Author: DVO

Bishop Robert Barron writes that we are a missionary church. “The Lord sends us to spread his word and do his work. The Christian Gospel is not something we are meant to cling to for our own benefit. Rather, it is like a seed that we are meant to give away. He sends them two by two. We do this work together with others in the community. Ministers need people to support, pray for, talk to, and challenge them.” The most demanding missionary territory in the world today is secular culture. It’s here where our churches are emptying and greying, our seminaries and religious houses no longer receive a regular flow of new life, and our preaching is often ineffective. Fr. Rolheiser asks if we can embrace the verse, “Sing to the Lord a new song! How might we do that in terms of trying to make Christ credible today inside the secular world? What’s our old song? What’s missing in what we are presently doing? What can we do that’s new? Haven’t we already tried almost everything imaginable? There are, after all, only so many ways of doing ministry, of trying to preach, of reaching out to those who do not come to church with us. What more can we do? What more are you willing to do? Witnessing Christ today requires precisely that we build communities wide enough to hold our differences. What we need is not a new technique, but a new sanctity; not a cooler dress, but a more inclusive embrace; not some updating of the gospel to make it more acceptable to the world, but a more courageous radiating of its wide compassion; not some new secret that catches peoples’ curiosity, but a way of following Christ that can hold more of the tensions of our world in proper balance so that everyone, irrespective of temperament and ideology, will find themselves better understood and embraced by what we hold most dear, the truth that God loves them and the knowledge that this love changes lives and the world.”

Today, the Church celebrates the Memorial of St. Francis of Assisi. Fr. Rolheiser writes in his article called, Kissing the Leper, of a story told about St. Francis, perhaps more mythical than factual, which illustrates how touching the poor is the cure for a mediocre and dying faith. Francis was a rich and pampered young man. Riding down a narrow road, he found his path blocked by a leper. He was particularly repulsed by lepers; their deformities and smell revolted him, and so he tried to steer his horse around the leper, but the path was too narrow. Frustrated and angry, but with his path clearly blocked before him, Francis eventually had no other choice but to get down off his horse and try to move the leper out of his path. When he put out his hand to take the leper’s arm, as he touched the leper, something inside of him snapped. Suddenly, irrational, unashamed, and undeterred by the smell of rotting flesh, he kissed that leper. His life was never the same again. In that kiss, Francis found the reality of God and of love in a way that would change his life forever. Today, many of us struggle with the same issues as did the pre-converted Francis: a pampered life and a mediocre and dying faith. We know that our faith calls us to work for social justice and that this demand is non-negotiable. Simply put, if we touch the poor, we will touch Christ. “Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, that you do unto to me,” Christ assures us. In the poor, God is ever-present in our world, waiting to be met. In the powerless, one can find the power of God; in the voiceless, one can hear the voice of God; in the economically poor, one can find God’s treasures; in the weak, one can find God’s strength; and in the unattractive, one can find God’s beauty. Like Francis, we must get off our horses and kiss the leper. If we do, something will snap, we will see our pampered lives for what they are, and God and love will break into our lives in such a way that we will never be the same again.

We know from the history of Israel that God’s chosen people betrayed their faith and were consequently humiliated and thrown into a crisis about God’s love and concern for them. But in the midst of our failures, we are given the opportunity to grow. Fr. Raymond Brown points out that this seeming disaster for Israel ended up being a positive experience: “Israel learned more about God in the ashes of the Temple destroyed by the Babylonians than in the elegant period of the Temple under Solomon.” Fr. Rolheiser writes that the pain of being exiled and the doubts of faith that were triggered by the destruction of her temple were ultimately offset by what Israel learned through this humiliation and crisis, namely, that God is faithful even when we aren’t, that our failures open our eyes to us our own complacency and blindness, and that what looks like success is often its opposite, just as what looks like failure is often its opposite. Almost without exception, our major successes in life, our grander achievements, and the boost in status and adulation that come with that generally don’t deepen us in any way. Success usually doesn’t bring a shred of depth into our lives. If we reflect with courage and honesty on all the things that have brought depth and character into our lives, we will have to admit that, in virtually every case, it would be something that has an element of shame to it, a feeling of inadequacy about our own body, some humiliating element, some shameful moral failure in our life, or something in our character about which we feel some shame. Humiliation makes for depth; it drives us into the deeper parts of our soul. Like Israel on the shores of Babylon, when our temple is damaged or destroyed, in the ashes of that exile, we will have a chance to see some deeper things to which we are normally blind. And in this moment, we will have the opportunity to grow or become bitter. Life is always about choices.

In today’s reading from the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus speaks about angels: “Take care that you do not despise one of these little ones; for, I tell you, in heaven their angels continually see the face of my Father in heaven.” We also see in the reading from Psalm 81 a beautiful statement of God’s protection being partly provided by the angels. For many, angels are simply viewed as cute, winged figures as have been depicted in art or as kindly old men like Clarence in the movie “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Belief in guardian angels has been in the mind of the Church since the earliest days and has been discussed at length by many noteworthy theologians such as St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Jerome. The angels Jesus spoke to today in Matthew’s gospel can take on a visible form, such as when the Angel Gabriel came to Mary, or remain unseen. But even in an unrecognized state, angels can still be communicative. Many beloved saints enjoyed such a relationship with their guardian angel. St. Pio of Pietrelcina (Padre Pio) and St. Gemma Galgani are two well-known examples. Such direct contact with a guardian angel was also the case for St. Catherine of Siena, St. Francis De Sales, and others. With this thought in mind, we close today’s reflection with a prayer to our Guardian Angel: “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom His love commits me here; Ever this day (or night) be at my side, to light, guard, and guide my way. Amen.”   

Many faithful Christians live in obedience to doing the right things, always seeking to do the other’s will, not their own. But like the older brother in the story of the Prodigal Son, this obedience is not accomplished in the joyfulness of its moral or generous actions. Like the older brother, this obedience can lead to internal strife, resentment, bitterness, and envy of those who live in an amoral manner, selfishly living out their lives. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that, in essence, our obedient actions are correct, but we lack the proper energy to be joyful in our efforts. As Christians, we need to look at Jesus as our example. He lived a life of radical generosity and self-surrender and never fell into the kind of self-pity emanating from the sense of having missed out on something. What was his secret? Scripture gives us the answer in the parable of the man plowing a field and finding a buried treasure and in the parable of the merchant who, after years of searching, finds the pearl of great price. In each case, the individual gives away everything they own so that they can buy the treasure or the pearl. Neither person regrets for a second what they had to give up in order to find this treasure, but instead acts out of the unspeakable joy of what they have discovered and the riches this is now bringing to their life. Each person is so fueled by the joy of what they have found that they are not focused on what they have given up. To the very extent that we die to ourselves in order to live for others, we run the perennial risk of falling into the kind of bitterness that besets us whenever we feel we have missed out on something. That’s an occupational hazard, a very serious one, inside Christian discipleship and the spiritual life in general. And so, our focus must always be on the treasure, the pearl of great price, the rich meaning, the self-authenticating joy that is the natural fruit of any genuine self-sacrifice. And that joyful energy will take us beyond self-pity and envy of the amoral to staying awash in the unconditional love of God.

Today, the Church celebrates the Memorial of Saint Jerome, a doctor of the Church and considered the most learned of the Church Fathers. He is most widely known for his translation of the Bible from Greek into Latin, known as the Vulgate Bible, and his Scripture commentary, which is still widely used today. His zealous pursuit and defense of truth, scholarship, and asceticism made him a frequent critic of his contemporaries in the fourth and fifth centuries. His commitment to excellence and thorough research for his prolific writings on Scripture, theology, and monastic life significantly influenced the Church in the early Middle Ages. Our gospel reading speaks of people being “amazed” by Jesus’ works. We, too, can live our lives in amazement at what we have heard about Jesus, but have we taken the time to really read His story, to get to know him in a personal way? St. Jerome’s famous quote, “Ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ,” speaks to a challenge facing most people of faith: their failure to investigate that which they profess to believe. Like the seed that fell on rocky ground in Jesus’ parable, they are prone to fall away when effort is demanded of them. Like the house built on sand, their faith can be blown away by the stiff winds of life if not grounded in the rock of scripture. If the Word of God is to bear fruit, it must be reflected upon in the heart and acted upon in life.

Does Christianity demand “niceness”? Benedictine Oblate Elizabeth Scalia writes that the question always brings her back to the Gospel of John and specifically to the calling of Nathaniel by Christ. Encouraged by his friends to meet the one “about whom Moses and the prophets wrote, Jesus, son of Joseph, from Nazareth,” Nathaniel snarks, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” My “nice” friends would be all over that. What a mean thing to say about someone he didn’t even know! What a hurtful and dismissive remark to the people of Nazareth, who are as good as anyone else and deserving of full respect. I concur, to a point. Depending on one’s leanings, that uncharitable snob, Nathaniel, was either an elitist one percenter or an aloof ninety-nine percenter, but either way, he wasn’t nice. Interestingly, Jesus didn’t seem to find Nathaniel’s demeanor too uncharitable for his company or even to mind his tossed-off derision. One can imagine him smiling and putting a friendly arm around Nathaniel’s shoulders as he responds, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” In a manner of speaking, he was saying Nathaniel was someone he could trust to speak the unwelcome word from time to time or, at the very least, not simply tell Jesus what he thought the rabbi wanted to hear. Jesus, it seemed, preferred someone who would speak a slightly edgy truth over someone who would be “nice” but dishonest. Being himself all Truth, dishonesty in the guise of niceness would not serve Christ then and does not serve us well in our faith journey today.

What would Jesus do? For some Christians, that’s the easy answer to every question.  At a deep level, Fr. Ron Rolheiser says that’s actually true. Jesus is the ultimate criterion. He is the way, the truth, and the life; anything that contradicts him is not a way to God. Yet, while Jesus is a non-negotiable criterion, he’s not simplistic. 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 in a different way. 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? Most of us submit our private interpretation to the canonical (“dogmatic”) tradition of our particular church and accept, though not in blind, uncritical obedience, the interpretation of that larger community, its longer history, and its wider experience, humbly accepting that it can be naïve (and arrogant) to bracket 2000 years of Christian experience so as to believe that our insight into Jesus is a needed corrective to a vision that has inspired so many millions of people through so many centuries.  Above all else, Jesus revealed this about God: God is good. 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.

Father Patrick van der Vorst reflects on this day when we celebrate the Feast of Saint Vincent de Paul. He writes that it ties in beautifully with the reading for today, especially where the disciples are being sent out to proclaim the Good News from village to village. That is what the Saint Vincent de Paul Societies (SVP) are doing worldwide, in over 86 countries, proclaiming the Good News and providing love and care for the least among us all. Saint Vincent (1581-1660) was a very prolific writer. He wrote over 30,000 letters in his lifetime. Until 1645, he wrote the letters himself; during the last 15 years of his life, he dictated them. By the 18th century, 7,000 letters had already been published. The contents range from the very mundane, where Vincent shares that he has nothing to write and say, to very strongly worded letters in opposition to Jansenism, a then-popular movement on the rise throughout Europe. However, the bulk of his letters were written as beautiful Christian messages of charity, hope, and love. I share a picture of Saint Vincent’s letter on 7 July 1648. While it is always lovely to see the handwriting of the saints, it is mainly how he signs off (below his name), which is beautiful. He writes: ‘Vincens Depaul, Unworthy priest of the Mission.’ To all the Vincentian missionaries, Daughters of Charity, and lay Vincentians worldwide, a very happy Feast day. Saint Vincent, pray for us.

In reflecting on today’s passage from Luke, Fr. Ron Rolheiser asks, “Is Jesus distancing himself from his mother here? No. He’s pointing out the real 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 interestingly looks at 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.”