Change in oneself is often difficult to pinpoint. Growth can seem nearly nonexistent. Sometimes it is only after a decent length of time that we can begin to point out areas where we are different. Ah-ha! Something has changed! Finally! Continue reading “Change”
A couple weeks ago, I made a trip to my parents’ house to celebrate the 4th of July with a nice homecooked meal (and since I didn’t want to be eating leftovers for the next while, I needed more than one person at the meal). While my dad was outside, my sister and I were working on the meal as my mom looked through some mail. We were chatting about different things and my mom was reading a letter from an organization defending religious liberty. She mentioned that 100-something people were killed in a horrible manner recently in a country in the Middle East. I don’t remember specifics. I just remember how I felt.
My heart ached. She finished her sentence and I asked if we could talk about something else…and then I just broke. Continue reading “Pursuit of Peace”
For we have not a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sinning. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (Hebrew 4:15-16)
One of the first times I really heard this passage, several things about it struck me as completely perfect for my life in that moment. And even if I don’t remember the specific state of my life, I am able to point to several parts of this passage that have a perennial blast of truth. Continue reading “Receive Mercy”
I’m reading City of Saints: A Pilgrimage to John Paul II’s Krakow and really enjoying it. (When I finish, I will post a book review.) Yesterday I read part of St. John Paul II’s speech to the youth during his first pastoral pilgrimage to Poland as pope. It was beautiful, so I decided to pass it along. Continue reading “Know Christ”
Maybe the reason God arranged it so that I would be “randomly” selected to chaperone the dance was because He knew my response. If my internal dialogue could have been heard by my fellow chaperones, I’m certain I would have been given all kinds of weird looks. As I was being filled in on the less-than-admirable extra-curricular activities of the students, I was praying for them. I was looking out at the dance floor, vaguely picking up on the words of music I don’t listen to, and praying that the Blood of Jesus would cover them.
I watched them. And I wished I could force-feed them some of my experiences, some of my certain knowledge. They are fervently racing after fulfillment, happiness, and satisfaction. Yet they are running in the wrong directions. I almost felt like I was in a burning building with them as they ran around, looking for the exit. Meanwhile, I am standing near the exit, holding an emergency manual, but they are convinced that there must be some other way. It made my heart ache for them in a new way.
Taking in the scene make me grateful, though. In a fairly affluent school, I could see a definite materialism within them. Success seems to be clearly defined as making money or making a name for yourself. And I was grateful that I was not raised with such expectations. I’ve wanted to be a teacher since third grade and my parents supported me: proof that making money wasn’t a part of their philosophy of success. I don’t blame the students for seeking money and success if they are what are taught as the most important things in life. But I know that isn’t where true fulfillment is found. I know I have great freedom because I don’t place tons of value in money, expensive things, or positions of authority and power.
Despite the times they make me want to pull my hair out or roll my eyes or end the day early, I have an affection for my students that is abiding. A student who is struggling stopped by my classroom and although we aren’t particularly close, my heart was moved by them. I smiled at the student and briefly reviewed the recent class work. But when the student had walked out of my room, I realized the great look of vulnerability in their eyes. Even though I was talking about videos and projects, I wanted to convey a sincerity and kindness toward them. The only other thing I wanted to say but didn’t think of until later was simply, “It is good to see you.” I’m glad you exist.
Because I am. Frustrations and disappointments aside, I am glad my students exist. I am glad I have them in my room and that I get to spend time with them. And, because they are what they are and I am what I am, I will continue to pray for them, even if my prayers would cause people to look at me askance if they heard them.
Precious Blood of Jesus, pour over my students. Sanctify, purify, and save them.
After a long hiatus, I was out for a run, breathing in the distinct aroma of campfires in the cool spring evening. The sun was setting and the sidewalks were essentially empty as I plodded along. My mind sifted through different thoughts and different prayers. For a while, it focused on my experience of the gaze of Jesus.
During my recent silent retreat, I was struck by the intensity and the depth of Jesus gazing at me. I had entered into the story of the woman using her precious ointment for Jesus, but I felt I needed to go into her past more. What made her go to Jesus and give Him her most precious possession? To, in the eyes of the world, waste her fortune and her future? I was drawn back to woman about to be stoned after being found in the act of adultery. And I became her. Continue reading “To Be Known”
Today, during my sophomore classes, we prayed the Stations of the Cross. Though I’ve prayed them many times before, God seems to repeatedly sow new meaning into the lines. Phrases I hadn’t before realized, come to life in a startling way.
The thirst of Christ struck me in prayer today.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me, far from my prayer, far from the words of my cry? O my God, I cry out by day, and you answer not; I cry out by night, and there is no relief for me. All my bones are racked. My heart has become like wax melting away within my chest. My throat is dried up like baked clay, my tongue cleaves to my jaws; they have pierced my hands and my feet; I can count all my bones.” (Ps. 21/22, The Way of the Cross)
I’ve grown up hearing about Bl. Mother Teresa saying that Christ was thirsting for our souls while on the cross. And that took on a new depth today and will be something I will return to throughout this Holy Week.
For a few brief seconds, I was able to imagine the intense thirst of Christ. I considered a couple moments in my life where I have felt extremely thirsty, when my tongue seems to stick to my mouth. The instances have been few and far between. I had always passed over these words with little thought, but today I was unable to. I could imagine Christ’s dry mouth and His tongue sticking to His jaws, as He tried to peel it away to speak a few words. He longed for a little water.
This thirst Christ had was one aspect of His intense suffering. He also had the scourging on His back, His hands and feet were pierced, His head was seeping blood as the thorns bit into His scalp, and He was repeatedly pushing Himself up to take in some air. His thirst was one part of the physical agony. But it struck me. For a few seconds, I imagined, to a degree, that thirst and my heart seemed unready to take in the rest of the Passion while surrounded by a bunch of teenagers.
A new depth of thirst was realized. If I now have a greater understanding of His physical thirst, how much deeper was His thirst for souls. Even more than for a cup of cool water, Christ was longing for our souls. The intensity of such a thirst pains my heart. Here Christ so deeply desires my heart and I am slow to give Him it in its entirety. May a new thirst fill my own heart for the Lord. May the intense thirsting of Christ on the cross be my new attitude toward Christ Himself.
As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God? (Ps. 42)
I pictured placing my little heart in His hands. And He held it with a tenderness that could only come from Him.
There it was: small and without adornment.
It was devoid of all excuses or justifications. Yet it was completely known, in a way that the potter knows every intricacy of the work of his hands. Even with knowing all that was stored away within it, the little heart was completely loved.
That was true rest.
To be loved, but to know that it is without false impressions or because you have successfully hidden your flaws. As a member of a family, I have experienced this love to a degree. But to have your heart laid bare with all of the not-quaint details exposed is another matter.
When the world seems to be too much and I have difficulty taking it all in, I find comfort resting in His hands. There I am known and there I am loved and those facts still astound me. To be known to the core and loved to the core is what we all desire. To know that it is without merit and yet entirely good to be received in such a way is another gift. Nothing I did caused me to be loved like this, but I am.
For a little heart doing so much seeking, it is good to simply be found.
Jesus said to his disciples: “Be sure of this: if the master of the house had known the hour when the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.” (Luke 12: 39-40)
Jesus compares His Second Coming to a thief coming at night. As the Gospel was being proclaimed at Mass, I was struck by the phrase “he would not have let his house be broken into.” Of the many ways Jesus could describe His Second Coming, He chooses at this time to say that He is like a thief who breaks into a home. Obviously, the master of the house would want to protect himself against any thief forcing entrance into the house. The immediate connotation is a negative one: be prepared so Jesus doesn’t break in. What is the other option?
In John’s Gospel, Jesus is the Good Shepherd and also He is the door. Entrance through His door means salvation. But He mentions a thief and says that a thief doesn’t enter through the door but comes only to steal, kill, and destroy. So is Jesus like a thief or is He a door?
What about if He is actually both? Jesus stands at our hearts, knocking, gently persistent, asking for entrance into the deepest recesses of our being. We choose if we open the door to Him or not. He waits, patiently. Yet there will come a day when waiting is no longer an option, when our refusal to acknowledge Him will come face-to-face with the reality of Who He is.
Will you open the door for Him? If not, He will not be kept out and He will find a way in, like a thief, stealing through the chinks in our armor, stealthily slipping into the cracks in our fortress. Yet if Jesus came to give us life, how could He also come to “steal, kill, and destroy” like a thief? To us in the midst of our sinfulness, the act of taking away our addictions, habits, and struggles will seem like thievery. It may seem like it is killing and destroying us to be stripped of that which we have made to be our personal god. An experience of authentic self-denial can help us see the death that must occur when we have not opened wide our hearts to Christ.
He will break into our house.
That experience of a break-in will be unique, but He daily breaks into our world. He isn’t hiding, but He isn’t forcing us to acknowledge Him today. He is breaking into my world through the sky filling with a sunrise palette. He is breaking into my world through the student who insists on keeping a ten-minute running commentary during a surprise fire drill. He is breaking into my world by placing me in difficult situations I never thought I would have to encounter.
I can recognize His breaking in, or I can pretend like it never happened. He can be a door or a thief. Either way, He will enter into my life, it is simply a matter of method and perspective.
And so we strive to let the Good Thief in through the Door.
The One who persistently calls your name, knocks on the door of your heart, and ushers you into an abundant life.
He will come again whether it be His Second Coming on earth or at our death. We will encounter Him in His glory and realize, with total certainty, who He is.
Do you want the Thief or the Door?
The Triduum is an experience for all of the senses. While I’ve never been anything but Catholic, I cannot imagine another church matching the beauty of the Triduum and the way the liturgies invite us into the Pascal Mystery.
Holy Thursday begins with joy and beckoning us to the table of Our Lord’s Last Supper. I can imagine Christ bending low to wash my feet as the priest in persona Christi stoops to wash the feet of the young men called forward. After the Eucharistic prayer, I approach the priest to receive from him my Lord, the Word made flesh and remaining in the appearance of bread and wine. Tonight, I am an apostle from another century, experiencing the Last Supper and encountering Christ in a tangible way. My senses are alive as the Eucharistic procession weaves its way around the church. An incense thurible fills my nose with the sweet, rich odor I link only to the Eucharist. The priest is embracing Jesus as we sing Pange Lingua Gloriosi. Our Lord is carried to an altar and the faithful are invited to come and wait with Him.
I fulfill my role of a disciple well. In the intimately dim chapel, I wait with Jesus and I drift off to sleep at times. Can I not wait one hour? Apparently not. It is beautiful to see the others in adoration, praying with Jesus before He is hidden from us, when the stark reality of the Pascal Mystery will become more obvious. Then the time of waiting in the Garden is over and we depart in silence. Talking seems inappropriate. Nearly anything seems inappropriate on such an evening.
Good Friday is spent anticipating and remembering the Passion of Jesus. The simplicity of the Good Friday service is unnerving and striking. I can always feel an ache in my heart. The tabernacle is left open and I am continually reminded that He is gone. Approaching the cross so as to venerate it, I am questioning where to kiss Jesus. My stomach feels the hunger of fasting and I kiss the crucifix with the kiss of Judas, with the kiss of John the beloved. Good Friday fills me with a longing and with a sorrow. The rest of the world seems to be continuing at its typical pace but I cannot carry on as normal.
The waiting of Holy Saturday is difficult. Christ has been crucified and laid in the tomb. He has yet to rise, though. Fasting is not obligatory yet the feasting of Easter is still premature. We wait. Waiting is perhaps the focal point of Holy Saturday and it makes it all the more difficult.
Yet the Easter Vigil will arrive with its dark and quiet entrance. A fire lit and from it, a flame passed to light all the candles in the darkened church. There is a stillness of expectation. We know the story, we know Christ will rise, and yet we are waiting for it to be lived out, to be fulfilled in this sacrifice. Darkness turns into light. As a church we are led through salvation history, to hear how God remains ever-faithful and is responding to the longings and yearnings of His people in an unforeseen way. We are reminded that we are a part of something far larger than ourselves or our parish. We are united to a Church that is truly universal and timeless. Joy mounts in my soul as we continue through the Mass. As the beautiful music announces a living reality in my life: Christ has risen. He rose 2,000 years ago and He rises today in my heart. The highest feast of the Church is celebrated with all the pomp owed to a King who mounts a cross as a throne and gives Himself as the food for the wedding banquet.
Easter Sunday is bright and joyful, a renewal of the joy felt the night before. While Easter Vigil tends to hold a heavy joy for me, Easter Sunday is a light, uplifting joy. The sun must shine on such a day and if it does not, the joy of the feast becomes a light of its own right. The lilies decorate the Church and we sing words that we have refrained from saying for weeks. It adds a depth to the joy that would not be found if one simply arrived at Easter without the Lent. The Easter Sunday celebration continues for the Easter Octave, each day the Church repeating the joy of the resurrection. Liturgically, we celebrate the Easter Mass repeatedly. We cannot move on, we must make it known that this is the highest of all celebrations.
The Triduum and Easter season are for all of the senses. Breathing in the incense from the Eucharistic procession, waiting with Jesus in the Garden, saying the words of the angry crowd as Jesus is condemned to death, kissing the cross of Our Lord, waiting as Jesus is held in the tomb, lighting our candle from the Easter candle representing the light of Christ Himself, and singing with exultation the joy central to the Catholic faith: we worship a God made man who rose from the dead. The Triduum calls us to live out the final days of Christ and to enter into the mystery by which we are saved. In a beautiful combination of music, art, sights, and sounds, the Church transports us to the time of Jesus Christ. Or, perhaps, she causes us to acknowledge that the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus are truly timeless events that we experience now through the beauty of the Body of Christ, the Church in her tri-fold magnificence.
Seeking After His Heart 