Author: DVO

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes about a recent series of lectures he gave when confronted by a rather angry man who accused him of being soft on hell, God’s judgment, and God’s justice: “I cannot accept what you say. There is so much evil in the world and so many people are suffering from other people’s sins that there must be, after this life, some retribution, some justice. Don’t tell me that all these people who are doing these things—from molesting children to ignoring all morality—are going to be in heaven when we get there! What does that say about God’s justice?” His lament is, in fact, quite an old one. The prophet Isaiah had the same kind of wish (Isaiah 61:2). For him, it was not enough that the Messiah should usher in a time of peace and freedom for good people. Along with rewards for the good, he felt, there needed to be too a “day of vengeance” on the bad. Interestingly, in a curious omission, when Jesus quotes this text to define his own ministry, he leaves out the part about vengeance (Luke 4:18). To my mind, this desire for justice (as we call it) is, at its root, unhealthy and speaks volumes about the bitterness within our own lives. All these worries that somebody might be getting away with something and all these wishes that God better be an exacting judge suggest that we, like the older brother of the prodigal son, might be doing things right, but real love, forgiveness, and celebration have long gone out of our hearts. We are bitter as slaves and are quite outside the circle of the dance. This is one of the best descriptions of God ever written. I often meditate on it, and, to be honest, most times, it makes for a painful meditation. Far from basking in gratitude in the beautiful symphony of relaxed, measureless love and infinite forgiveness that makes up heaven, I feel instead the bitterness, self-pity, anger, and incapacity to let go and dance that was felt by the older brother of the prodigal son. To be fit for heaven, we must let go of our bitterness. Like the older brother, our problem is ultimately not the excessive love that is seemingly shown to someone else. Our problem is that we have never fully heard or understood God’s words: “My child, you have always been with me and all I have is yours, but we, you and I, should be happy and dance because your younger brother who was dead has come back to life!”

The parable in today’s gospel of the wealthy landowner who sends his servants out to collect the produce from his tenant farmers is a cautionary tale about what can go wrong when we try to build things on our own— even the kingdom of God. At the same time, it is a great consolation to know that the Lord is not stymied by our rejections. One might think this is just another example of Jesus facing off against the scribes and Pharisees, the religious authorities of his day. But there is something there for all of us, regardless of our canonical station in life. We, too, can get it wrong, can reject what should be embraced, can drive off messengers whose messages we don’t like. Our hope, finally, is only in the Lord, who makes a firm foundation for our lives, even out of something we initially rejected. The father in the story fails to fathom the deep resentment his tenants hold against his family. “They will respect my son,” he assumes, but they do not. The greedy tenants kill the man’s beloved son to gain his inheritance. Bishop Robert Barron notes that when God sent his son to us, we killed him. “This is the insane resistance to God’s intentions, which is called sin. One of the most fundamental spiritual mistakes we can make is to think that we own the world. We are tenants, entrusted with the responsibility of caring for it, but everything that we have and are is on loan.” That brings us appropriately back to our Lenten journey and the sobering reality that our lives are not about us.

Faith is not so much unbelief and doubt in the existence of God as it is anxiety and fretless worry. The opposite of faith is what Jesus cautions Martha against: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious about many things!” A gracious, all-powerful, loving God is solidly in charge, and nothing will happen in the world and nothing will happen to us that this Lord is indifferent to. Our faith, at its core, invites trust, and not just abstract trust, the belief that good is stronger than evil. No. To say the creed, to say that I believe in God is to have a very particularized, concrete trust, a trust that God has not forgotten about me and my problems and that, despite whatever indications there are to the contrary, God is still in charge and is very concerned with my life and its concrete troubles. When we anxiously worry, in essence, we are denying the Christian creed because we are, in effect, saying that God has either forgotten about us or that God does not have the power to do anything about what is troubling us. It is then that we, like Martha, begin rushing around and fretting about many things. We see the opposite of this in Jesus’ prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane. He truly says the creed. With all the powers of death and darkness closing in on him, just when it seems that God has abandoned him and the earth, he begins his prayer: “Abba, Father, all things are possible for you.”  What Jesus is saying is that, despite indications to the contrary, despite the fact that it looks like God is asleep at the switch, God is still in charge, is still Lord of this universe, is still noticing everything, and is still fully in power and worthy of trust. The trouble, though, is that this is hard to do, even when we do believe in a God who is Lord of the universe. Our problem is that we project our limited, selective care onto this God. We feel that God is inadequate because often we are, that God falls asleep at the switch because we occasionally do and that God forgets about us in our problems because we have a habit of letting certain persons and things slip off of our radar screens. And so we fear that God sometimes forgets and does not notice us, that God, like us, is an inadequate Lord of the universe. That is why we get anxious and fret; like one without faith, we can feel that we are in an unfeeling universe.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “The Way of Trust” September 1997.

There are countless persons, basilicas, churches, shrines, seminaries, convents, and even towns and cities named after St. Joseph. My native country, Canada, has him as its patron.  In the Gospel of Matthew, the annunciation of Jesus’ conception is given to Joseph rather than to Mary: Before they came together, Mary was found to be with child by the Holy Spirit. Joseph, her husband, being an upright man and unwilling to shame her, had decided to divorce her quietly, when an angel appeared to him in a dream and told him not to be afraid to take Mary as his wife, that the child in her had been conceived through the Holy Spirit. After receiving revelation in a dream, he agrees to take her home as his wife and to name the child as his own. Partly we understand the significance of that, he spares Mary embarrassment, he names the child as his own, and he provides an accepted physical, social, and religious place for the child to be born and raised. But he does something else that is not so evident: He shows how a person can be a pious believer, deeply faithful to everything within his religious tradition, and yet at the same time be open to a mystery beyond both his human and religious understanding. And this was exactly the problem for any Christians, including Matthew himself, at the time the Gospels were written: They were pious Jews who didn’t know how to integrate Christ into their religious framework. What does one do when God breaks into one’s life in new, previously unimaginable ways? How does one deal with an impossible conception? Here’s how Raymond Brown puts it: The hero of Matthew’s infancy story is Joseph, a very sensitive Jewish observer of the Law. In Joseph, the evangelist was portraying what he thought a Jew [a true pious believer] should be and probably what he himself was. In essence what Joseph teaches us is how to live in loving fidelity to all that we cling to humanly and religiously, even as we are open to a mystery of God that takes us beyond all the categories of our religious practice and imagination.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Joseph and Christmas,” December 2009.

Recently a student I’d taught decades ago made this comment to me: “It’s been more than twenty years since I took your class and I’ve forgotten most everything you taught. What I do remember from your class is that we’re supposed to always try not to make God look stupid.” I hope that’s something people take away from my lectures and writings because I believe that the first task of any Christian apologetics is to rescue God from stupidity, arbitrariness, narrowness, legalism, rigidity, tribalism, and everything else that’s bad but gets associated with God. A healthy theology of God must underwrite all our apologetics and pastoral practices. Anything we do in the name of God should reflect God. It’s no accident that atheism, anti-clericalism, and the many diatribes leveled against the church and religion today can always point to some bad theology or church practice on which to base their skepticism and anger. Atheism is always a parasite, feeding off bad religion. So too is much of the negativity towards the churches which is so common today. An anti-church attitude feeds on bad religion and so we who believe in God and church should be examining ourselves more than defending ourselves. Moreover more important than the criticism of atheists are the many people who have been hurt by their churches. A huge number of persons today no longer go to church or have a very strained relationship to their churches because what they’ve met in their churches doesn’t speak well of God. What did Jesus reveal about God? First, that God has no favorites and that there must be full equality among races, among rich and poor, among slave and free, and among male and female. No one person, race, gender, or nation is more favored than others by God. Nobody is first. All are privileged. Next, God is especially compassionate and understanding towards the weak and towards sinners. A theology of God that reflects the compassion and mercy of God should always be reflected in every pastoral decision we make. Otherwise, we make God look stupid – arbitrary, tribal, cruel, and antithetical to church practice.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Mercy, Truth, and Pastoral Practice” May 2018.

Lent is the season of return. This is the theme we hear in the weekday liturgies of Lent, especially in the Old Testament readings. Day after day, we hear accounts of the people coming back to the Lord, opening their hearts to confess their sins and failures, and asking his forgiveness. The people’s honesty about themselves and their weaknesses is astonishing. So is their confidence that God will treat them with mercy and welcome them back. As I write, we are early in the second week of Lent. On Monday, we heard the prophet Daniel’s confession: “We have sinned, been wicked and done evil; we have rebelled and departed from your commandments and your laws.” Even the saints are sinners. The Scriptures tell us that the righteous fall seven times daily. That is why we need confession. We need to have some way to tell God that we are sorry, to hear his words of forgiveness, and to pick ourselves up. The most beautiful scenes in the Gospel are scenes of confession and forgiveness, as Jesus shows the merciful face of God to those who come seeking healing and liberation. We all remember the story of the prodigal son who confesses his sins and is welcomed home to the loving arms of his father. God’s mercy matters; we all need it. That is why his door is always open to us, he is always waiting for our return. Just as in the story of the prodigal son. God forgives the contrite heart, even though we continue to sin or make the same mistakes. What is important is our resolve, our desire to get stronger, to grow in holiness. Here I want to appeal to you to make a habit of regular confession — once a month, even once every couple of weeks. Do not make it complicated, or get hung up on the “form.” The priest will be there to help you. Tell the priest, “Lord, you know all things, you know that I love you.” Then confess your sins. Speak honestly, tell all your sins; you do not need to go into detail or give explanations. And most important, have true sorrow in your heart and the intention not to commit these sins again. Just know that the more often you go to confession, the easier it gets. The better you are able to examine your conscience and to make a complete confession, the more satisfying the experience is.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Archbishop Jose H. Gomez’s reflection, “Mercy for the Journey” March 2022.

The Gospel from Luke this Sunday marks the day when Jesus took his inner circle — Peter, John and James — to a mountaintop, where he was transformed before their eyes. His clothes became dazzlingly white. He was accompanied by Moses and Elijah, and they were conversing about the days to come. The apostles were so awestruck they hardly knew what to say. Peter proposed that they build three booths there on the mountain, one for Jesus and the other two for his heavenly companions. At last an unmistakably divine voice proclaimed Jesus to be his Son: “This is my son, my chosen; listen to him!” In the early Church, the message of Jesus’ Transfiguration was seen as the last of the great milestones of our salvation. It brings completion, resolution and closure to the story. On Easter Jesus conquers death. On Pentecost he shares the Spirit. And with his Transfiguration he reveals a lasting and glorious dwelling for his people. These three moments correspond rather exactly to the three great feasts of the Jewish calendar: Passover, Pentecost and Sukkoth. The apostles see that Jesus is the fulfillment of the ancient law and the prophets. On the mountaintop, he is joined by Moses (the lawgiver) and Elijah (the prophet). And the three are speaking about Jesus’ “departure” — literally his exodus. Only much later would the apostles understand Jesus’ dying and rising as a prelude to his glorification, when he ascended to prepare a dwelling for them with his Father. That is the true end of the story, and it is the meaning of the feast, a day too little noticed in the lives of modern Christians. Yet this is our day, and we should celebrate in a big way. Why? Jesus has revealed something great to us. In these days of the Messiah we are invited to live with Jesus — in the company of Moses and Elijah and countless saints — in the everlasting “booth” of the Holy Spirit. It’s not just a long-ago moment we remember. It’s not just a day in the far-off future. It’s today.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Transfiguration: The feast of Jesus’ glory — and ours” August 2015.

Jesus repeatedly enjoined his followers to “be compassionate as God is compassionate. ” Each time God appears in Scripture, the first words are “Do not be afraid.” If something frightens you, you can be sure it’s not from God. Fear of the Lord is healthy since it is more about reverence, and fear is more about that we might hurt God, not that God might hurt us.  Compassion is central to all authentic religions, it’s the penultimate invitation, since it’s the medium that takes us to our last invitation, which is union with God. In todays’ reading from Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus says, “Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect” – an impossibility for human beings in the Greek-rooted sense in which we understand perfection, meaning “without flaws.” But in Hebrew thought, perfection means compassion. Luke’s Gospel reflects this by saying, “Be compassionate as your heavenly Father is compassionate. Quoting Scripture scholar Dr. Walter Brueggemann, “Proper prayer and proper practice were seen as the essence of religion in Old Testament times until the prophets came and said, but God doesn’t care so much about all these rules; God cares about the poor. The quality of your faith will be judged by the quality of your justice; the quality of justice will be judged by the treatment of the three weakest groups – widows, orphans and strangers.” So in the end, there will be only one set of questions: “If you love me, you’ll keep my word; if you don’t keep my word, don’t pretend that you are loving me. Did you feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the prisoners?” Jesus said “God is in the poor,’” so what you’re doing to the poor, you’re doing to God. Jesus said “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone,” he wrote on the ground with his finger twice. Pope Francis was not the first to say, “Who am I to judge?” In John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “I judge no one.”  That doesn’t mean there isn’t any judgment; God doesn’t have to judge anybody; nobody is in hell because God sent them there. We judge ourselves; and God tells us to be very patient in judging others.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Be Compassionate as God is Compassionate” December 2022.

It’s not easy in any given situation to tell what’s right and what’s wrong, and even more difficult to tell what’s sinful and what’s not. Intending no offense to how our churches and moral thinkers have classically approached moral questions, I believe there’s a better way to approach them that, more healthily, takes into account human freedom, human limitations, and the singular existential situation of every individual. The approach isn’t my own, but one voiced by the Prophet Isaiah who offers us this question from God: What kind of house can you build for me? (Isaiah 66, 1) That question should undergird our overall discipleship and all of our moral choices. Beyond a very elementary level, our moral decision-making should no longer by guided by the question of right or wrong, is this sinful or not?  Rather it should be guided and motivated by a higher question: What kind of house can you build for me? At what level do I want live out my humanity and my discipleship? Do I want to be more self-serving or more generous? Do I want to be petty or noble? Do I want to be self-pitying or big of heart? Do I want to live out my commitments in a fully honest fidelity or am I comfortable betraying others and myself in hidden ways? Do I want to be a saint or am I okay being mediocre? At a mature level of discipleship (and human maturity) the question is no longer, is this right wrong? That’s not love’s question. Love’s question is rather, how can I go deeper? At what level can I live out love, truth, light, and fidelity in my life? Beyond a very elementary level, our moral decision-making should no longer by guided by the question of right or wrong, is this sinful or not?  Rather it should be guided and motivated by a higher question: What kind of house can you build for me? At what level do I want live out my humanity and my discipleship? Do I want to be more self-serving or more generous? Do I want to be petty or noble? Do I want to be self-pitying or big of heart? Do I want to live out my commitments in a fully honest fidelity or am I comfortable betraying others and myself in hidden ways? Do I want to be a saint or am I okay being mediocre? What kind of house can I build for God? At a mature level of discipleship (and human maturity) the question is no longer, is this right wrong? That’s not love’s question. Love’s question is rather, how can I go deeper? At what level can I live out love, truth, light, and fidelity in my life? This, I believe, is the ideal way we should stand before the moral choices in our lives.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “What Kind of House Can You Build for Me?” October 2020.

In her autobiography, The Long Loneliness, Dorothy Day tells of a very difficult time in her life. She had just converted to Christianity after a long period of atheism and then given birth to her daughter. During her season of atheism, she had fallen in love with a man who had fathered her child, and she and this man, atheists disillusioned with mainstream society, had made a pact never to marry as a statement against the conventions of society. But her conversion to Christianity had turned that world upside down. The father of her child had given her an ultimatum; if she had their child baptized, he would end their relationship. Dorothy chose to baptize the child but paid a heavy price. She deeply loved this man and suffered greatly at their breakup. Moreover, given that her conversion took her out of all her former circles, it left her with more than a missing soul mate. It left her too without a job, without support for her child, and without her former purpose in life. She felt painfully alone and lost. And this drove her to her knees, literally. One day, she took a train to Washington, D.C., from New York and spent the day praying at the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. And, as she shares in her autobiography, her prayer that day was shamelessly direct, humble, and clear. Essentially, she told God, again and again, that she was lost, that she needed a clear direction for her life, and that she needed that direction now, not in some distant future. And, like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, she prayed that prayer over and over again. She took a train home that evening and as she walked up to her apartment, a man, Peter Maurin, was sitting on the steps. He invited her to start the Catholic Worker. The rest is history. Our prayers aren’t always answered that swiftly and directly, but they are always answered, as Jesus assures us, because God does not withhold the Holy Spirit from those who ask for it. If we pray for guidance and support, it will be given us.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Prayer as Seeking God’s Guidance,” December 2011.