Saturday, April 7, 2018

Scars: 2nd Sunday Easter 2018

The week I moved into Illinois State University as a nervous and excited seventeen-year-old freshman, our RA (kind of an upper-classman floor leader) started an icebreaker for the guys living on the seventh floor of Atkin Hall. He called it “scar wars.” We went around the circle and when it was your turn you had to show a scar and tell its story. He was a mountain bike racer so he won - no wonder he liked the game. Some of us had a bunch of big scars with big stories, some had none really worth mentioning. I suppose I was in between somewhere.

The guys with big scars - would you expect that they felt embarrassed and ashamed? Like “wow, I really should’ve been more careful so I wouldn’t have these unsightly blemishes on my skin.” On the other hand, were the scar-less young men boasting of their unblemished exterior, and proud to have successfully avoided those injuries? 

Of course not! Exactly the opposite. Those with the biggest scars were most eager to show them. Those who had no scars worth mentioning spoke with noticeable embarrassment.

I remember a sermon by Bishop Bruskewitz in Lincoln, Nebraska. He talked about the moment we stand at the gates of heaven, the moment we stand before the Lord with all our lives and all we are laid bare. Just as Thomas asked to see the scars of Jesus, the Bishop said, what if Jesus asked to see ours? Imagine Jesus telling you, “show me your scars.” And if you have none to show, no scars at the end of your life, can’t you then imagine Jesus asking you, “wasn’t there anything worth fighting for?”

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Easter 2018

I love how almost anticlimactic it is. “Don’t be amazed. You’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth? He’s not here. He’s been raised. See? Where they laid Him? He went on ahead to Galilee, you’ll see him there, like He told you.”

It is not, if I may insist on precision, a Resurrection story. There are no Resurrection stories in the Bible. There are only stories like this one of Mark’s, of people who showed up just a little late to catch it. This is how the story is told in all four Gospels: Jesus was crucified, He died, they buried Him, and then they went back and He wasn’t there. He’d Risen. And then they started seeing Him around.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Good Friday Portraits pt 4: The Thief

Digna factis recipimus.

‘We have received the just reward for our deeds.’ But this man next to me… He’s done nothing wrong. His sentence is written there over his thorn-crowned head; it reads ‘King of the Jews.’ That’s not a crime. Is it? What is His crime? His accusers are many; all of us, I suppose, at one time or another. We of broken hearts and weary eyes, we look at this world and what we’ve made of it, and our insane but endlessly repeated verdict comes forth anew: God is guilty.

It makes me wonder: did we kill Him because He claimed to be God and we bridled at the blasphemous lie? Or did we kill Him because He claimed to be God… and we believed Him?

They call me Dismas. You’ve seen me in paintings and such, one of two thieves hanging beside Him. To your eyes, I’m part of the background. But not to Him. To Him I was worth one of His very last tortured breaths. And I was a few feet away when God died.

Albrecht Altdorfer, Crucifixion

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Remember Me... Holy Thursday 2018

Holy Thursday brings together the biggest themes in Christian faith. Service and humility. Vocation. Choosing God’s will over our own. It’s the institution of the Holy Eucharist — nothing’s bigger than that! Judas’ betrayal, Peter’s broken promise, Jesus’ agony in the garden, the washing of the disciples’ feet, the ordained priesthood, the Eucharist itself…

It’s so much. We must start somewhere. Let’s start with this: “Do this in remembrance of me.” You’ve heard those words in every single Mass you’ve ever prayed. You’ve heard them as the words of God establishing the Sacrament that makes the Church… and so they are. Have you ever heard them as the words of a man sharing a last meal with his best friends, knowing He will die tomorrow?

Simon Ushakov, Last Supper

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Two Mountains: 2nd Sunday Lent

Today the Church gives us two mountains to consider. The Transfiguration was traditionally thought to have been on Mount Tabor; there may be a better case that it was really Mount Hermon, but I’ll just say Tabor for now. You might have heard people talk about “mountaintop experiences.” There are a lot of Biblical referents for that phrase, and the Transfiguration is at the top of the list.

Transfiguration, Fra Angelico

It was one of those rare, privileged glimpses beyond the veil. Peter and James and John and the other Apostles didn’t have a really clear picture of what they were part of most of the time. They knew it was something profound and consequential; they knew it was a great divine work, maybe the greatest. But their reactions to the teaching and miracles of Jesus throughout the Gospels show that the whole truth of what was happening in their lives often eluded them. Even at the end of this story after the Transfiguration we find them, not happily enlightened with all their questions answered, but quietly wondering in confusion, “what does He mean, rising from the dead?”

You and I go about our lives in much the same way still today, even in our own walk with Jesus. Maybe part of us thinks if we were really good Christians, if we were really close to Jesus, well then we’d walk around with a peaceful certainty and serene understanding. The world would make sense; we’d see what God is up to and see the big picture behind the events of our lives. But I’ve never met a Christian like that - including among the writings of our greatest Saints.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Ad Fontes: 1st Sunday in Lent

Benedict left his home feeling the need for some time away from everything. He walked into a narrow valley going into the nearby mountains. He crossed the Anio River and followed the path up, up, past the ruin of a villa that had belonged to the Emperor Nero, that great terror of Christians. But Nero was long dead, and the Catholic Church was alive. Across the valley he could see more ruins, old Roman baths, still today not entirely gone. There’s no telling if it happened to cross Benedict’s mind that day, but the sight was a perfect symbol of his time. Rome was falling, mostly fallen. All around were the signs and glories of Rome’s greatness. People still thought Roman-ness was something to be proud of. They were still convinced it was the best thing going. And they were probably right. Even as it slid further and further into the slime, many of them couldn’t quite bring themselves to imagine the possibility that the whole Roman civilization might just fizzle out. People talk and write about ‘the Fall of the Roman Empire,’ but it didn’t really fall. It rotted. It slid.

This is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang, but a whimper.

Rome was the whole world as far as any of them knew, and it was mid-slide when Benedict decided to check out. He left the ruins behind and continued to climb, up to a point where the mountain became a sheer cliff and there was no more path to be struck. At the base of that vertical rise was a cave, looking over a little lake five hundred feet below. Benedict went into the cave.

For three years.

Subiaco today, with monastery
Then he founded the first great order of Christian monks, led a renewal of the entire Church, wrote a rule that is still followed today in monasteries around the world, and not incidentally, saved Western Civilization… and that’s not nearly as much of an exaggeration as you’d think. When barbarism and decay rotted out everything around them, the Benedictine monks prayed and worked in their monasteries, carefully and painstakingly copying and transmitting Plato and Virgil and Homer, along with Matthew and Mark and Luke and John. They guarded the embers through the long storm.

The place is called Subiaco, and Benedict’s three years there were not wasted time. They were not a delay before he got going. They were the fountain and source: without Subiaco, there is no Benedict. Without Subiaco, our world would be so different it’s impossible to even imagine what things would look like now.

Manresa today, built into a chapel
A thousand years later, a Spanish soldier named Ignatius found his military dreams shattered along with his shattered leg. This was a world falling apart, too, even if it was only his personal world. There’s no telling if he was thinking of Benedict when he went into a cave at Manresa for eleven months. But when he came out, he had the outline of the great Ignatian Spiritual Exercises, and the seed of the Jesuit Order that would be the Church’s finest and truest witnesses and missionaries, through the Protestant revolt and later in missions around the world.  There is no Ignatius without Manresa.

Catherine was also a sort of a cave dweller, if you count a little room in her parents’ house in Siena. Admittedly, she wasn’t the first or the last teenager to spend a lot of time shut in her room. But Catherine was purposefully imitating the desert monks and nuns. She didn’t have a desert or a cave so she had to made her room work… and it most definitely worked. After three years, having a mystical experience of espousal to Christ, she emerged into the life and work that would reform the Church, and even reform a Pope or two. She is now a Doctor of the Church… but it started with a teenage girl finding a desert to be with God.

St. Paul had his famous conversion on the road to Damascus, and then? He disappears entirely from Christian history for two to three years. He was praying and contemplating in the desert. When he emerged, he was… well, he was St. Paul.

Even at the start, when the Messiah was first recognized, it was by John, that wild man of the desert.

And into that same desert went Jesus himself, at the very beginning of his ministry. Forty days of fasting and prayer, and temptations too. And when He came out of the desert, He unleashed the Gospel. He started preaching the Kingdom of God.

Can I hit you with a pretty heavy quote from my man Hans Urs von Balthasar?

“We do not need to go out from our world in order to find the desert…. ‘The desert grows’ around us whether we like it or not; we can remain where we are. What we call our culture flees blindly from the meaninglessness which surrounds us on all sides, from the emptiness and ever present death; it refuses to die the absolute death of abandoning itself to the unconditional and precisely for this reason pronounces dead the God to whom it should itself die.”

Benedict and Catherine and Ignatius and John and Paul changed the world as disciples of Jesus, who truly redeems the world. We are supposed to change the world, too. But there is no pattern more clear and consistent in Christian religion than this: the mission, the apostolate, the fruitfulness starts in the desert. It’s so necessary that the Church asks us to do it every year. Not necessarily to go somewhere, but to find the desert where we are… to find our Subiaco, our Manresa, our little quiet room.

Every Christian needs these times. We need times of simplicity, and starkness, and quiet. We need to make them happen by whatever means necessary.

A side note for those of you who have little ones in the house… I’m sorry, I promise I’m not trying to make you cry. If you tell me quiet time for God is mostly unachievable, I believe you. You can ask God for the miraculous grace you need to make up for being human and not being able to do the impossible. But none of us should have to ask God to make up for us being lazy and not wanting to do the difficult.

We need the desert time. And in truth, we hunger for the desert time. Even if we aren’t very good at actually making it happen, there’s a hunger for simplicity and recollection. Part of Lent is to return to that core, that basic core of who we are as sons and daughters of God. These forty days should be cleansing, renewing, a return to our Baptism. 1st Peter said it’s not a removal of dirt from the body, but an appeal to God for a clear conscience, through the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

We give things up, and simplify our lives, and give away some things, and let ourselves feel some hunger, and return to prayer. Because we all get caught up so easily and so often in stupid stuff that doesn’t matter. Stupid stuff that doesn’t matter! Some of it never could matter. Some of it might matter if we offered it to Jesus, but we don’t. This return, this desert time, it’s essential. Our souls need this like our bodies need oxygen.

However you’ve chosen to observe this particular Lent, please make it about your relationship with God, and not about some kind of self-improvement project. If we come out of this a little more virtuous, that’s fantastic, that’s beautiful. But the real point is to come out of it with more love, for God and for our neighbor.

The world says God is dead because the world fears death, fears the obvious meaninglessness of most of what we call our culture, fears the absolute and unconditional. For all the bluster about love, the world runs away when it sees the real thing. We love this broken world, and we are called to serve it, and to save what can be saved, like Benedict and Catherine and Ignatius. But we can only truly serve the world by not being entirely part of it, by stepping back and reconnecting with the God who is our only happiness and our only hope. It starts in the desert.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Connecting: 6th Sunday OT 2018

There’s this really common thing now where people say they love Jesus and have a relationship with Him, but they want no part of ‘religion.’ Jesus is good, religion is bad. When people talk this way, you have to ask what they mean by the word ‘religion.’ Usually they mean something like ‘a bunch of empty rituals and traditions that you focus on instead of having an actual relationship with Jesus.’ But that’s not what the word means, and never has been.

If you look into what it actually does mean, you find something really beautiful. Do you know where the word comes from? The Latin, “religio,” has two parts: “ligare” means to tie together, to connect… like your 'ligaments' tie your bones together. And “re”, meaning what it always does, to do something again. “Re - ligare”… to bind back together. To reunite what was torn apart. To restore and bring back what was alienated.

If you want a symbol for being cut off and alienated, you can’t do better than the first reading from Leviticus. The person with leprosy is totally cast out. He can’t approach anyone. If he wants to communicate, the best he can do is stand a long way off and shout at you. He can’t even dress like other people. The goal is to be as far removed from society as possible, but if he absolutely must be out and about, he has to go around shouting “unclean, unclean,” so that people know not to come near him.