these can contain all of the mystery of Christ, taken together they are a concert of witnesses to the Easter message.

But one bright truth we should never forget. All ideologies and requirements, all popes and rituals, all theologians and mystics, all laws and traditions, would mean nothing to us as Catholics, if Christ is not risen and has not saved us.

It was no more than good sense to drop circumcision.

John Kavanaugh, S. J. of Saint Louis University

The opportunities of a small parish | National Catholic Reporter

2010-05-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

The Peace PulpitThe opportunities of a small parish | National Catholic Reporter

Mothers' Prayers: PRAYERS BY AND FOR MOTHERS

2010-05-07T13:09:00.000-07:00

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL!
Mothers' Prayers

Development and Peace | Respect of human rights

2010-05-05T12:41:00.000-07:00

Development and Peace | Respect of human rights

HOW ALL WILL KNOW • Sunday, May 2

2010-04-30T22:31:00.000-07:00

Giving Birth to Love

See, I make all things new, says the One who sat on the throne. The second reading is about a vision of a new earth, a new Jerusalem, in which there shall be no more death or mourning, crying out or pain, for the former world has passed away.

The new Jerusalem will be made up of people who love one another. People will not watch in this holy city as their brothers and sisters languish in poverty and hunger, nor will they attack each other in various forms of inhumane treatment, torture, and war. The key to this new world will be love: This is how all will know you for my disciples: your love for one another.

The road to this new Jerusalem will not be an easy one: We must undergo many trials if we are to enter into the reign of God. We enter the road with faith that the risen Lord will give us new purpose and bring us to a new life.

“The entire creation has been groaning till now in an act of giving birth, as it waits for the glory of the children of God to be revealed. Let Christians therefore be convinced that they will yet find the fruits of their own nature and effort cleansed of all impurities in the new earth which God is now preparing for them, and in which there will be the kingdom of justice and love, a kingdom which will be fully perfected when the Lord will come himself.”

Synod of Bishops, Justice in the World (1971) 75

Turn this dreadful moment into a graced moment

2010-04-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

Following is the homily for the Third Sunday of Easter preached by Fr. Michael Ryan at St. James Cathedral in Seattle April 18.

* * * *

The preacher's challenge is to read the Scriptures not only as narratives of the past but as living commentaries on the present. God's Word is not something that was spoken long ago and eventually got frozen in print; no, God's word is alive: every bit as alive as God is, and every bit as active.

I think of this every time I prepare a homily but I thought of it more than ever this week as I reflected on the reading from Acts [Acts 5:27-32, 40b-41] and on the gospel story from John [John 21:1-19 or 21:1-14]. Both are stories of past events but both speak to this moment, too. In the reading from Acts, we saw the apostles on trial before the Sanhedrin, a body that, for the Jewish people, was like the Supreme Court. After being questioned by the High Priest, the apostles were reminded that earlier they had been strictly forbidden to teach about Jesus. Peter responded, speaking for all of them in a way that must have shocked and started the anointed leaders: "We must obey God rather than men," he said!

Don't miss the irony here. Peter, the one who was frightened by a young serving girl into denying that he even knew Jesus, openly defies the divinely constituted religious leaders of his own faith, the men whom everyone regarded as God's representatives, who spoke with God's voice and authority. Peter not only defies them, he appeals to a higher law. But what higher law could there be? Theoretically, none. But the resurrection of Jesus caused Peter to see things differently; he now saw that these men who had a legitimate claim to represent God were, in this case, representing only themselves.

Peter's bold challenge to the Sanhedrin may lose some of its punch for us. We're on Peter's side, after all. We know his importance and can rather easily dismiss the importance of the court of the Sanhedrin. But when Peter stood before them, those men were the ultimate arbiter, the supreme religious authority and Peter dared to stand them down!

It's hard for me not to read all this in light of what is currently happening in our church, and to express the hope that, during this current, painful crisis, our church leaders will hear Peter's words as a challenge to humbly acknowledge that, despite their intentions, instead of speaking for God they have sometimes spoken -- and acted -- all too humanly.

It's hard to be deaf to the growing number of voices (not just from the media but from loyal, faithful members of the church, including some bishops) that are calling for the church to turn this dreadful moment into a graced moment -- a moment of self-examination on a whole array of things: on the way it understands and carries out its sacred mission, the way it exercises power, the way it chooses leaders and holds them to account. These same voices also call for greater transparency in the church; for a greater voice in church governance and decision-making for lay people, including women; and for a greater willingness on the part of church leadership to admit mistakes where they've been made and humbly beg forgiveness. These are voices we should heed.

In this archdiocese we are fortunate to have had leaders who have not claimed special privileges for the church and who have repeatedly done their best to be caring, just, and accountable. Thanks to Archbishop [Alexander] Brunett and both his predecessors (Archbishops [Raymond] Hunthausen and [Thomas] Murphy), Seattle, though not perfect, has for more than 25 years been a pace-setter in the way it has dealt with critical issues surrounding clergy abuse. Would that the rest of the church could make this same claim!

These thoughts and concerns prompted by today's first reading from Acts connect quite naturally for me with today's gospel passage from John. The touching exchange between Jesus and Peter on the shores of the Lake of Galilee is not only a beautiful story but a present challenge. "Do you love me?" Jesus asks Peter, not one time but three, and each time Peter assures him that he does. But words are not enough. "Feed my lambs," Jesus tells him. "Feed my sheep." In other words, you will prove your love for me -- not by what you say but by what you do. And that is as true now as it was then. Jesus is still asking that question and it is now the church's turn to answer. Again, not with words but with deeds. "Do you love me? Feed my lambs. Feed my sheep!"

Honesty compels us to admit that the church has too often put its own perceived interests ahead of the clear and uncompromising command of Jesus to feed, care for, and nourish his flock. At times it has allowed selfish institutional issues and concerns to eclipse the most basic rights of the flock, especially of some of the weakest, most vulnerable members of the flock. This must never happen again.

And, yes, some of the media attacks have been unfair and unbalanced and, yes, the issues we are dealing with are by no means exclusively the church's issues (they are societal issues), and, yes, the moral quicksand of our secular culture deserves some of the blame, but no amount of spreading or sharing the blame can take away the blame that rests squarely with the church.

After he put his questions to Peter, Jesus told him what the future would hold: "When you were younger," he said, "you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." It was Jesus' way of telling Peter about the cost of caring for the flock, the cost of discipleship. And then he repeated for Peter the first words he ever spoke to him, words that would now mean a good deal more to Peter than they did the first time: "Follow me."

My friends in Christ, I believe that these are words Jesus speaks to the church now -- - all of us in the church, but especially those of us in leadership. I hear them as a call to conversion -- deep conversion, a call to exercise power in a whole new way, a call to lead in the humble, strong, yet gentle way of Jesus and to let go of the need to dominate and to control. With Peter, the church needs to let Jesus take us places we'd probably rather not go.

"Do you love me? Feed my lambs, feed my sheep… Follow me!" My friends, Peter's call is now the church's call. And why should the church -- the whole church, leaders and led -- expect better or easier treatment than Peter got? Why should the church, the whole church, not be willing to let go and follow in Peter's footsteps, confident that, while God may indeed take us to places we'd sooner not go, those places will, in the end be the very places we're supposed to go?

Do you love me? Follow me!"

[Fr. Michael Ryan pastor of St. James Cathedral in Seattle.]

Sunday, April 18

2010-04-17T21:22:00.000-07:00

Have you or I ever uttered those words to another? “Do you love me?” Most of us, once beyond childhood, are terrified at the thought of asking such a question. It is hard enough for some men to tell the beloved she is loved. But it can be excruciating to ask, “Do you love me?” How often have teenagers, sometimes eager to profess their love, been found to ask whether they are loved. To ask it. Has one ever asked a friend as much? A brother or sister?

I could think of scores of questions Christ might have put to Peter. Do you promise never to betray me again? Will you finally be more modest in your claims? Do you now, at long last, after having denied me, amend your life? Will you please modulate your vaunted professions of faith? Now do you see why I had to wash your feet? Well, big-mouth?

But none of this. This God-made-flesh is interested in one thing, the heart and face of the one before him. The gift of a person, even tarnished, so like unto glory it was the only image of God that God allowed. The human “yes.” The affirmation, uttered in all its hurt and frailty. The turning of the spirit that won back God’s very heart to the Israelites time and time again. The movement of will that quickened Mary’s fiat. The surge of hope that rises with every human longing.

Jesus said only, “Do you love me?”

What manner of God is this that we worship? What wondrous love has become incarnate to live and die in Jesus Christ? What splendid manner of man was he? How could we not “glory” in such a God?

The Book of Revelation chants, “Worthy is the Lamb. . . . To the one seated on the throne, and to the Lamb, be praise and honor, glory and might, forever and ever.”

It turned out just as Jesus said. Peter became the kind of man who learned to glorify such a God even in his death.

John Kavanaugh, S. J. of Saint Louis University

Second Easter Sunday

2010-04-10T21:36:00.000-07:00

iconographer: Wayne Hajos

Easter as Opening the Doors of Hell

On the evening of that first day of the week, when the doors were locked, where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, “Peace be with you.” (Jn 20:19).

Some years ago a young woman I knew, a university student, fell into a severe depression and attempted suicide. Her family, startled by what had happened, rallied around her. They brought her home and for the next few months tried to provide her with all the best that medicine, psychiatry, the church, and human love could offer. They tried everything, but they couldn’t penetrate the dark hole into which she had descended.

Four months later she killed herself. She had descended into a private hell into which nothing on this side of eternity could any longer enter. She was powerless to open up her own soul for help. I suspect that many of the reasons for her depression were not her fault. She didn’t will herself into that paralysis, circumstance, wound, and bad health put her there. All of us know similar stories.

What’s to be said about this? Does our faith have any answers?

There is a particular line in the Apostles’ Creed which is deeply rooted in the Gospels that does throw light, major light, on this issue. It’s the phrase: He descended to the dead. Or, in some versions: He descended into hell. What is contained in that phrase is, no doubt, the most consoling doctrine in all of religion, Christian or otherwise. What it tells us is that the way Jesus died and rose opened up the gates of death and of hell itself. What does that mean?

This is not a simple teaching. There are different layers of meaning inside of it. At one level, it expresses a Christian belief (which itself needs much explanation) that from the time of the fall of Adam and Eve until Jesus’ death, nobody, no matter how virtuous his or her life might have been, could enter heaven. The gates of heaven were shut and could be opened only by Jesus through his death.

There is an ancient Christian homily (now part of the Office of Readings for Holy Saturday) which paints a picture of this as you might see depicted on an icon. It describes both why nobody could go to heaven before Jesus’ descent into the underworld and how Jesus, once there, wakes up Adam and Eve, and leads them through a now open door to heaven. But that’s an icon, not a literal picture.

The Gospels insert this into a wider concept. In the Gospel of Mark, for instance, we see that is important that Jesus goes into every dark, taboo place on this planet and take God’s light and healing there. Thus Jesus goes into morally taboo places, the singles bars of his time. But he also goes into all other dark, taboo places, particularly into sickness and death. And, for first-century Judaism, there was no place more taboo than death itself. The belief was that human beings were created to enjoy God’s presence in this life and not to die. Death was seen as an evil, the consequence of sin, an alienation from God, a place separated from heaven, with no door in between. Hence to say that Jesus “descended to the dead” was the same as saying he “descended into hell”. All of the dead were considered as separated from God.

One of our major beliefs about Jesus is that, by entering death, he precisely entered this underworld, this Sheol, this place of separation and alienation, this “hell”, and, once there, breathed out God’s light and healing in the same way as, in John’s Gospel, he went through doors that were locked by fear and breathed out peace and forgiveness. By going through locked doors and breathing out peace, he both descends into hell and opens up the gates of heaven.

And this is not something abstract, a creedal statement to be believed. It is still happening. There are many forms of death, Sheol, the underworld, hell. Suicidal depression, incurable bitterness, a wound so deep it can never heal, helplessness inside of a life-destroying addiction, a beaten and crushed spirit, an alienation too deep and long-standing to be overcome, any of these can leave us huddled in a locked room, in some underworld, in some private hell, too weak to open the doors that lead to love and life. The gates of heaven close for many reasons.

That was the case for the young woman described above who killed herself. She was in Sheol. But, I don’t doubt for a second, when she woke on the other side Christ came through her locked doors, stood gently inside of her private hell, and breathed out peace.

In that ancient homily describing Jesus’ descent into hell, as Jesus wakes up Adam he says to him: I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. . . . Arise, let us leave this place! No doubt this is what Jesus said too to this young woman, and then he opened the gates of heaven for her just as he once opened those same gates for Adam and Eve.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

The vigil readings

2010-04-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

A plunge he need not have made

“The story seemed like nonsense, and they refused to believe it.”

Light and Goodness. Let it be. Heavens and earth, day and night. Movements of moon and stars that would never have been, had they not been willed into existence. Water, sky, and earth. The great parade of natural kinds, nurtured by earth, fills the horizons. Waters teem and trees flower. Fertility. Multiplicity. Creeping creatures, urgent and easy, wild and gentle, small and great. God is the original environmentalist, the first cause of all our species, the eternal lover of diversity. Good. Yes.

Then the final good gift. “God created them in God’s own image; male and female God created them.” This final nature, a human one, would be given all else: as gift to nurture, name, and affirm. All is benefaction, and the human, made specially in the likeness of God, is empowered to know existence and pronounce it all good. All is benediction.

At least one might have thought so. But the creature with the power to name, with the freedom of “yes,” said “no.” It was a rejection of the great order and the great orders. There would be a resounding “no” to the goodness of limits. The tempter was a liar. They already had the tree of life as their shade and comfort. They would not die anyway. They were already like unto God. And yet, resistant to the very condition of their creaturehood they ate of the tree of limits. They wanted more than the power to name all the goods of the earth. They wanted to name evil, to dictate right and wrong. They wanted to control all, even if it meant losing everything they were.

In exile, there was left to them either despair or faith in a journey back. But such a journey could be led only by one who knew the way, only by one who could be absolutely trusted, one wholly other than the namers who misnamed it all. Thus Abraham, against all hope, learned to place all hope in the promise that God made, to yield and obey at the core of his very being. Thus he became the ancestor of all faith, even in the face of total loss.

The return was rife with peril, traps set by alien powers. Our people were horrified by the odds. The sea of frenzied life seemed impassible. Yet steadfast Moses, armed with nothing more than the “other’s” promise, split the very sea in two, offering passage. He became the ancestral leader of all journeys.

The return had its snares, captivities of every manner. Our forebears, like us, knew days and years of being lost and abandoned. Moved by our affliction, the one who first pronounced us good consoles us in prophetic voice. “With great tenderness I will take you back ... with enduring love I will pity you.” The covenants of Eden, of Noah, Abraham, and Moses will never be forgotten.

Something new is promised: a water, not of chaos, but of cleansing; a new food of unremitting nourishment; a mercy confounding, lavish in forgiveness; love beyond the grasp of mere human imagination. “For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so high are my ways above your ways and my thoughts above your thoughts.” God’s very word will come to be the final “yes” of goodness.

But what of our sin, our resistance, our ritual of death and folly, the compulsive repetition of Eden’s inhabitants? How might the wisdom of God penetrate our thickness? If our hearts would only turn, Baruch chides us, with the humility of the stars. If our minds might only surrender to the will that moves the earth. Yet we cling to other gods, their twisted principles and precepts.

Ezekiel, who saw our horrors and shame, indicted us but also promised that the covenant holds despite our deed. Unfaithful, we stay cherished. Besotted, we will be purified. Hard, cold, and lost at sea, we heard Ezekiel’s rumor of our ransom. Could we chance a hope for some new spirit, for hearts no longer made of stone, for a homeland?

Who would have guessed that our home might be a person? Who would have dreamed that the passage through the sea was just that: going into the water, even under, but with someone who, like a sleek, glorious dolphin of grace, would bear us on his back?

Jesus entered the deeps of death, a plunge he need not have made, had he not loved us in our sorry state. But he went to death with a “yes,” with the utter trust of Abraham, the constancy of Moses, the bright reliance of Isaiah. In Easter’s vigil, we plunge with him: “Are you not aware that we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Being like him through likeness to his death, so shall we be through a like resurrection.”

The risen crucified one sounds again God’s original “yes” to us now, even in our sin, even in the death which sin brought on us. Allowing us to be like and in him since he became so fully like unto us, he carries us, as one of his own, to safe land.

“If we have died with Christ, we believe that we are also to live with him. His death was death to sin, once for all; his life is life for God.”

John Kavanaugh, S. J. of Saint Louis University

Empty!

2010-04-03T16:10:00.001-07:00

Resurrection

In 1984 the Boston College biblical scholar, Pheme Perkins, wrote. “The theological task of articulating the significance of resurrection for twentieth-century Christians still remains to be undertaken” (Resurrection, Doubleday, p. 30).

Despite her own and many fine publications since then, her judgment still stands.

The grossly inaccurate discussion of this topic by journalists in Time, Newsweek, and US News and World Report at Easter time in 1995 suggested that even as scholars increasingly make their research available to the public, the message still needs to be more clearly articulated.

Scholars are agreed that Jesus’ resurrection is not at all a miraculous return from the dead or something like a neardeath experience. The real differences in the reports and interpretations of the evangelists and other New Testament authors make it quite clear that there is no, single, unified picture of resurrection in the tradition.

From this perspective, it is very significant that the gospel passage assigned for this great feast of Easter, John 20:1-9, is the story of the finding of the empty tomb! None of the resurrection appearances of Jesus was selected.

One purpose of the empty-tomb tradition is to remind believers that faith comes from hearing. John’s report that the Beloved Disciple “sees” (the empty tomb and folded wrappings) and “believes” (that Jesus has been raised rather than that his corpse has been stolen) seems to replace the angelic proclamation in other accounts that “the Lord is risen!”

Mary Magdalene represents the community grieving over Jesus’ death and needing consolation. Her report that “they” have stolen the body very likely refers to enemies of Jesus but could also reflect the community’s concern about the charge that some Messianists stole the body to support their tale that Jesus was raised from the dead.

The early Peter tradition is of no help because, according to that report, he came to the tomb, found it empty, and returned to his friends without any understanding of what had happened (Luke 24:12). In John’s report Peter enters the empty tomb first, and then the Beloved Disciple’s reaction interprets what they both saw.

In this gospel passage, faith in the resurrection of Jesus developed from the discovery of an empty tomb and not from an appearance of Jesus. It developed from what the first believers reported and how they interpreted what they experienced.

John J. Pilch of Georgetown University

Late nun's plea to live Holy Week still resonates | National Catholic Reporter

2010-04-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

Late nun's plea to live Holy Week still resonates | National Catholic Reporter

Palm Sunday, 2010

2010-03-28T10:48:00.000-07:00

What Kind of King?

Merlin the magician knew there are two kinds of kings. We find this out in T. H. White’s story of King Arthur (The Once and Future King). One kind enjoys power, wealth, pride and especially war, leaving little room for the people’s welfare. At the other end of the spectrum is a king/queen who has empathetic care for each person, for the well-being of the populace.

Arthur was slated to be the good kind of ruler, not the power monger. As you may know, Merlin kidnapped Arthur as a baby from his father’s great castle and began to train him in a far away bedraggled court, train him to know the small and modest beings of the world around him. The rest of that story remains for another day, but it is interesting to note that nearly the same thing happened to Jesus. He wasn’t kidnapped as a child, but he was brought up in quite unpretentious circumstances, and he loved the small and beautiful parts of his dusty childhood.

This Sunday, however, Jesus starts off as anything but modest. He receives the pomp and glory of power! Has he changed into the bad kind of king?

The liturgy shows the answer, but we need some history first. To honor a kingly person in those days, people lined the sides of the roadway. The custom was for the royal one to ride a colt, or as it is often translated, donkey, which was not supposed to be a sign of humility but of kingly status. People would strew their cloaks on the roadway along with the tall palms fronds they had picked to shield the King from the dirty road.

As we hear in the Processional Reading, Jesus did not shy away from these honors; in fact he caused them to happen. He sent disciples to get the colt. He chose to ride it into Jerusalem. The people honored him with cloaks and palms as savior king.

Jesus had always been very wary of this kind of treatment. He had often warned the disciples not to tell anyone about the miracles he was doing so that he would not become a celebrity. So, why the exception in this case?

The liturgy answers that question. Minutes after the special opening procession of Sunday’s Mass, we hear not homage, but demonization (Christ’s Passion from the Gospel of Luke).

Suddenly this honored, great king is betrayed. Peter the Rock, who promised never to deny him, does so three times. Jesus says out loud that he, Jesus, must be “counted among the wicked” (Luke 22:37, quoting Isaiah 53:8-12). He sweats blood in the garden and then gives himself over to the devil’s hands, saying, “This is your hour, time for your darkness.” A mock trial follows, and the alleged king joins simple thieves in bloody death. The palms had been a mistake. There was no king here after all.

But look again. All leadership has service at its root. The reason for kingship is not dominance, riches, honor or power. These give siren calls to entice the leader into their service. Kingship and all leadership exist in order to secure the welfare of the kingdom and especially the welfare of those who are in it.

Jesus came to bring this kind of kingdom, one of service and humility, not of pride and competition. The way of the cross was the greatest fulfillment of his kingship, as opposed to cheering and accolades.

A new kind of king.

Fr. John Foley, S.J.

2010-03-20T01:25:00.001-07:00

“Look Ahead to the New”

In the first reading, God tells us: “Remember not the things of the past. Forget all that — it’s over and gone. Look ahead. I’m doing something new.”

Some wise man, or maybe just someone with an unhappy childhood, said that nostalgia is a sign of decadence. He meant that if we are more interested in the past than the future, we are dying. If what happened before is more important than what will happen ahead, we’re as good as dead.

Maybe a distinction is called for, between nostalgia and respect for our past. We tend to think of the past as “the good old days.” That is normal and nice to a point; we are allowed to kid ourselves on a gray day. It is only when we really believe that the best of life is gone that we are in trouble.

When Adam looked over his shoulder at the Garden of Eden instead of ahead to the garden of paradise; when the Israelites hankered after the fleshpots of Egypt instead of the honey of the promised land; when we pine after a church that has served its purpose instead of longing for a church to serve God and neighbor; when we spend more time thinking of who we were instead of who we will become — then we’re in trouble.

Respect for tradition, yes; love for our past, indeed. That is what brought us to where we are and made us who we are. But when we agree with Ecclesiastes that there is nothing new under the sun, then our nostalgia has become decadence. We are sealed in our past; we prevent God from doing something new in our lives.

This Gospel is everyone’s favorite. Jesus forgives the person caught in a very active public sin and exposes the private sins of her accusers. It makes us sinners feel better about sin until we read that last line: “But don’t do it again!” Then we worry. Now, it is a healthful thing to feel guilt. But is unhealthful to feel guilt-ridden. So let’s make a few more distinctions.

A feeling is not necessarily a fact. We can feel guilty when we are innocent and we can feel innocent when we are guilty. As St. Paul said: “I have nothing on my conscience, but that does not mean that I’m innocent.” Feelings are an important part of us, but only a part of us. And because they are irrational, we have to be clear about what it is that we actually feel.

For instance, some people remember a past sin and feel guilty. But memory is not guilt. Memory is probably an electrical circuit that stores past experiences. We ought to learn from our past mistakes, but they have nothing to do with present guilt.

Nor is shame the same as guilt. Shame is embarrassment, usually about something private, often sexual, always something we feel is beneath our dignity. Shame helps us build a dignified character, but it does make us guilty.

Remorse is not guilt. Remorse is a sense of regret, a wish that something had not happened, sadness at having caused pain, anger over having destroyed something good. Remorse is an excellent feeling, within limits. It makes us humble and patient and compassionate and a little more careful of love. But it does not make us guilty.

Guilt is that precise, present experience of willfully committing sin. There is only one antidote, and it is instantaneous. You simply say, “I’m sorry.” And Jesus promptly replies, “I do not condemn you.”

Fr. James Smith

2010-03-20T01:10:00.001-07:00

“Calling God Names”

In ancient times, at the early stages of the human race, many gods competed for the allegiance of human beings. These different gods had different sacred places, different rituals, different demands and different names.

When our God threw himself into the competition for the attention of humans like some teenager eager for love, God let himself be called “Yahweh,” which probably means “god of the mountains.” But this just made him one god among many, so when God wanted to distance himself from false gods, he knew he had to have a distinct name. When Moses asked God’s real name, God replied: “I am who am.”

Now, God was not being coy, as if to say, “Guess who I am.” Nor was God being secretive, as if to say, “I don’t want anyone to know my real name.” God was simply answering the question as best he could. God said, “Who am I? I just am who I am.”

If I were God, I would not have stopped there, because people have a tendency to think they know God better than God does. I would have continued; “I am who I am — that’s all. I am not a god of the mountains or sea; I am not heavy or light, tall or short, here or there. To repeat, I am who I am.”

God should have listened to me. Because ever since God gave us God’s only true name, people have been giving God nicknames. We say that God is eternal and almighty and kind and forgiving. I hope God is smiling when she says, “Those are only attributes you attach to my name, but I still am who I am.”

In an attempt to understand God better, we say that God creates and judges and forgives and loves. God smiles again and says, “I don’t do anything. I simply am — and creation happens; I am — and justice happens; I am — and forgiveness happens; I am — and love happens. But I just am.”

If God gave his name today, he would have a better chance of being understood. Because modern people have a literal sense of reality. If someone bores us with their poetic description of an unforgettable sunset, we deflate them by saying, “It is what it is.” No matter how people interpret anything, modern people have been trained to reduce it to its bare essentials.

And yet. Bare facts make for a bare life. Humans cry out not for data but for meaning. “What is” is too much for us in the raw. “What is” is too complicated for us; we need to separate it into meaningful parts. “What is” constrains our imagination; we need to expand it to “what might be, what should be.” But God is not any of those interesting things. God is, was and always will be simply God.

The Jews have a great respect for God’s uniqueness. They are not allowed to make images of God. They may not even pronounce God’s name. We appreciate their zeal for the holiness of God, but we cannot live with an unnamable God.

It is fortunate that one Jew had the same problem. No matter how much Jesus adored God, he insisted on calling him “Father.” Against the rules of theology and doctrine and logic, Jesus would not back down from “Father.”

Of course, for Jesus, that is who God actually is. For us, God is father by analogy, metaphor, symbol. We arrive at that insight in prayer. God begins where words end. Deep in our hearts, we realize that God is mystery; and whatever name we give mystery is an idol. We are allowed to call God names as long as we remember that.

Fr. James Smith

Sunday, March 14, 2010

2010-03-13T11:06:00.001-08:00

Cowering

Dogs often hang their heads and sometimes grovel when they are scolded. I suppose it is instinctual for them to wheedle their way back into the pack that feeds them. It looks to us as if they are saying, “I’m really, really sorry for what I did and please, please, please forgive me. To make up for it. I will do any base thing you want.”

Poor dog. And poor prodigal son in this week’s Gospel.

Everything had gone wrong for him. He threw away his inheritance on riotous living—obviously he would run out of wealth but was having too much fun to notice. A huge famine hit just as he had spent everything. The formerly pampered youth ended up feeding somebody’s herd of pigs. He was even jealous of the husks these lucky swine were gobbling.

The young man saw what he had done to himself and to his family. It took a lot to get through to him. He also knew he was starving. He made a humble decision to go back and ask for mercy.

Imagine him walking the dusty road to his father’s estate, practicing his speech over and over. “I have sinned against you and against God. I know I can’t be your son any more, just make me a slave and I will eat whatever they eat."

You and I have the same fear too, that our misbehavior disqualifies us from being loved. Often we are terrified to admit our faults, even though the dog is all too ready to admit his. We think God will respond with rage against our sins, which are, in fact, authentically bad. Or we make New Year’s resolutions and firm purposes of amendment so that we can be “worthy” before God. Or we hide.

But pay very close attention to the young man’s father. Does he wait upstairs with his arms folded and a sour face? Not at all. When the youth comes into view, far down the road, still memorizing his lines, the father spots him and sets out running. Watch as they meet amidst the thirsty road-dust, the father embracing and kissing the son, the son trying to stumble out his lines. “I have sinned terribly! I am no longer worthy of . . . ”

He can't get any further. His father is busy hugging him, calling for the finest robe in the house, a ring for the young man’s finger, sandals for his feet, and a huge banquet of celebration. He understands. He is ecstatic that the boy came home.

“Father, I am a fool. I am not worthy,” you and I say.

I know what you have done, child, says God. You needn’t cower like the dog. I love you because you are precious to me, not because you never sin. Come, come, have your place within the family. Your brothers, sisters, neighbors and, most of all, I for sure will want to welcome you.

Because he holds us so close to his heart, God is willing to take the losses we inflict. Even when we join forces with evil in the world, God waits and prays and welcomes us back with open arms, sins and all.

By the way, notice that Jesus’ arms are wide open on the cross.

Fr. John Foley, S. J. of the Center for Liturgy

“Metanoia”

We are prodigal children. We have in many ways squandered our Father’s inheritance. Provided with a wonderful garden to live in, we poison its air, we pollute its water, we erode its topsoil.

Provided with a wonderful family with whom to share our lives, we condemn many of our family members to survival-level existence, we refuse to associate with many of them, and we contribute to the death of many of them.

Lent is a time to ‘pass over,’ to pass from the world of injustice we have created over to a world of reconciliation. It is a time to turn hatred to love, conflict to peace, death to eternal life.

We know that such a turn can take place because we have a Father who sees us while we are still a long way off, who catches sight of us and is deeply moved, who will run out to meet us, throw his arms around our necks and kiss us.

We know that such a turn can take place because Jesus Christ brought mankind the gift of reconciliation by the suffering and death he endured.

The message of Lent, therefore, is clear: We implore you, in Christ’s name: be reconciled to God.

The first step, of course, is to do what the younger son did: I will break away and return to my father, and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against you.’

Such a confession will enable us to hasten toward Easter with the eagerness of faith and love, and it will make possible the rejoicing which today’s liturgy foretells and encourages.

“This kingdom and this salvation . . . are available to every human being as grace and mercy, and yet at the same time each individual must gain them... through toil and suffering, through a life lived according to the gospel, through abnegation and the cross, through the spirit of the beatitudes. But above all each individual gains them through a total interior renewal which the gospel calls metanoia; it is a radical conversion, a profound change of mind and heart.”

Pope Paul VI, Evangelii Nuntiandi (1975)10

Glenn Beck to Jesus: Drop Dead

2010-03-11T17:29:00.000-08:00

America Magazine: "Glenn Beck to Jesus: Drop Dead"

Scenes from Kenya - OMI mission territory

2010-03-11T10:28:00.000-08:00

Scenes from Kenya - The Big Picture - Boston.com

Bishop Charles John Seghers

2010-03-10T16:26:00.000-08:00

Charles John Seghers - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia and see also Dictionary of Canadian Biography Online

Catholic Social Teaching

2010-03-09T11:37:00.000-08:00

'The joys and hopes, the grief and anguish of the people of our time, especially of those who are poor or afflicted, are the joys and hopes, the grief and anguish of the followers of Christ as well.' —Gaudium et Spes, Vatican Council II in 1965

Woodbine Willie

2010-03-08T14:06:00.000-08:00

"The brutality of war is literally unutterable. There are no words foul and filthy enough to describe it. "

Mar. 8, Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy, Priest, Poet

Miniscapes

2010-03-07T20:50:00.000-08:00

Miniscapes

A Flickr Slideshow

2010-03-06T12:03:00.000-08:00

A good and spacious land, a new and spacious life.

Even though we consider ourselves modern people we probably still have some outdated notions. Maybe we don't walk under ladders or where a black cat has passed, for fear of bad luck. Maybe, we cross our fingers hoping another's misfortune doesn't befall us. Those superstitions may not apply to us, but how about this one? "God is going to punish you!" It's the warning some of us give when we perceive a person doing wrong. Some parents even use that as a threat to correct the behavior of their children (Parenting is a difficult, lifetime endeavor and some parents feel they need as much help as possible, even calling on a powerful ally, "God the Enforcer.")

There are people I wish God would punish on the spot. I have a long list of dictators, oppressors of the poor, financiers who steal people's life savings, etc. But in this life, God doesn't seem to work that way. Still, some of us still hold on to the common belief that bad fortune is God's punishment for some sin. A widow once said to me, "I wondered what I had done wrong that God had punished me and taken my husband?"

You can hear echoes of the belief that, disasters are caused by God because of a person's wrongdoing, in today's gospel. Apparently a tower at Siloam had collapsed and 18 people were killed (a miniature incident reflecting the huge tragedy in Haiti) and Pilate had commanded the death of some Galileans. What conclusion would Jesus' contemporaries have drawn? They would have said that those poor victims were punished for their sins. Jesus raised the issue quite plainly. He asks, whether the slaughtered Galileans, or the people crushed under the collapsed tower at Siloam, "more guilty than everyone else...?" In other words, were they punished for their sins? Jesus' response, "By No Means!".

Jesus' challenge to his listeners who reported the recent tragedies to him, was to shift their gaze. Instead of their concluding the guilt of the victims, they should have looked instead to themselves and considered the consequences of their own guilt.

Some people seem to go through life prospering and suffering no ill effects for their evil deeds. But still, sin does have its consequences , not only in the next life, but in this one.

You can make up your own list of sin's consequences on our lives, but here are a few. If we are indifferent to the suffering of the poor, then how can our hardened hearts form warm, loving relationships? If we lie or inflate the truth to our benefit, then who would trust us enough to share their lives with us? If we cheat at work for our own profit and advancement, then what chance do we have earning the confidence of our co-workers? If we solve difficult situations with violent words or abusive actions, then who will want to put energy and time into a friendship or marriage with us -- and what would be the consequences on our children as they face difficult issues in their relationships? If some church leaders cover up clergy abuse or mishandle funds, how can we build strong communities of the faithful? If the government spends many times more on weapons than on the education, healthcare and the needs of its poorest citizens, then how can those neglected ones claim and be future contributing citizens?

Are the misfortunes people experience a punishment for their sins? "By no means!" Ill fortune is no proof of a person or nation's sin. Haiti did not suffer its devastating earthquake because, as Rev. Pat Robertson put it, "They made a pact with the devil." Still, as we have experienced, sin may have dire or fragmentary consequences now, or in the not-too distant future.

Jesus calls each of us to consider our lives and repent of our sins. Often the ill effects of our sins are staring us in the face, if we but take a moment to reflect. What's falling apart in our lives? What hurts? Where do we seem stymied in our spiritual journey?

The God of Moses in our first reading claims a name, an identity. The God whom Moses hears in the burning bush is the God who calls Israel's ancestors from their slavery to a better future, a new life-giving place. God promises Moses to deliver the enslaved people out of Egypt to "a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey." That's a pretty good metaphor for forgiveness isn't it? "A spacious land flowing with milk and honey." God takes us from the tight and constrained land of sin and its consequences and leads us to the land of forgiveness -- a new and spacious life.

To flesh out the new exodus God is offering us, Jesus proposes a parable. Let's not make an allegory of this parable, so that God is the orchard owner who wants to chop down sinners -- the fruitless trees. Listen to the whole parable and feel its effects. The fig tree has so far been worthless. What good is a fruit tree that yields no fruit? It has already been given plenty of time to produce; the owner says he has been coming to the tree for three years. He's been patient.

But where our patience would run out the story surprises us. After all, it's a parable, not an account of any ordinary farmer with a worthless tree. More time is given the tree and extra care. Doesn't that boggle our practical and frugal minds? Why risk the time, effort and resources on what has been a failure so far? It doesn't make sense! But to parents it might: if they haven't given up on their wayward or resistant children; if they continue to pour themselves out to help rescue a child others tell them to give up on. Parents and lovers "get" this parable.

And so can we, if during Lent we have once again been confronted by our sin and our reluctance or inability to change. The parable is the nudge of grace. It is a luring voice, like the one Moses heard, calling us out of our sin-restricted places to a "spacious land." What does forgiveness feel like? It feels like the Promise Land, a "land flowing with milk and honey."

Our merciful God, in Christ, has shown us patience and given us time. We might not have so much patience with some people and wonder, "Why doesn't God punish that evil one?" Applied to ourselves we might even say, "I can't believe God would forgive me for committing the same old sin over and over again." But the parable is a parable about expansive mercy and second chances--to a limit. Maybe the limit, "leave it for this year," isn't so much a threat as it is a grace in disguise.

I don't know about you, but I work best when I have a deadline. School was like that: term papers would be due on a fixed date. If you didn't hand in your paper by that date your grade suffered. The parable has an ominous ending. The servant pleads for another year so he can cultivate and work on the tree. Then the deadline is laid out. If the tree bears fruit, it will have a future. Hear the voice of the gardener, "if not, you can cut it down." That should light a fire under us! Maybe that's the grace, a fire to get us moving.

We don't have to get our act together on our own. After all, it's a gospel parable and the gospel is about grace. We have help, if we desire to change. We are "cultivated" by a loving gardener who will help us bear the fruits of conversion and discipleship. The time for change is now. We do not know how much time we have. Like the people in the gospel story the end may come quickly and without warning--like a sudden falling tower.

It's not just about death either. We need to tend to the warning signs in our relationships and priorities. Where are we investing our best energies? Will that produce good fruit or are we, in effect, a barren tree? Will an ending come upon us: a failed marriage, a wayward child, a lost friendship. Or will it be too late to help the needy ones we have neglected?

Jude Siciliano, OP

2010-03-06T11:39:00.000-08:00

Looking for Rest Amid the Pressures of Life

“‘Sir, leave it for this year also, and I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it; it may bear fruit in the future. If not you can cut it down’” (Lk 13:8b-9).

The poet, Rumi, once wrote:

“What I want is to leap out of this personality

And then sit apart from that leaping

I’ve lived too long where I can be reached.”

In a day of instant and constant communication, cell phones and emails, I suspect that we all fit that description. Certainly I do. I’ve lived too long where I can be reached.

It seems that we’re almost always over-stretched with too much to do. We come to the end of each day tired, yet conscious of what we’ve left undone. There’s always someone else we should have phoned, emailed, or attended to in some way. Our lives often seem like over packed suitcases, crammed to the brim, and still unable to hold all we need to carry along. What’s wrong here?

Whenever we feel that way, it’s a sure sign that we’ve lost the proper sense of time. Life is meant to be busy, but we’re also meant, at regular times, to have sabbatical, sabbath time, to rest and enjoy.

When we look at scripture we see that God established a certain rhythm to time.

Biblically, this is the pattern: We’re meant to work for six days, then have a one-day sabbatical; work for seven years and have a one year sabbatical; work for seven times seven years (forty-nine years) and have a Jubilee year; and finally work for a lifetime and have an eternity of sabbatical. The idea is that our pressured, hurried, working days should be regularly punctured by times of rest, celebration, enjoyment, non- work, non-pressure, and that ultimately all work will cease and we will have nothing to do except to luxuriate in life itself.

And what’s supposed to happen on a sabbath? What constitutes sabbath time? First, a sabbath is meant to be unordinary time, a time when our normal work and the everyday pressures of life are stopped. Partly this is meant to free us up for deeper things, but mainly it is meant to remind us that we do not live to work, but rather work in order to live and love.

Next a sabbath is meant to be a time for enjoyment, for high celebration. And this isn’t abstract: On a sabbath we’re meant to eat our best meal of the week, wear our best clothing, rest, enjoy the earth and each other, and (if you’re really an Orthodox believer) to make love. On a sabbath we’re meant to drink in life in all its fullness, including its sensuality. Our language still carries some remnants of this when, for example, we speak of wearing our Sunday best and having our Sunday dinner.

Finally, sabbath is meant to be a time for reconciliation, for forgiving debts, for giving up grudges, for making peace with our enemies. The cessation of work, the rest, the celebration, the drinking in of enjoyment, and the making love are all partly ends in themselves. The sabbath was made for us. However they’re also in function of something else, namely, reconciliation, forgiveness. We only truly celebrate the sabbath, have a genuine holiday, if we forgive someone and it’s because we don’t do this that, so often, our vacations don’t relax us for long. We’re tired, go on vacation, get a good rest, get away from the pressures of our work, enjoy some unpressured time, perhaps even get some sun and a tan, but then come home and very soon, within hours or days, are just a tired as we were before we went on vacation. Why? Because we didn’t forgive anybody and our hurts and bitterness are the deep roots of our tiredness. There’s a statute of limitations to all debts, including our personal hurts.

A couple of years ago, Wayne Muller wrote a little book entitled, Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in our Busy Lives. I leave you with some of his wisdom:

- Sabbath need not be a year or even a day. It can also be an afternoon, an hour, a walk, a dinner. Sabbath is a time when we drink, if only for a few moments, from the fountain of rest and delight. It is a time to listen to what is most deeply beautiful, nourishing, and true.

- Sabbath is different kind of fertility; it honours the wisdom of dormancy. If certain plant species do not lie dormant for winter, they will not bear fruit in spring. A period of rest, within which our roots quietly take in nourishment, is the key to health. Like plants, we too must have periods in which we lie fallow and silently nourish our roots.

- We are almost always running, trying to catch the things that will make us happy when, in fact, those very things are trying to catch us!

- God said: “Remember to rest.” This is not a lifestyle suggestion, but a commandment, as important as not stealing, not murdering, or not lying.

We need sabbath. We’ve all lived too long where we can be reached.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser

2010-03-01T15:47:00.001-08:00

“We Have a Friend in Jesus”

We might think of the Transfiguration as one brief, happy moment in an otherwise miserable life. In churches, in homes, we are constantly confronted by images of Jesus hanging on his cross of death. We think this is appropriate because we were taught that he saved us by this horrible ordeal. And so we are torn between gratitude to him and sorrow for him.

But this distorts our relationship with Jesus. Because he said that he was our friend. And as necessary as it is for us to have a savior, what we really want is a friend. Saint Thomas said that friendship should be our primary relationship with God. Yes, God is our Creator and Sustainer and many other things, but unless we can connect with God on a personal level, all these glorious facts are rendered useless.

That is why God’s Son became one of us: to connect us directly, emotionally, personally with the Father.

We would never have dared to consider Jesus a friend; he decided that. Let’s just accept it. But how can we enjoy our friendship if we constantly think of our friend as a beaten man? On the other hand, how could Jesus be happy if he ended up being tortured and crucified?

May I suggest that we review our image of the sorrowful, lonely Jesus and replace it with a joyful friend of humankind? Of course we don’t know his biography, but he was human, so we know more than we might think. We know that he, like all children, was active, eager, receptive, curious and basically cheerful.

As an adolescent, Jesus would have learned how to craft a chair, tend sheep, catch fish, play ball — all fun things. He would have been introduced to the marvel of sexuality, not quite understanding how the girl who just yesterday irritated him today makes his heart jump. Surely a happy experience!

All of this life-giving happiness would have happened to him just as it does to a normal human. But we know that Jesus was more. And he gradually came to appreciate that marvelous fact. Imagine how he enjoyed discovering that there was much, much more to life than sheep and fish and ball and girls. Imagine how his life must have been enlarged as he became more aware of his essential self as a child of God. And we cannot begin to imagine the exhilaration that first time he spontaneously called the God of Israel his own Father!

That is when the life of Jesus exploded. He dashed excitedly into the world looking for something to do for God. He thought he found it in the task of proclaiming the kingdom. And his vocation was confirmed at his baptism, when God called him his beloved Son. From that moment on, all of his happiness was focused on his Father’s kingdom.

Lost sheep and coins reminded him of God’s determination not to lose anyone. Sinful people reminded him of God’s forgiveness. Crippled people reminded him of God’s real care for human suffering. Waving wheat and bickering birds reminded him of God’s providence. How could anyone be unhappy when everything smelled of God?

Yes, he was finally tortured and executed. But as awful as that was, it lasted only a few hours, and should not shadow his whole life. Nor must we think of his last supper as a sorrowful event. Everybody dies. How better to spend the last night than eating with friends? Let us never forget that Jesus died for us. But let us also remember him as he lived: a joyful, vigorous, spirit-filled and charismatic friend.

Fr. James Smith

Everyday Temptations

2010-02-20T16:09:00.000-08:00

“Don’t Mess With Power”

Something in Jesus tempted him to feed himself instead of trusting in God. But the real issue was not bread, or stones. Both are good things in their own right, just as dust is merely dirt in the wrong place. The issue here is power — if and to what extent it is permissible to interfere in the natural order of things. Because that is what power in its raw form is: displacing the established order by force?.

In a perfect world, there would be no power. Everything would rest content in its proper place. There would be no reason for anyone to want to change anything. But in this very imperfect world, many things are uncomfortably out of place.

It happens all the time all over the place. One rock displaces another rock. No harm. A cow eats a daisy. No fault. Power itself has no moral value. It just exists. But when a human shoves another human, enter morality, the proper use of power. Did you shove him out of the way to get his place, or out of the way of an oncoming car?

Power is an intrinsic part of the human situation. Wherever two are gathered, there is power. So Christians may not enter the human fray armed only with goodwill. Love without power is often just a useless passion. Life is not for the faint of heart, but the courageous.

The purpose of power is to establish a proper order in society. Sometimes that’s done by supporting the established order, sometimes by rearranging the way things are. And sometimes power is best exercised by not being used at all. Jesus felt that he had no right to replace stones with bread just to satisfy his hunger. The ordinary working of the world is more important than any personal wishes.

It is not God’s desire to overshadow us. God has no need to make us small so God can look big. God’s freedom does not swallow our freedom, and God’s power does not weaken us. Both God and we have a different but equally important place in the divine program.

We should be wary of chasing after dramatic experiences of God. Leave that for heaven. Here on earth, we are too physical to appreciate the niceties and nuances of God in our material world, where God is most often experienced in ordinary things. That’s why there are so many ordinary things — so ordinary people can find God there. Only doubtful people demand signs; faithful people don’t need extraordinary proof. As the poet said, it is in the dew of ordinary things that life is refreshed. Jesus did not have to jump off a building to prove that God cared for him. Jesus trusted that God could equally show his concern by walking down the stairs with him.

Most temptations are subtle, so that we gradually fall over from leaning a little bit more. But why would anyone be tempted to gain the world by losing themselves? Well, the story of Faust, who traded his soul for complete knowledge, is a portrait of all people. They do it less daringly, but everyone tries to get what they want at the least cost. And that often involves some compromise with evil. It looks like they can strike a good bargain and maybe do even more good in the end. But bad beginnings usually end badly.

People compromise because they think that evil is not serious, not quite real; that they can get around it by good intention. Not so. Even God’s holy Son does not deal with the devil. Evil has a life of its own.

Fr. James Smith

Sunday, February 7

2010-02-07T15:52:00.001-08:00

"When We Feel God’s Mercy”

Isaiah and Peter were so overwhelmed by the holiness of God that they were stunned by their own sinfulness. I suspect that most of us think that Isaiah and Peter overreacted. We have neither an intense experience of God’s holiness nor a vivid sense of our own sinfulness — or that of the human species.

This is not entirely our fault. We cannot deny all responsibility, but people today have been affected by at least three profound changes in the human situation since Isaiah and Peter: the Second Vatican Council, the rise of democracy and the discovery of psychology.

The church used to be the arbiter of good and evil, at least for Catholics. We did not need to wonder about complex moral issues; indeed, we were not supposed to have an opinion. The church arbitrarily consigned people to any number and kind of mortal sins. Guilt was rampant.

The Second Vatican Council helped unveil the human foibles behind the infallible mask of the church. Many Catholics now realize that no institution, however inspired, can take away our personal judgment and responsibility. This was a hard-won victory after countless Catholics were spiritually abused by authoritarian pronouncements. While the church is apologizing for being unkind to everyone else, maybe she ought to beg forgiveness for demonizing her own people.

Of course, church councils don’t arrive from nowhere — they occur in a secular context. King after king toppled all over the world as the power of the people became established. Ordinary citizens came to appreciate their personal dignity and their human rights. The distance between ruler and ruled decreased; average people actually elected their leaders, who in turn recognized themselves as public servants. Democracy leveled the political playing field, making everyone a little sovereign.

But it was psychology that freed everyone to think and do as they pleased without guilt. Just as the church had revealed the potential evil in each of us, and democracy revealed our essential equality, so psychology revealed our hidden depths. The discovery of ingrained instincts and addictions led many to believe that we were hardly responsible for our actions. Sin was relegated to neurosis.

Now, we first ought to rejoice that the council and democracy and psychology have hugely benefited humanity. We have been set free from religious, political and psychological servitude. We are now free to make our own judgments and mistakes; we are responsible for what we make of ourselves.

But with every advance in human history there comes a backlash. When respect for religious and political authority is questioned, religious and political truths are splintered into factions that contain only partial truths. The common good is not served by these competing private motives. And when each person’s psyche is the sole arbiter of good and evil, then there is no objective judgment, no standard of behavior. Everyone is free to be as neurotic and immoral as they like. If our genes make us do it, we have no need to feel guilty; there is no responsibility, no sin.

We may be able to live without a sense of sin, but we cannot live without a sense of holiness. That is all that finally separates us from animals. And the holiness of God strangely hinges on the sinfulness of people. God does not cause our sin, but our sin is recognizable only against the holiness of God. Isaiah did not see his sin until he saw God. Peter did nor realize his sinful condition until he encountered the goodness of Jesus.

It is only when we feel God’s mercy that we can admit our sins.

Fr. James Smith

2010-01-29T14:35:00.001-08:00

Inauguration Day

If a proven miracle worker were coming to your parish this weekend, the house would be packed. The families of the sick would stake out the aisle seats so they could reach out to touch the preacher as he passed by. Perhaps a skeptical reporter or two, with a photographer, would be on hand for the show. Boosted attendance might mean an extra collection. Everyone would be proud that this phenomenon was taking place here, in our parish, our town.

Today’s Gospel invites us to imagine such a scene in Nazareth. Add to the excitement the fact that the miracle man who has already worked the crowds in Capernaum is a hometown boy, Jesus of Nazareth. His family is here, sharing the anticipation and the pride of place. One of theirs is in the news, already famous, a celebrity.

How quickly the mood changes when, after his electrifying pronouncement that the messianic promise of the prophet Isaiah is coming true in himself, in their very hearing, this Jesus so familiar to them as the son of Joseph the carpenter refuses to do a single miracle. Instead he quotes the saying “No prophet is accepted in his native place” and reminds them that other prophets worked their miracles among foreigners.

The synagogue assembly rises up and hustles Jesus out of the town to the brow of a high hill, ready to cast him down to his death. Jesus, bold as a prophet, gathers his cloak around him and marches through their midst and departs. His inaugural day ends in his expulsion from his own hometown.

It seems an inauspicious, even disastrous beginning for one sent to bring good news. But a necessary corrective had just taken place at the outset of his mission.

Jesus was God’s servant, beholden to no other influence or loyalty, owned by no party,raceorgroup, even his own blood family. The Holy Spirit that entered him at his baptism, drove him into the wilderness to be tempted, guided him back to Galilee and would soon be sending him down to Jerusalem was independent of any human consideration or control. Jesus would even astonish and disappoint his own disciples with talk not of success but of apparent failure, even death at the hands of the authorities. His rejection in Nazareth was just a preview of the rejection awaiting him in Jerusalem.

When we assemble in our churches this Sunday to commemorate the death of the Lord, we are being imprinted with the same pattern of the paschal mystery Jesus accepted in his baptism. Our holy ambition to be good, to do good, to succeed in serving God and loving our neighbors is inseparable from the cross. The Holy Spirit who dwells in us personally and animates us communally is forming us with the mind of Christ, the example of Christ, the suffering and triumph of Christ.

Today’s Gospel tempers our vision of what it really means to be a follower of Jesus. His own disciples must have been shaken by the events in Nazareth and the attempt by his own friends and neighbors to murder him at the very start of his mission. Yet they still decided to follow him, to see what came next. It was a mysterious journey that took them first to the cross, then to the glory of the resurrection. As we mark the beginning of another year in our own journey as disciples, we are invited to sign on for the long haul and the whole mystery.

Pat Marrin

2010-01-23T18:57:00.000-08:00

A Psalm of My Whereness

By Ed Hays

Created Jan 22, 2010

The question “Where have I come from?”

rises up and haunts me;

lingering, it floats like a flower

in the backwaters of my mind.

From somewhere deeper than I know,

in the place where I am held to the divine breast,

the voice of God echoes in reply:

“You, my beloved little one,

were hidden in my heart

before your sun burned bright.

“You were the dream of my delight

before the Earth was born

of the dust of long-dead stars.

“Before I shaped a single star,

I nursed you for endless ages,

feeding you with the essence of my life.

“In my great lap I played with your infinite childlike form

and gazed with love upon your original face,

the mirror form of my own image.

“I laughed with delight at the marvel of your being,

the flesh and bone of my bone.

“And you laughed with glee as I winked,

as the four winds sprang to life

and suns like dandelions

lit up the dark lawn of space.

“Where did you come from? O my child,

you in whom live all my hopes and loves,

you came from me.”

From Prayers for a Planetary Pilgrim by Ed Hays