Author: DVO

How do we anchor ourselves in God’s goodness? What would Jesus do? For some Christians, that’s the easy answer to every question. In every situation, all we need to ask is: What would Jesus do? At a deep level, that’s actually true. Jesus is the ultimate criterion. He is the way, the truth, and the life, and anything that contradicts him is not a way to God. Yet, I suspect many of us find ourselves irritated by how that expression is often used in simplistic ways, as a fundamentalism challenging to digest. Yet Jesus is still, and forever, a non-negotiable criterion. While Jesus is a non-negotiable criterion, he’s not a simplistic one. What did Jesus do? Well, the answer isn’t simple. Looking at his life we see that sometimes he did things one way, sometimes another way, and sometimes he started out doing something one way and ended up changing his mind and doing it differently, as we see in his interaction with the Syro-Phoenician woman. That’s why, I suspect, within Christianity, there are so many different denominations, spiritualities, and ways of worship, each with its own interpretation of Jesus. Jesus is complex. So where does this leave us as we seek to know and find the good in things? Do we give ourselves over uncritically to some ecclesial or academic authority and trust that it will tell us what Jesus would do in every situation? We need to answer that for ourselves by faithfully holding and carrying within us the tension between being obedient to our churches and not betraying the critical voices within our own conscience. If we do that honestly, one thing will eventually constellate inside us as an absolute: God is good!  Everything Jesus taught and incarnated was predicated on that truth. Anything that jeopardizes or belies that, be it a church, a theology, a liturgical practice, or a spirituality, is wrong. And any voice within dogma or private conscience that betrays that is also wrong. How we conceive of God colors for good or for bad everything within our religious practice. And above all else, Jesus revealed this about God: God is good. That truth needs to ground everything else: our churches, our theologies, our spiritualities, our liturgies, and our understanding of everyone else. Sadly, the God who is met in our churches today is often too narrow, too merciless, too tribal, too petty, and too untrustworthy to be worthy of Jesus or the surrender of our souls. What would Jesus do? Admittedly, the question is complex. However, we know we have the wrong answer whenever we make God anything less than fully good, whenever we set conditions for unconditional love, and whenever, however subtly, we block access to God and God’s mercy. [Excerpted from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s “Anchoring Ourselves within God’s Goodness”]

Angel of God, my guardian dear,
To whom God’s love commits me here,
Ever this day, be at my side,
To light and guard,
Rule and guide. Amen.

Are we still meant to believe in guardian angels? If yes, in what exactly are we meant to believe? Are angels real personified beings or simply another word for God’s presence in our lives? Hearing the news about another senseless massacre or storm-ravaged tragedy on the morning of the Feast of the Guardian Angels can challenge our beliefs in God’s protection. Most adults, within all Christian denominations, either see the existence of guardian angels as a pious fantasy or are simply indifferent to the idea. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that scripture scholars don’t give us a definitive answer but suggest that the question can be answered either way. In scripture, the word ‘angel’ might refer to a real personified spirit, or it might refer to a special presence of God in some situations. Church tradition affirms more strongly that angels are real. Where does that leave us? Divided. Conservative Christians generally assert the existence of angels as a dogmatic teaching. Angels are real.  Liberal Christians tend to doubt that or at least are agnostic about it. For them, ‘angel’ more likely refers to a special presence of God. For example, they take the statement in the Gospels where the evangelist tells us that while Jesus was praying, “an angel came and strengthened him” to mean that God’s grace came and strengthened him. Who’s right? Perhaps it doesn’t matter since the reality is the same in either case. God gives us revelation, guidance, protection, and strength and does so in ” angelic ” ways beyond our normal conceptualizations. We know now that there are billions of universes (not just planets), and we know now that our planet Earth, and we on this planet, are the tiniest of minute specks inside the unthinkable magnitude of God’s creation. If this is true, and it is, then this is hardly the time to be skeptical about the extent of God’s creation, believing that we, humans, are what is central and that there can be no personified realities beyond our own flesh and blood. Such thinking is narrow, both from the point of view of faith and from the perspective of science itself. So, do we have guardian angels? Yes, we do have a guardian angel, irrespective of how we might imagine or conceive of this. God is closer to us than we are to ourselves and God’s solicitous love, guidance, and protection are with us always. At the end of the day, it matters little whether this comes through a particular personified spirit (who has a name in heaven) or whether it comes simply through God’s loving omnipresence. God’s presence is real; we are never alone without God’s love, guidance, and protection.

In today’s reflection from Luke’s Gospel, Jesus and his disciples face rejection. Many of us know the humiliation of being rejected, overlooked, ignored, and left for another. So, we all carry a lot of disappointment, frustration, and sadness inside. Fr. Rolheiser writes that what we feel in that is wounded pride, but that’s no small, or ungodly, thing. When we turn away in coldness from someone or something we once loved, perhaps even from God and religion, we usually do so out of hurt, wounded pride, out of the need to protect ourselves and keep our dignity intact. What can we do with wounded pride? With disappointment? With jealousy? With the sense of having been wronged? The natural temptation is to deny, to lie, to pretend that none of this is happening inside us. And so when we’re asked how we are, we generally say we’re fine, even when our hearts are bleeding, our jealousy is raging, our faces are tense, our eyes are sad, our dignity is compromised, our fists are clenched. But there’s another option – grieving, mourning, tears. We can mourn our losses and cry the kind of tears that rip open our feelings of security and safety and bring us face to face with the painful truth that we are broken, not whole, disappointed, and unable to actualize our dreams. When we grieve, we soften, rather than harden, our hearts in the face of loss and humiliation. It’s not pleasant, but scary, to enter into your own brokenness, into all those places that you’ve denied exist inside of you. when we cry we learn that salvation lies not in our capacity to be strong enough never to be broken, but in the opposite, namely, in surrender in helplessness to a God who can fill in all those places where we are helpless, lost, jealous, restless, and broken. “The person who doesn’t have a softening of the heart will eventually have a softening of the head.” Chesterton said that. He’s right.

What exactly does that mean, to pray affectively? You must try to pray so that, in your prayer, you open yourself in such a way that sometime – perhaps not today, but sometime – you are able to hear God say to you: “I love you!” These words, addressed to you by God, are the most important words you will ever hear because, before you hear them, nothing is ever completely right with you, but, after you hear them, something will be right in your life at a very deep level. These are simple words, but they capture what we ultimately try to do when we “lift mind and heart to God” in prayer. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that this might sound pious and sentimental. It’s anything but that. Don’t be put off by simplicity. The deeper something is the simpler it will be. That’s why we have trouble understanding the deep things, be they of science or the heart. What separates the great minds from the rest of us is their capacity to grasp the simple. Anyone can understand what’s complex, but we have trouble grasping the principle of relativity, the concept of being, the concept of love, and things about the nature of God, for exactly the opposite reason. They’re too simple. The simpler something is, the harder it is to wrap our minds around it and the more we need to make it complex in order to understand it. That’s true too of prayer. It’s so simple that we rarely lay bare its essence. It has ever been thus, it would seem. John’s gospel already makes that point. In his gospel, we meet Jesus as an adult right on the first page and the first words out of Jesus’ mouth are a question: “What are you looking for?” That question remains throughout the rest of the gospel as a hermeneutical coloring suggesting that beneath everything else a certain search is going on. A lot of things are happening on the surface, but underneath, there remains always the nagging, restless question: “What are you looking for?” Jesus answers that question explicitly only at the end of the gospel, on the morning of the resurrection. Mary Magdala goes looking for him, carrying spices with which to embalm his dead body. Jesus meets her, alive and in no need of embalming, but she doesn’t recognize him. Bewildered, but sincere, she asks Jesus where she might find Jesus (something, I suspect, we do often enough in prayer). Jesus, for his part, repeats for her the question he opened the gospel with: “What are you looking for?” Then he answers it: With deep affection, he pronounces her name: “Mary”. In doing that, he tells her what she and everyone else are forever looking for, God’s voice, one-to-one, speaking unconditional love, gently saying your name. In the end, that’s what we are all looking for and most need. It’s what gives us substance, identity, and justification beyond our own efforts to make ourselves lovable, worthwhile, and immortal. We are forever in fear of our own seeming insubstantiality. How to give ourselves significance? We need to hear God, affectionately, one-to-one, pronounce our names: “Carolyn!” “Julia!” “Kern!” “Gisele!” “Steve!” “Sophia!” Nothing will heal us more of restlessness, bitterness, and insecurity than to hear God say: “I love you!”

Dr. Mary Healy writes that Jesus’ teaching on the two possible destinations of human life after death—heaven or hell, the eternal joy of union with God or the eternal misery of separation from him—has been constantly reaffirmed throughout Church tradition. Yet it is often brushed over or treated with outright skepticism by Christians today. Many of those who teach or catechize seem reluctant to comment on this most crucial perspective within which to live our lives. Some may be struggling with the question of how a good God could send someone to hell. But the truth conveyed in Jesus’ teaching is that we choose our own destiny. With every decision and action over the course of a lifetime, we orient ourselves either to heaven or to hell, and at the moment of death, we embrace what has truly become our choice. C. S. Lewis expresses it well: “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’ All that are in Hell, choose it. Without that self-choice, there could be no Hell.” God never ceases to hold out his unfathomable mercy, even at the very moment when a person steps over the threshold into eternity. In today’s Gospel from Mark, Bishop Robert notes that John complains to Jesus that someone not of their group was driving out demons in Jesus’ name. Jesus responds, “Do not prevent him. Whoever is not against us is for us.” What a wonderful, generous attitude! John was undoubtedly angry that someone outside of their little circle was going to get credit. If you think that this sort of thing only happened in biblical times, you haven’t spent too much time around the Church! I’m a proud churchman, and I love and admire all of the great people who do so much for Christ’s kingdom, and for very little compensation. But I’ve also been around long enough to see this problem on parish staffs, in diocesan offices, within rectories, and among parish communities. We get so tied up in our little games and protecting our turf and making sure things go according to the bureaucratic structures that we have established that we forget what the mission is about. What Jesus saw was that the mission is what matters. Bringing God’s love to the world, being a conduit of grace: that’s what matters. All of our personal glory, position, privilege—all of that is finally a matter of indifference.

Most young people look forward to being older but not being old. No one wants to get old, but it happens to us all, whether we like it or not (trust me, I know). And the Bible has a lot of wisdom to offer on the matter of growing old. Solomon tells us that this is the mistake many people make. You need to remember God now while you’re young. The signs of old age are an unwillingness to change. You get used to a certain way of doing something, and it just stays that way. Let’s remember that initially, Solomon loved God. He was the son of David and the builder of the temple. He asked for wisdom above any other gift. Eventually, however, he got off track and refused to remember his Creator as in the days of his youth. Gradually, over time, he made little compromises that became bigger ones that ultimately caused disaster. In our youth, we are often oblivious to the reality that there is a day coming when we will have to pay for ourselves for things such as rent, food, car, phone and internet bills, and a hundred other things. In our youth, we’re thinking about what to do with our spare time. Later in life, we tend to think about things we would have liked to do but have neither the time nor the money. Lastly, Solomon’s wisdom tells us that we have no guarantee of growing older. So, choose to live life to its fullest by centering your life on God’s teachings and trying your best to live them out. Procrastination is not your friend. Christ told us that “whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.” So, choose today to live your life for the Lord, not the world.  

Bonnie Thurston writes that she is probably not the only person who thinks of Pete Seeger’s tune (sung by The Byrds and by Judy Collins) when I encounter today’s Ecclesiastes reading. “Turn, turn, turn,” I hum as I write, remembering life has seasons, different times for different things, and the glorious promise of timelessness. Do we remember in an autumnal or winter season that God “made everything appropriate to its time?” That God planted timelessness in our hearts? It is fitting that our lives be filled with different things: birth, death, planting, harvesting, weeping, laughing, mourning, and dancing. Through life’s changes, we discover “the work which God has done” and are formed for eternity, made ready for the eternal present tense. Today’s Gospel reminds us that Jesus’ life had “seasons”: Nazareth family time; times of solitary prayer; time to call and teach disciples; time for wedding feasts; time for suffering, rejection, death; and time to be raised. By his resurrection, we have access to God’s timelessness, the eternal present tense that seeds such deep longing in our hearts and promises we will share Christ’s suffering and his resurrection. That resurrection has already begun in us when, amid life’s ephemeral events, we remain focused on the enduring and eternal.

Amy Ekeh, Director of Little Rock Scripture Study, makes some observations on The Book of Ecclesiastes, which many who study scripture can connect to, especially her comment that this book “May not be the book to read when you are having a really bad day.” One of the better-known verses from Ecclesiastes is our reflection verse for today:  “Vanity of vanities! All is vanity.” Amy writes that the word “vanity” is the typical English translation of the Hebrew word hebel, which means “vapor” or “breath.”  The word is used 38 times in the Book of Ecclesiastes to describe the fleeting and even futile nature of life. I have often found this book to voice how I feel about life at times, giving me a “permission” of sorts, as Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes, to not only be okay feeling that way but also to “pray in honesty out of that space.” Amy says a stark realism is written down and poured out on the sacred page: “That is why I don’t find it strange that the Book of Ecclesiastes found its way into the canon. I don’t think the ideas we read here mean that life really is hebel, or futile. I don’t think the author’s own uncertainty about the afterlife means that we need to be uncertain. But this book allows us to express our frustrations and fears, and it comforts us. It allows us to have dark moments and say, ‘I don’t get it’ and ‘It isn’t fair.”‘  It allows us to read and say, ‘I’m not sure either’ and ‘What is death, really?’ If nothing else, this special book reminds us that opening scripture always begins a conversation with God. We can express every emotion, ask every question, and enter into every mystery. And when we enter into the very honest and very human ideas we find in the Book of Ecclesiastes, we can be assured that our God understands and responds: ‘I hear you, my people. Keep talking to me.'” 

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that to name something properly brings a certain peace of mind. St. John of the Cross tells us that the process of spiritual direction works this way: first, there is the raw experience itself, the flow of events in our lives that triggers a bevy of thoughts and feelings that both stimulate and perplex the soul. This is like uncut-dough, in need of shaping. Next comes the objectification of that experience. The person seeking guidance must in some way give expression to his or her experience, however crudely, through words, a drawing, a dance, whatever. But this initial expression is not yet an interpretation. That’s the next step. With the help of a spiritual director, the person now searches for a name to properly describe what is happening inside them. Using paradigms drawn from scripture and Christian tradition, the one being directed tests various images, like one would try on shoes in a store, looking for a good fit: “Could this be the same thing as Job experienced? Could this be an experience of the ‘desert’? Is God testing me as he did Abraham and Sarah?” When there is a proper fit, peace ensues. The experience has been properly named, and we have turned raw circumstance into shaped destiny. To name something properly is an act of faith, an act that manifests transcendence. Raw forces are forever impaling themselves upon us, but we get to determine their meaning. We do that by naming our experiences correctly. To pray and to struggle in naming our experiences biblically and in faith is to “read the signs of the times.” And remember, not everything can be cured or fixed, but it should be named properly.

Today, we look at two engaging reflections on this famous passage from Luke regarding Jesus’ answer to the question, “Who is my mother?” Bishop Robert Barron points to the nature of family. He writes that there is nothing in the world wrong with fostering the flourishing of your family. But over and again, the Bible places the world’s goods into question—even something as good as family relationships. Why? Because family isn’t God. It is not that which you should serve with your whole heart; it doesn’t belong in the center of your life. Is family the point around which most of your energies revolve? Is it your primary focus as you make your way through the day? Are there times when you feel your family obligations competing with the will of God? That brings you back to today’s reflection verse, “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and act on it.” So Fr. Ron Rolheiser asks, “Is Jesus distancing himself from his mother here?” He emphatically replies, “No.” He’s pointing out the fundamental link between them. Among all the people in the gospels, Mary is the pre-eminent example of the one who hears the word of God and keeps it.” Fr. Rolheiser goes on to note how Mary gave birth to Christ as something we are called to do in our lives – giving birth to faith in Christ. “Looking at how Mary gave birth to Christ, we see that it’s not something that’s done instantly. Faith, like biology, also relies on a process with several distinct, organic moments. What are these moments? What is the process by which we give birth to faith in the world? Mary wants imitation, not admiration. Our task, too, is to give birth to Christ. Mary is the paradigm for doing that. From her, we get the pattern: Let the word of God take root and make you pregnant; gestate that by giving it the nourishing sustenance of your own life; submit to the pain that is demanded for it to be born to the outside; then spend years coaxing it from infancy to adulthood; and finally, during and after all of this, do some pondering, accept the pain of not understanding and of letting go. It began with Mary, but each of us is asked to make our own contribution to giving flesh to faith in the world.”