Author: DVO

Christ is speaking to his disciples and tells them, “Have courage, I have conquered the world.” How do we get so confused in today’s world that we fail to understand what he has conquered? So many of us strive to find joy and happiness in conquering the world so we might gain its riches and thereby find our joy and happiness. Alexander the Great is a wonderful example of the reality that man’s contentment is in his mind and not his possessions. It is said that Alexander, with all the world at his feet, cried because there were no more worlds to conquer. Phillip Homes writes that “The human heart is impossible to satisfy with temporal conditions or earthly goods. We always want more.” C.S. Lewis notes in his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, that “true joy is the ache for something beyond this world, like those little moments in life when the light falls just a certain way on a summer evening that it stirs in you a deep longing that’s hard to define. Earthly pursuits cannot fill the void. The quest for true joy and happiness is connecting to something, not of this world – and that would be the movement of the Holy Spirit in your life.” It’s the spirit who will use this restlessness to awaken a spiritual hunger within you, this ache for something beyond this world. It will push you deeper and deeper into your relationship with God. Pursue Him. Allow that longing for Him to become the hottest fire in your heart, for that is where true joy and happiness are found.

Mark is the evangelist of evangelization. From Jesus’ beginning proclamation, “Repent, and believe in the Gospel,” to his Great Commission, “Go into the whole world and proclaim the Gospel,” we are called to evangelize. Evangelization is about naming grace. It is not about bringing God to people as though God were not already there. Evangelists in every age do not make God present but name God’s presence. Mark’s Gospel shows us how the familiar is our Temple, and the ordinary is the home of God. The apostles did more than preach about Jesus. They shared the personal stories of their own development of a love relationship with Christ. Love became a golden thread that bound them to their listeners and captivated their hearts. That is why they became such astonishing convert makers. They used the most irresistible force ever invented to change people’s minds by changing people’s hearts first. The Gospel of Mark lets us conclude that every human experience if given a chance, can speak to us of God. The commission to evangelize requires us to be poets or interpreters of everyday experiences. We help others see life as touched by God. We do that by looking at life in the light of faith. Evangelizing involves looking more deeply into the ordinary to see the Extraordinary and then naming the divine graciousness sustaining us.

Not having an unhealthy notion of God doesn’t necessarily mean that you have a particularly healthy one. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that the God he was raised with was not overly stern and judgmental, but neither was he very joyous, playful, witty, or humorous. He wasn’t sexual and had a particularly vigilant and uncompromising eye in that area. Essentially, he was grey, a bit dour, and not very joyous to be around. Around him, you had to be solemn and reverent. Under such a God, you had permission to be essentially healthy, but to the extent that you took him seriously, you still walked through life less than fully robust, and your relationship with him could only be solemn and reverent. We rarely recognize what tells us about God and, equally, fail to seek out literature that outlines key aspects of knowing that which is ineffable. What kind of creator makes billions of throwaway universes?  What kind of creator makes trillions upon trillions of species of life, millions of them never to be seen by the human eye? What kind of father or mother has billions of children? And what does the exuberance in the energy of young children say about our creator? What does their playfulness suggest about what must also lie inside of sacred energy? What does the energy of a young puppy tell us about what’s sacred? What do laughter, wit, and irony tell us about God? When we try to imagine the heart of reality, we might picture things this way: At the very center of everything, there sit two thrones. On one sits a King, and on the other sits a Queen, and from these two thrones issues forth all energy, all creativity, all power, all love, all nourishment, all joy, all playfulness, all humor, and all beauty. All images of God are inadequate, but this image hopefully can help us understand that God is perfect masculinity and perfect femininity, making perfect love all the time and that from this union issues forth all energy and all creation. Moreover, that energy, at its sacred root, is not just creative, intelligent, personal, and loving; it’s also joyous, colorful, witty, playful, humorous, erotic, and exuberant at its very core. To feel it is an invitation to gratitude. The challenge of our lives is to live inside that energy in a way that honors it and its origins. That means taking our shoes off before the burning bush as we respect its sacredness, even as we take from it permission to be more robust, free, joyous, humorous, playful, and especially more grateful.

There is too little anguish in our Eucharists. To become one heart with each other involves anguish, the painful letting go of paranoia, selfishness, bitterness, hurt, jealousies, pettiness, the narrowness of vision, aggressiveness, shyness, and all those other things that keep us apart. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes the above statement as a reality check on our fear of opening ourselves to the reality of being vulnerable. Jim Wallis writes, “In worship, the community is edified…if it does not edify itself here, it certainly will not do so in daily life, nor in the execution of its ministry to the world.” Christ was effective because Christ was vulnerable. He was also often in anguish. It would perhaps do all of us good occasionally to leave the Eucharist and, instead of going off for a lively brunch with the folks, go off as Jesus did after the first Eucharist to a lonely place to have an agony in the garden and to sweat some blood as we ask for the strength to drink from the real chalice – the chalice of vulnerability. Occasionally, when St. Augustine would hand the Eucharist to a communicant, he would, instead of saying “the body of Christ,” say: “Receive what you are.” Augustine had perceived, for whatever reasons, that the words of consecration – “this is my body, this is my blood” – are intended more to change the people present than they are meant to change the bread and wine. For him, it was more important that the people become the real presence of God, that they become food and drink for the world, than that the bread and wine do. That is, in fact, the real task of the Eucharist: to change people, to create out of us the real presence. It is in this vulnerability that Christ showed us that we touch the heart of God and the true joy of living this life he has blessed us with. People will celebrate as a community only when self-protectiveness, mutual suspicion, and macho posturing are first broken down. When this happens, hearts of stone will turn to hearts of flesh, bitterness to charity.

We have been reading over the past several weeks what is referred to as “The Last Supper Discourses.” Today, Jesus is giving them further consolation by telling the disciples that he is not leaving them permanently and promises that he will come back to stay with them. However, the apostles fail to grasp what he means. One of the saddest and most memorable scenes in my life was crouching down to console my 7-year-old son, who was just told that I was leaving on an airplane to join those in our squadron who were deploying for the Mediterranean and the start of the Iraq War. I picked him up and promised that I would be back. But he had no concept of what those words meant since I had never been away from him up to that point in his life. He just knew that he didn’t want me to leave. I was blessed to stay in touch with him throughout my deployment, with emails and video messages, so that he knew I was okay, that I loved him, and that I would be coming home soon. We have that same opportunity with the Lord. While we desire to be with him and wish he would return soon to fix this crazy world, he has given us his promise that he will return. God’s Word is his love letter to us. Embrace it and believe it. For in a “little while,” he will greet you in love and say, “Welcome home, my good and faithful servant.”

In her book “Guidelines for Mystical Prayer,” Ruth Burrows describes what it means to die a “happy death.” To die in a good way, she states, is not a question of whether death catches us in a morally good moment or a morally bad one (e.g., dying drunk in a bar as opposed to dying in a church). Rather, to die a happy death is to die in honesty, without pretense, and without the need to lie about our lives. Only a saint, she says, can afford a saint’s death. The task for the rest of us is to die in honesty as sinners, asking God to forgive us for a life of weakness. We read in scripture how Jesus picked up parables and stories that were current in his culture and tailored them to further his own religious and moral teachings. Moreover, he taught, and with precious little equivocation, that we are to honor truth wherever we see it, irrespective of who’s carrying it. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that true faith is humble enough to accept truth wherever it sees it, irrespective of the tension it causes and irrespective of the religion or ideology of whoever is speaking it. Big minds and big hearts are large enough to contain and carry large ambiguities and great tensions. And true worshippers of God accept God’s goodness and truth wherever these are manifest, no matter how religiously or morally inconvenient that manifestation might be. God is the author of all that is good and all that is true! Hence, since no one religion, one church, one culture, one philosophy, or one ideology contains all of the truth, we must be open to perceiving and receiving goodness and truth in many, many different places – and we must be open to the tensions and ambiguity this brings into our lives.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that scripture tells us that we carry within us the image and likeness of God. But we should not picture God’s image within us as some beautiful icon stamped inside our souls. God is fire, holy energy, infinite creativity, infinite freedom, wildness beyond our imaginations, and energy that is boundless and fuels everything that is, that lives, that breathes, that searches for meaning. We see from Scripture that real revelation, a true in-breaking of God into our lives, always comes as a surprise, as something we could not have anticipated, programmed for ourselves, manipulated, or even imagined. Thus, scripture tells us to make a special place in our lives for the unfamiliar, the stranger, the foreigner, the person who is utterly different from us. What’s unfamiliar is what brings us God’s revelation. One of the marks of true revelation is that it stretches us, takes us into new territory, and opens us up to realities we cannot imagine. We sometimes experience dark nights of the soul in our faith and religious beliefs. What happens is that our religious securities, including our imaginative sense of God’s existence, disappear, and we are left not just with a new and surprising (to us) insecurity in terms of our religious belief but, more painfully still, the incapacity to imagine with any certainty the existence and nature of God. Our inner powers to feel, imagine, and sense God’s existence dry up and leave us in a certain “agnosticism.” The agnosticism we feel is a healthy unknowing, an unknowing that opens us up to a purer and deeper way of experiencing God. Essentially, what a dark night of the soul does is clear away false debris, false securities, and the manipulative images of God that we created for ourselves. When C.S. Lewis was struggling with his decision to become a Christian, one of the turning points in his decision to become a Christian came as the result of a challenge from J.R.R. Tolkien, the author of Lord of the Rings. Hearing Lewis express his doubt, Tolkien simply said: “That is a poverty of imagination on your part!” Nothing could be truer. God and the great mysteries are indeed beyond our imaginations, and sometimes, when we try to imagine them, we experience agnosticism precisely because we end up meeting ourselves rather than the true God. In our religious quest, we attune ourselves to a reality and a consciousness that is beyond our own, as opposed to touching what is highest inside of ourselves or highest within the collective ideals of humanity. In real religion, we meet God, not ourselves.

Thomas Keating wrote that people came to him for spiritual direction, sharing how they used to have a warm and solid sense of God in their lives but now complain that all that warmth and confidence have disappeared and they’re left struggling with belief and struggling to pray as they used to. They feel a deep sense of loss and invariably this is their question: “What’s wrong with me?” His answer, in essence, says this: Despite your pain, there is something very right with you. You have moved past being a religious neophyte, past an initiatory stage of religious growth, which was right for you for its time, and are now being led into a deeper, not lesser, faith. You felt that you understood God and religion. Then the bottom fell out of your faith and certainty, and now you are finding yourself a lot less sure of yourself, considerably more humble, more empathetic, and less judgmental. Fr. Rolheiser writes that we tend to confuse faith with our capacity on any given day to conjure up a concept of God and imagine God’s existence. We think our faith is strongest at those times when we have affective and emotive feelings attached to our imaginations about God. Strong imaginative images and strong feelings about God are, in the end, just that, images. Wonderful, but images nonetheless, icons. An image is not the reality. Mystics such as John of the Cross call this experience of seemingly losing our faith “a dark night of the soul.” This describes the experience where we used to feel God’s presence with a certain warmth and solidity, but now we feel like God is non-existent, and we are left in doubt. This is what Jesus experienced on the cross, and this is what Mother Teresa wrote about in her journals. While that darkness can be confusing, it can also be maturing: It can help move us from being arrogant, judgmental, religious neophytes to humble, empathic men and women, living inside a cloud of unknowing, understanding more by not understanding than by understanding, helpfully lost in a darkness we cannot manipulate or control, so as to finally be pushed into genuine faith, hope, and charity.

It’s hard to recognize how far we are at times from the love Jesus speaks to in today’s gospel reading. It is easy for us to feel connected to the commandment of Jesus to “love one another” when, in reality, all we do is love those who love us. The real test of this commandment comes in loving those who have hurt us, who don’t like us, and we don’t want to be around. The type of love most of us practice is “self-serving and often manipulative,” as Fr. Ron Rolheiser points out. “The love of Jesus takes us past our natural instinct to love those who love us and challenges us to be warm to those who are cold to us, to be kind to those who are cruel to us, to do good to those who hate us, to forgive those who hurt us, to forgive those who won’t forgive us, and to ultimately love and forgive those who are trying to kill us.” That is a measuring stick that challenges all of us, especially me. I know this is the true path of holiness that scripture speaks to, the path his disciples walked, and the one we must walk if we choose to imitate him. It’s the test of true humility, of unconditional love, of loving all who hate us. It’s a high-measuring stick, one most of us consistently fail to reach. Yet, we must remember that what is impossible for us is possible with God. All he is asking us to do is try each day to be that kind of love to others. Each day, we must learn to empty ourselves of “us” so the Lord can fill us with “His” love. Then, with the help of the Holy Spirit, we go forth to give that love away to all we encounter.

Questions. We all have them. It started for many of us before we could even speak as we explored the new world we had been brought into. Part of our makeup as human beings is this desire to know. It drives so much of who and what we become. While I never realized some of my childhood dreams, the journey of trying to bring them to fulfillment taught me many truths about life, one of them being the importance of staying steadfast to the truths I learned. I am reminded about the truth my father taught me of “first things first” and how distractions from the task at hand can lead to unfortunate consequences. This reality of distraction can be easily seen in the picture of the young boy standing in the outfield of a baseball game, his attention captured by a bumble bee feeding on a flower in the field. Suddenly a fly ball is hit his way, but he misses it because his focus was on the bee and not on the game [been there before].When we allow ourselves as adult believers, to become distracted from what Christ taught us, we can begin to drift away from him. This can lead to apathy, spiritual neglect, prayerlessness, and detachment from God’s Word. This is what we hear in the Lord’s words to the disciples today; stay steadfast to what I have spoken to you; remain in me so that I will remain in you.