Author: DVO

We wake up into life with the incurable sense that we’re special, that we’re the center of the universe. Our own being is what’s most massively real to us. As Descartes famously said, the only thing that we know for sure is real is our own selves; I think, therefore, I am. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that Christianity and Judaism take as dogma that we’re born, every one of us, in the image and likeness of God. This brings with it a sense of the preciousness, dignity, and uniqueness, of our lives. But with that too comes pride and grandiosity. Simply put, we can’t have Godliness inside us and not feel ourselves as special. Grandiosity is the source of human strife, but equally the source of human greatness. Grandiosity, pride, shame, frustration, and daydreams of greatness, can indeed be our downfall and turn us into awful persons, selfish, jealous, spiteful, and murderous. But they can also be the source of greatness, of nobility of soul, of generosity, of selflessness, of generativity, of true prayer, and can turn us into selfless martyrs of faith, hope, and charity. Our godliness is very mixed blessing; but it is, no doubt, our greatest blessing. Bishop Robert Barron notes that Thomas Aquinas said creation is the presence of God always at work at the very roots of our being. Creation is not a once-and-for-all act of the essentially transcendent God but rather the ever-present and ever-new gift of being poured out from the divine source. What Aquinas implies is that the creature is a relationship to the energy of God, which is continually drawing it from nonbeing to being, making it new. Once the soul has been transfigured, the only path that seems appealing is the one walked by Christ—that is to say, the path of radical self-offering, self-surrender. Fired by the God-consciousness, in touch with the divine source within us, drinking from the well of eternal life, we are inspired simply to pour ourselves out in love. The Father promises eternal life for everyone who believes in the Son. This is our inheritance, that every human being is a subject of inestimable value because they have been created by God and destined by Him for eternal life.

“God has not put us into this life primarily to see if we can keep our attention focused on him all the time. God intended for us to immerse ourselves in the things of this world without, of course, forgetting that these things are, at the end of the day, passing and that we’re destined for a life beyond this world. We’re not on this earth to be always thinking of the eternal, though we’re not on earth either to forget about the eternal. However, because the unexamined life is less than human, we also need to have moments where we try to make God the center of our conscious awareness. We need regular moments of explicit prayer, of meditation, of contemplation, of worship, of Sabbath, of explicit acknowledgement of God and of explicit gratitude to God. We do need moments when we make ourselves consciously aware that there is a next life, an eternal one, beyond this present one.” Excerpt from “Divine Understanding” by Fr. Ron Rolheiser

I came across an article many years ago from Fr. John Eaton writing in CUSA – An Apostolate of Persons with Chronic Illness and Disability. He notes that every Friday throughout the year, the Church begins Morning Prayer with Psalm 51: “Have mercy on me, O God, in your goodness; in the greatness of your compassion wipe out my offense.” He goes on to ask in his opening comments, “Have you ever noticed that any announcement posted on a bulletin board becomes invisible after two or three weeks. The same can be true of our prayers. This text is used so frequently that it is easy for those praying to close their minds to the meaning behind the words. Besides the prayer for the forgiveness we all need, the psalm begs for three things that I personally need: 1) a clean heart (that is, a heart that is not divided by conflicting interests), 2) a steadfast spirit (a spirit that cannot be weakened by external pressure or internal weakness), and 3) a willing spirit (a spirit that is ready to hear and obey). One of the books from Fr. Rolheiser is “Sacred Fire: A Vision for a Deeper Human and Christian Maturity” where he writes that many people are good Christians, but not all become great Christians. Many priests are good priests, but not every one of them is a great priest. The difference? In order to become great, we must give ourselves—without reservation—to Jesus Christ. We can’t hold anything back from Him. In short, we need a clean heart along with a spirit that is both steadfast and willing.”

What has been given you to carry? Where do the needs and pains of others conscript your freedom? When is freedom mitigated by circumstance? What are the situations that you are born into or meet in life to which you must respond, perhaps even at the cost of your life?  What may you not walk away from? Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that these are important questions, and not easy to answer. Each of us comes into this world with a God-given vocation. In essence, that’s easy enough to pinpoint. Simply put, we are all asked to love God and love each other. That’s the same for everyone. However, beyond that bald essence, it’s no longer the same for everyone because we are all born into and meet different circumstances in life. We are born into different families, different countries, different times in history, different cultures, different situations of poverty or affluence, different faiths, different kinds of intelligence, different natural aptitudes, and different physical bodies that vary greatly in terms of health, strength, and physical attractiveness. Philosophers call this your “existential” situation. In that, in that particularity, like snowflakes, no two persons are ever the same. And that uniqueness will color and perhaps fundamentally define your vocation and help dictate what will be given you to carry. My parents, first-generation immigrant farmers who, during many years of marriage and child-rearing, were unable to fully support our family from the farm alone. We needed some added income. As well, our outback rural community had only an elementary school and any education beyond the eighth grade required leaving home to attend a boarding school, something my parents could not afford. Because of that, five of my older siblings had to end their education after elementary school, not because they wanted to but rather because our financial need and the absence of a local high school necessitated that they leave school and take jobs to help support the family. For all of them, particularly for a couple of them, this was a hard sacrifice. Everything in them hungered for more freedom and choice; but, given their circumstances, this was what they were given to carry. And that sacrifice, that giving over of themselves for something beyond themselves, very much defined their vocation and their very persons. A large part of their vocation was to sacrifice many of their own dreams and ambitions for the sake of the family. Among other factors, my own opportunity for an education was largely predicated on their sacrifice. Their sacrifice is mirrored in the lives of millions of men and women all over the world. This is what has been given them to carry – and their sacrifice helps constitute the heart of their vocation.

Theologians note that religious history through the centuries seems to affirm that God seemingly takes his time in the face of our impatience. Our scriptures are often a record of frustrated desire, non-fulfillment, and human impatience. It’s more the exception when God intervenes directly and decisively to resolve a particular human tension. We are always longing for a messiah to take away our pain and to avenge oppression, but mostly, those prayers seem to fall on deaf ears. Fr. Rolheiser writes that humans are forever impatient, but God refuses to be hurried. Why is God seemingly so slow to act? Why is God so patient, so plodding in his plan, when we’re suffering so profoundly? Why is God so excruciatingly slow to act in the face of human impatience? There’s a line in Jewish apocalyptic literature that, metaphorically, helps answer this question: every tear brings the messiah closer! There is, it would seem, an intrinsic connection between frustration and the possibility of a messiah being born. It appears that messiahs can only be born after a long period of human yearning. Why? Because real love and life can come to birth only when a long-suffering patience has created the correct space, the virginal womb, within which the sublime can be born. When a green log is placed in a fire, it doesn’t start to burn immediately. It first needs to be dried out. Thus, it lies in the fire and sizzles for a long time, its greenness and dampness slowly drying out. Only when it reaches kindling temperature can it ignite and burst into flame. Speaking metaphorically, before a log can burst into flame, it must pass through a certain advent, a certain drying out, a period of frustration and yearning. So are the dynamics of how real love is born in our lives. We can ignite love only when we—selfish, green, damp logs—have sizzled sufficiently. And the fire that makes us sizzle is unfulfilled desire. God is never in a hurry, and for good reason. Messiahs can only be born inside a particular kind of womb, one within which there’s enough patience and willingness to wait to let things happen on God’s terms, not ours. Ideally, every unfulfilled longing should lead us into a deeper and more sincere prayer. And all of our pained impatience for a consummation that seems forever to elude us should make us feverish enough to burst into love’s flame.

“If the Lord himself was right here, right now, asking you to help him spread the good news, would you sign up?” That is the reality of the reading today. But the problem is that most people’s “yes” is based on the premise that Jesus was actually standing in front of them. As a young man pointed out when he was asked a similar question, “Since that is not going to happen, why should I listen to you or these words?” It seems as if we have a problem identifying with the truth that Christ is truly present with us today through his Word and in the gift of Himself in Holy Communion. If we can acknowledge that Jesus is present in these truths, how do we then move beyond the excuse that these words of Jesus are only meant for those called to the priesthood or religious life? Here is why Jesus’ words today are meant for anyone who calls themselves Christian. If we say that we are followers of Jesus Christ, we are charged with the responsibility of trying to live our lives in concert with his teachings. What does that mean? For some of us, the call will be to religious life, but for most, it will be serving others through our chosen vocations that may help others or in our volunteer work. If we can see the beauty of this call by the master, we can change the world. By making a concerted effort to help others in need through simple acts of kindness, we can learn how sharing the love of Christ brings unsurpassed joy to our lives and theirs. We can also learn what this call means for the gifts and talents we have been given to give away to others. Everyone could answer the call of the master if we only focused on lifting our voice in daily intercessory prayer for the needs of the Church and the least, the lost and the forgotten, learning to care for others’ needs more than our own. There are so many ways to serve and so many excuses we can use

As we know, we have four Gospels, each with its own take on the passion and death of Jesus. Fr. Rolheiser writes that for Luke, what happened in the death of Jesus is the most apparent revelation ever of the incredible scope of God’s understanding, forgiveness, and healing. For him, Jesus’ death washes everything clean through an understanding, forgiveness, and healing that belies every notion suggesting anything to the contrary. In his account of Jesus’ arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane, he tells us that immediately after one of his disciples struck the servant of the high priest and cut off his ear, Jesus touched the man’s ear and healed him. God’s healing, Luke intimates, reaches into all situations, even situations of bitterness, betrayal, and violence. God’s grace will ultimately heal even what’s wounded in hatred. Then, after Peter denied him three times and Jesus was led away after his interrogation by the Sanhedrin, Luke tells us that Jesus turned and looked straight at Peter in a look that made Peter weep bitterly. Everything in this text and everything that comes after it suggests that the look from Jesus was a look of such understanding and empathy as Peter had never before seen, causing him to weep in relief, knowing that everything was alright and that he was okay. Finally, in Luke’s narrative, we arrive at the place where Jesus is crucified, and as they are crucifying him, he utters the famous words: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” Those words, which Christians forever afterward have taken as the ultimate criterion as to how we should treat our enemies and those who do us ill, encapsulate the profound revelation contained in Jesus’ death. Unlike the narratives of Mark and Matthew, Jesus does not die expressing abandonment but instead dies expressing complete trust: “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” Luke wants us to see in these words a template for how we can face our own deaths, given our weaknesses. What’s the lesson? At the end of the day, when each of us faces our own death, this will be our biggest regret, that we’re not saints. But, as Jesus shows in his death, we can die (even in weakness) knowing we are dying in safe hands.

Christian discipleship calls all of us to be prophetic, advocate for justice, help give voice to the poor, and defend truth. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that not all of us, by temperament or vocation, are called to civil disobedience, public demonstrations, and the picket lines, as were Dorothy Day, Martin Luther King, Daniel Berrigan, and other prophetic figures. All are asked to be prophetic, but this means more wielding a basin and towel than wielding a placard for some. There is a powerful way of being prophetic that, while seemingly quiet and personal, is never private. Its rules are the same as those for those who, in the name of Jesus, are wielding placards and risking civil disobedience. What are those rules, rules for a Christian prophecy?
– A prophet makes a vow of love, not of alienation. A prophet risks misunderstanding but never seeks it, and a prophet always seeks to have a mellow rather than an angry heart.
– A prophet draws their cause from Jesus and not from an ideology. In our struggle for justice and truth, we must be vigilant and draw our truth from the Gospels, not from some ideology.
– A prophet is committed to nonviolence. A prophet takes Jesus seriously when he asks us to turn the other cheek in the face of violence.
– A prophet articulates God’s voice for the poor and the earth. Nobody gets into heaven without a letter of reference from the poor.
– A prophet doesn’t foretell the future but appropriately names the present in terms of God’s vision of things. A prophet reads where God’s finger is in everyday life, naming our fidelity or infidelity to God and pointing to our future in terms of God’s plan for us.
– A prophet speaks out of a horizon of hope. Christian hope is based on God’s promise, which was fulfilled in Jesus’ resurrection. This promise assures us that we can entrust ourselves to love, truth, and justice, even if the world kills us for it.
– A prophet’s heart and cause are never a ghetto. Christian prophecy must ensure that no person or group can make God their own tribal or national deity.
– A prophet doesn’t just speak or write about injustice; a prophet also acts with courage, even at the cost of death. A prophet has enough altruistic love, hope, and courage to act, no matter the cost. A prophet can discern at what time to park the placard and bring out the basin and towel — and at what time to lay aside the basin and towel and pick up the placard.

This last advice is, I believe, the most challenging for “quiet” prophets. Wisdom figures are not renowned for being on the picket lines, but that lies the challenge. A prophet can discern at what time to park the placard and bring out the basin and towel and at what time to lay aside the basin and towel and pick up the placard.

Christians have often preached a Gospel comprising words, attitudes, and inner salvation experiences. People say they are saved, they are “born again,” yet how do we really know if someone is saved? Are they actually following Jesus? Do they love the poor? Are they free from their ego? Are they patient in the face of persecution? It’s not enough to talk about some kind of new inebriating wine, some new ideas. Richard Rohr argues that transformation cannot be deep or lasting without new wineskins- changed institutions, systems, and structures. As Dorothy Day often said in her inimitable Kingdom style, “Nothing is going to change until we stop accepting this dirty, rotten system!” Personal “salvation” cannot be divorced from social and systemic implications. It’s easier to talk about the wine without the wineskins than to speak about salvation theories without any new world order. Unfortunately, Christianity has not always had a positive impact on Western civilization and the peoples it has colonized or evangelized. So-called Christian nations are often the most militaristic, greedy, and untrue to the teacher we claim to follow. Our societies are more often based not upon the servant leadership that Jesus modeled but on the typical domination and control model that produces racism, classism, sexism, power-seeking, and income inequality. That’s not to say our ancestors didn’t have faith that Grandma and Grandpa were not good people. But by and large, we Christians did not produce positive change in culture or institutions that operated differently than the rest. Christianity has shaped some wonderfully liberated saints, prophets, and mystics. They tried to create some new wineskins, but the church often resisted their calls for structural reform. For example, the father of my own religious community, Saint Francis of Assisi. He was marginalized as a bit of a fanatic or eccentric by mainline Catholicism, as illustrated by no Pope ever taking his name until our present Pope Francis. Even today, many Christians keep Jesus on a seeming pedestal, worshiping a caricature on a cross or a bumper-sticker slogan while avoiding what Jesus said and did. We keep saying, “We love Jesus,” but it is more like a God-figure than someone to imitate.

Morality is about fidelity, not success. Both in his words and in his life, Jesus taught this. We don’t live on bread alone. Jesus told us that. Our soul, too, needs to be fed, and its food is affirmation, recognition, and blessing. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that everyone needs to be healthily affirmed when we do something well to have resources within us to affirm others. We can’t give what we haven’t got! That’s self-evident. And so, for us to love and affirm others, we must first be loved, blessed, and praised. Praise, recognition, and blessing build up the soul. In complimenting and praising others, we are tapping into what’s deepest inside us, namely, the image and likeness of God. When we praise someone else, then, like God creating, we breathe life into a person, breathing spirit into them. People need to be praised. We don’t live on bread alone, and we don’t live on oxygen alone, either. But praise is not something we give out easily. We are so blocked by the disappointments and frustrations within our lives that we give in to cynicism and jealousy and operate out of these rather than our virtues. Genuine praise is never wrong. It simply acknowledges the truth that’s there. That’s a moral imperative. Love requires it. As Thomas Aquinas submits, refusing to admire when someone or something merits praise is negligence, a fault, selfishness, pettiness, and a lack of maturity. Conversely, paying a compliment when one is due is a virtue and a sign of maturity. Generosity is as much about giving praise as it is about giving money. We may not be stingy in our praise. The 14th century Flemish mystic, John of Ruusbroec, taught that “those who do not give praise here on earth shall be mute for all eternity.”