The Colt That Had Never Been Ridden

He was lame.

Whether by accident or birth,
   unable to walk properly -
wanting to work, but
   he simply couldn't.

Frustrated. Dejected.

He wondered at stories of healings - 

Will I be one of them?

Nobody knows for certain
   if they laid hands on him
- curing his affliction -
   or if it was simply the affection he received.

Regardless, when he saw the Son of David
   they say he began trotting and cantering
out of excitement and joy.

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He was too small.

The runt of the stable -
   always out-paced,
out-shown,
   out-everything'ed.

Lacking all strength.

What will I ever accomplish?

So when the two men approached
   and spoke those marvelous words,
at first he was confused.

Me? I can't even carry a cart.

Ah, dear child -
   for you, we have
a much greater
   and lighter
load in mind.

One Who fits you perfectly.

He learned the truth:
   from the great trees on the Mount of Olives
to the tiny stones he walks on,
   they all sing his praises.

He leaves nothing wasted.

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He lacked discipline.

Young, spry, strong, energetic -
   but without control.
He could be so great
   but so destructive.

Too dangerous, he found himself
   tied to a post,
abandoned and languishing,
   his gifts wasted.

When they first approached, he reared - 

Stay away! You can't trust me.

But they held him -
   placed bit and bridle on him
taught him and showed him attention
   reined him in -

and set him loose.

Initially frightened,
   he found comfort in the lead
and the guiding hand
   that brought him to
the One Who Tamed him.

Quite unexpected, but a wonderful truth -

In being restrained, he found freedom.

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He was unloved.

Forever overlooked and ignored,
   seemingly undesirable,
set apart.

If he had no gifts, he might have understood,
   but instead they simply seemed
to look past him
   and see nothing.

When all the other colts were taken to Jerusalem
   for the festival,
he was left behind.

Tied to a stake, never to be ridden.

Precious one,
   this has always been your purpose.
You were set aside because
   only One is good enough for you.

You have always been Chosen.

Consecrated for He Who Delights in you.

And in being chosen,
   he discovered a deep desire
that had always been there -
   he longed only to serve and love

The One who Loved him first.

The Longing of God

The longing of every human heart is to see the face of God.

The Psalms describe this longing in miriad ways:

"As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God" 

"O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water" 

"In your presence there is fullness of joy; in your right hand are pleasures forevermore"

Moses, when meeting the Lord on Mt. Sinai, makes this bold request - "Show me your glory, I pray".

The world's religions demonstrate the search for God, seeking the Creator who we all intuitively know will fulfill our desires.

But in the Song of Songs, Our Lord's heart is revealed in a mysterious and beautiful way:

He longs for you.

Like a child anticipating Christmas morning - you are the gift He desires to receive. 

 

Like a father missing His child. 

 

Like a bridegroom waiting for His bride.

When the God of the universe formed you, He did it lovingly.

The One who is fully complete in Himself, who needs nothing to be satisfied, delights in you - your face, your voice.

As much as you may desire to know Him, His joy is found in drawing near to you.

In four days, we celebrate the stooping down of He Who Is, seeking us out when we were lost. Taking on our humble humanity to offer us His Glorious Divinity, in an act of extravagant Love that continues to this day.

But He can't draw near to us - He can't delight in our presence - without our being prepared to receive Him. This is a life-long process of stripping away all that separates us; distracts us; turns us away from Him.

Being made holy; radiant; beautiful. Like a bride the morning of her wedding day - she is already beautiful in the eyes of her beloved, but she desires to please him all the more.

Will you find your joy in delighting Him, simply by allowing Him to form you into a Saint? Will you give Him the great pleasure of seeing your face and hearing your voice in all its beauty?

To the Ones Still Waiting for Redemption

What do you do when things fall apart? With tragedy, loss, unexpected suffering? When you are Judah in exile, waiting for redemption?

I have, if I'm being honest, spent the large part of this year sitting in that painful intersection of sorrow and hope. Wondering about ... well, everything. Looking back and permitting myself to grieve; remaining fixed in the present circumstances that for months felt foreign; anticipating an unseen future and trying to avoid grasping at any particular outcome.

Waiting.

I'm finding myself grateful for Advent, because it so perfectly fits my current posture of hopeful expectation. I don't know what Our Lord is doing or where He is leading me, but I'm excited to find out and trying to remain patient until He reveals it. There is joy in the waiting, and I find myself simply depending on Him, praising Him for the gifts He has not yet given, but that I find myself patiently anticipating.

But this morning I wanted to speak into the pain and the sorrow of those of you who are still carrying immense suffering - who are justifiably grief-stricken by loss, trials, and loneliness.

What does joyful hope look like when your redemption is still a long way off?

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When we speak of sorrow and hope, we are tempted to force one to supersede the other:

• On the one hand, to see only the darkness without any possibility of grace

Our current culture speaks to the dangers of seeing suffering as only awful. When there is no possibility of redemption - of suffering having meaning - of our sufferings actually allowing us to draw nearer to God - then tragedy stands on its own, disconnected from any deeper significance. From a Catholic perspective, we have to continue to trust God in the midst of all that we endure in this valley of tears. The truths of our faith are beautiful, enriching, and so helpful when we are confronted with loss.

• On the other, to suggest that future promises in some way blunt the loss

In an attempt to avoid the reality of the situation, we can rush to platitudes or insistence that the person in grief rejoice in their sufferings. We use theology as a defense mechanism, because being confronted with circumstances beyond our control ... we want to maintain some sense of control by reminding them it will be alright. But in doing so, the great risk is to unintentionally have a distorted view of the current situation.

After all, if we can see the silver lining, things must not be quite so bad - right?

The irony is that we limit God's goodness by focusing on one to the exclusion of the other. When we reduce the size of the loss, in a way we are saying I don't know that God can fix something so broken.

The reality is much more fearsome, but also much more beautiful: God can bring good out of the worst situation imaginable. As Catholics, we leave Christ on our Crucifixes to serve as a reminder that the moment of our redemption was full of grace, mercy and love - but simultaneously full of pain, agony, and loss. We hold both these realities in tension, honoring them to the fullest extent possible.

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Which brings me back to my original question: for those of you still experiencing the full pain of your loss, how do you process that during a season that wants you to move ahead to fulfilled promises?

My most sincere suggestion is simply this: Come before the Lord exactly as you are, expressing the full depth of what you are experiencing. Give Him your whole heart, with all that you are carrying. Our Lord is full of compassion and mercy: He will draw near to you and heal all your wounds, but to permit Him to do so requires that you first expose them to Him.

Find friends - ask The Lord for the gift of loving friends - who will sit with you without judgment. Those who will wait with you in your waiting. They are some of the gifts He will send you in your moments of isolation, and He will bring you healing through them.

Beloved, He is so gentle and patient in His healing - He will not rush your grieving. He has known the deepest losses imaginable, including your own. He carries your pain with you, and He will never leave your side (though I must also admit that at times He may appear absent). Wait for Him - He will come. He will wipe away every tear. He will bind up every broken heart. He will bring something unimaginably beautiful out of this - even this.

But, if I'm being honest, you may not see the fulfillment of those promises in this life. Sometimes, we never get to understand what He is doing. I pray that you will - but if not, He is still good, and worth trusting with our very lives.

As we find ourselves waiting in this season of longing and hopeful expectation, may we be consoled by the joy that comes from knowing we follow a God who is unafraid to enter into the broken moments of our lives, making even those times a point of contact with Him.

Advent - Slowing Down

 I've always been quick. Whether it's work, playing games, reading - I tend to rush through and complete the current task as hastily as possible.

My son, on the other hand? He takes his time. Whether running or reading, doing homework or taking a shower, he finds a way to make time fly by. Sometimes it's distractions or misunderstandings; others it's just the care he puts into all that he touches - considering, weighing, wondering, pausing.

I have to admit that he really tries my patience, especially when he is working on tasks I consider less important. They occupy so much time and - at least in my eyes - that keeps him from so much else. So I find myself stressing and pressing him to finish the current thing to move on to the next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The past couple months of work have been terribly busy, and between that and various ministries I have found myself involved in, my tagline since August has been I'm doing too much. Lord knows I'm not the only one finding myself in that position, as it seems a bit as if 2021 will be the year we all remember for being overworked.

But recently I've been coming to the realization that no matter how much I do ... there will always be something more. In this life with its constant demands and finite resources - the question what's next? will always loom. And it's making me wonder, why the necessity to be constantly sprinting, ever-on-the-move? Who or what am I enslaved to that causes me to lose peace if my team is unable to meet a deadline?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This year has been full of grieving and suffering for me (for most of us, I should say), and while I have found peace and growth in prayer through it, I also have to admit that recently I've been getting impatient with myself to just hurry up and heal already. I'm hopeful and eager to move on from the past, but it seems as if my heart still isn't there - and I'm honestly tired of being in that space.

Which reminds me that here is yet another instance of my seeming need to move to the next thing.

It's so difficult to remain still when you are anxious about the future. As if there is no grace being offered in the present moment.

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I love Advent because of the invitation to sit in the painful waiting of a yet-to-be-redeemed Israel. To be reminded of the longing and the darkness of a world that had received the promise of a Savior in Emmanuel, but could only cry out how long? as the centuries passed.

Advent reminds me just how precious the Incarnation truly was, as I place myself in the position of a people who did not yet have the Church; the Sacraments; Mary. It tells me that what I have received is such a gift, one that I never want to take for granted (but one that I know I do at times).

Advent also reminds me of the waiting I still have - the already-not-yet-ness of my own salvation; the lifetime of work I still have ahead of me; my continual need to grow in virtue and childlike dependence on Our Lord (goodness do I have a long way to go).

Because the reality is that what's next? is a question born from a lack of trust. The part of me that impatiently insists on moving past the current task doesn't trust God's timing. Doesn't believe that my current circumstances are precisely where I am meant to be. Doesn't see the immediate task at hand as being just as integral to my salvation as any other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wonder: perhaps I need to slow down and find ways to encounter God in my daily work? It's one thing to have that encounter in my prayer life, but another altogether to see Him working in the mundane; in the seemingly meaningless; in the painful stillness.

The God who shows up and works wonders is the same One who insists that we wait. Sometimes it seems that He operates all the more in the latter - when we can't see what He is doing and just have to trust in the waiting. Perhaps that's part of the point: to come to realize that we aren't in control and He works in all circumstances, not just the sublime.

So this Advent, I will be taking a page from my son's book and adopting the discipline of slowing down. Asking for the grace to remember that God is always at work. Coming before Him to know Him in the stillness of prayer. Trying to remember that He is God and I am not, and doesn't need all my work to accomplish His purposes.

Lord, grant me peace in the present, for it is here that I encounter You.

"He Returned, Still Grieving"

Today's Gospel holds so much to meditate on. The traditional homily of the rich young man focuses on attachments - what are the areas in your life that you cling to? What do you need to sell in order to follow Christ? Where is Christ leading you, and what do you need to leave behind?

Alternatively, we can talk of our need for childlike dependence on the Father who loves us: where do you see yourself as rich, independent of God, and how can you realize your poverty? What holds you back from receiving all that Our Lord is offering you? What are you afraid of losing because you don't yet trust Him to provide everything for you?

Or we can discuss the promise of the hundredfold - the invitation and the promise that come along with following Christ. Where are you holding yourself back? Where are you feeling stuck, and what journey and adventure does He have in store for you?

But this morning in prayer, the line that stuck out above all was - 

He was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions. (Mk 10:22)

Goodness. A cursory reading would seem to be a condemnation on the rich man's disordered attachments to things of this world, or a suggestion that we need to easily be able to say like Peter, Look, we have left everything and followed you. I do think that's part of it, because one of the goals of the spiritual life is detachment[1]. We should never forget the goal (though even detachment is a means to a more beautiful end, a deep and intimate union with Our Lord).

At the moment though? I'm struck by Jesus's posture of one who, looking at him, loved him. There is such tenderness in that look of love, and everything I know of Christ tells me His gaze was not contingent on a particular posture or attitude on the part of the rich man. The man's inability to easily give up everything might prevent him receiving that loving look and all the gifts that come with it, but they are always being offered.

One of the literary brilliances of this passage is what we don't hear: we don't hear what happens to the rich man after he leaves. While we typically imagine him walking away and saying I'm not willing to give this up, what I saw this morning was instead a view of the man's return:

Along the journey, a young man came to Jesus, knelt before him, and said "Teacher, I was rich, but now I have nothing. Can I follow you now?" His quavering voice and swollen eyes showed the pain he carried, and it was not with an ease that he spoke of his loss.

Jesus, looking at him, loved him. "I know how difficult that was for you. I have also given things up for the sake of the kingdom, so thank you for being willing to do it."

"I didn't do it willingly, Lord. I just knew I had to - I feel like something precious has been stripped away. Will you still let me follow you, knowing that part of my heart holds this against you? I feel like you asked me for too much."

Jesus, looking at him, loved him. "I understand. Grieving is necessary, and I'm with you in this. The fact that it was this hard makes your sacrifice all the more beautiful, and all the more powerful. It warms my heart to know that you have returned. It was never the grieving that was the problem, it was the going away."

Beloved - in this life Our Lord asks us to give up things for the kingdom. Sometimes they are small, or they are attachments we know aren't good for us. He asks us to give up our sins, and the reasons are clear. Sometimes we understand in the moment that it is for a greater purpose, and we may even catch glimpses of that greater purpose.

Other times, though? Other times it feels like we were never given a choice in the matter. Something was simply taken, and we had no say - we simply suddenly found ourselves without. Whatever that loss is, we find ourselves wanting to cry out to God: What are you doing? How could you do this - why did you take this from me? Willing sacrifices are painful, but we are the ones holding the knife and in one sense if feels like we are in control.

But when God decides for us what we will no longer have? That grieving takes ... well, maybe a lifetime. You find yourself asking that same Why? question so often. And I have to confess that, at least in my own case, the lack of an understandable answer for some time left me with a distinct lack of peace. As if God's Loving Will is only acceptable if I understand it or see the fruits.

Sometimes a need for understanding is our way of trying to maintain control over a situation we never had a say in.

Sometimes, all we can do is ask for the grace to accept without seeing. Without knowing. Without understanding. We have to stop trying to get it, let go of all control, and truly abandon ourselves to Our Lord.

That does not mean a lack of tears, or sorrow, or inability to sleep, or eat, or function - grieving is natural, and necessary, and He is always with us in all circumstances.

When the now-poor young man returned to Our Lord, grief-stricken over his own loss, Jesus never begrudged him for the grief. Looking on him, he loved him. And when the steps forward from what he had left behind became painful for the hundredth time, Our Lord took him by the hand, sat with him, and held him as he wept yet again. And he whispered these words of comfort:

"I understand. It won't always be like this for you. I know right now it just seems like too much. I'm here with you. I will never - ever - leave you. One day it will make sense - I know those feel like empty words, and this is not a promise you are interested in hearing, because I know right now you just want to return to how things were.

Give me your tears - your heart is precious to me, and I don't just want your adoration and your faithfulness. I want you to come to me when it hurts. When you don't know what to do. When it doesn't make sense. When you want to scream at me for taking away what you felt was most important, or when it just feels unfair. I'm here for all of it - I only ask that you continue to follow me, and give me the chance to heal all these broken parts.

I know right now the hundredfold seems like a worthless treasure, and it is unimaginable that I could give you something greater than what you had. I know. Thank you for continuing to walk with me, for not leaving when part of you still holds this against me. I'm here for all of it. Allow me to enter your heart and expand it - to give you greater desires. To help you receive more of me.

I'm here.

I'm here.

I'm here."

[1] “We should not prefer health to sickness, riches to poverty, honor to dishonor, a long life to a short life. . . . Our one desire and choice should be what is more conducive to the end for which we are created.”

—St. Ignatius of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises

God With Us

Everything I wanted in a Christmas homily today was summed up in these three precious words - "God with us".

I think this year has prepared our hearts for this good news, but also likely challenged our belief and understanding of the phrase - certainly any superficial stances on God's Providential care were out the window by month two of the pandemic, let alone by this time of year, when we are all so weary and worn.

But I want to come back to that phrase, "God with us". The moment we acknowledge that God is in control, that God is at work, that "God is with us", we have painted ourselves into a corner.

Because if God is with us, we are accepting He is with us in all things. Good and bad, better and worse. This is the promise, and we are forced to see the world differently: We are not in control, and that is a good thing.

It can seem so easy to look at the miraculous and see God's Providential care. We can accept the virgin birth, the resurrection, healings and testimonials of recovery from addiction, because of the obviousness of the gift.

But can we trust in "God with us" when things don't seem to get better? When the world seems on fire and people are losing jobs and families are separated and our loved ones are dying? Do we still believe then?

For those of us who choose to trust God, we have found our faith tried - as St. Peter put it, "like gold that has been tested in a fire". We have found our hopes clarified - we cannot cling to anything in this world, because all of it is passing. We have (hopefully) found our love strengthened and refined by witnessing so much suffering, needing creativity in pouring ourselves out.

We can point to the Canon of Scripture to show how God was working throughout Salvation History, preparing a people for the coming of Christ. But we need to point to the Canon of Now just as boldly and declare with our lives, "God is still with us, and He is still working".

When God first came to us, it was in a poor family in a cold stable far from home. But the Holy Family still carried peace and joy in their hearts, even as they were persecuted and fled to Egypt. That sense of belovedness remained with them throughout their lives, even as Joseph died and Jesus left home and was rejected and betrayed and scourged and killed.

They knew that "God with us" is a promise: They are never alone. And they recognized Him in every detail of their lives, both significant and mundane. They saw how God was doing beautiful things in the good, and how God was compassionately standing beside them as they endured the trails.

As we begin this Christmas season, I'm left wondering: what are the conditions I place on seeing "God with me"? Where in my life (the traumas of the past, the pains of the present, the hopes and fears of the future) do I not yet recognize that promise? Where do I need to further entrust myself to Him?

After the darkness and quiet of Advent, where God worked in painful and bitter waiting, I am so glad to be able to celebrate the immediacy of God in the Incarnation (which I have every intention of celebrating the full season). But the true test is in the darkness, when we can't see the light and can only walk by faith. I want to wish you all a very Merry Christmas, and perseverance in seeing God in the here and now - "God with us".

Peace and Wounds

This morning I'm thinking about Our Lord's appearance to the eleven in the upper room, after the resurrection:

On the evening of that first day of the week, when the doors were locked ... Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, “Peace be with you.” When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. [Jesus] said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.” (Jn 20:18-23)

Which is to say, I'm thinking about the wounds in my own life that need healing, and what Our Lord teaches us in His actions about the importance of reconciliation. So, while I'm writing just to work through this in my own life, I'd also like to share some thoughts.

I guess the first thing that occurs to me here is that phrase, the doors were locked. Isn't that always the case in times of conflict? We hide behind locked doors, out of a place of shame or regret or distrust. We get wounded, and rather than immediately reaching out we lock ourselves away. And the wound festers.

What's worse is all that is said in the unspoken words. As we lock ourselves away to heal, we find that healing is not a solitary action. Silence may give us time to make peace with God and stitch ourselves up, but it doesn't bring us real healing. Instead, we begin to make assumptions about what is done and left undone - their intentions and attitudes; subsequent encounters with them; we even question the basis of the relationship and begin seeing even wounds that had previously been healed begin to surface.

Each party finds themselves waiting for the other to reach out, to be the first to build a bridge - and of course, nobody wants to do that because that involves stepping into the unknown realm of will they forgive me? will they apologize? will we be able to recover? As I said, we hide out of distrust.

It is into this locked room full of fear and distrust that Our Lord enters - and mysteriously, He enters speaking Peace. There is so much that could be said about this Shalom, about the unexpected and radical mercy being offered. It is an invitation, of course; but beyond that, I think it also serves as a reminder that the Christian life must be lived in relation to others, and - especially within the Mystical Body of Christ - we should be anxious to reconcile and restore, because what affects one of us affects the entire Body.

All this being said ... I think it would be a mistake to see this Shalom as an excuse to move on without addressing the elephant in the room. I know on an important level, Our Lord showing His wounds is about demonstrating the bodily Resurrection; but beyond that reading, we can see how necessary it is to acknowledge the wounds we have received at the hands of others. It is an act of vulnerability to show others where we have been hurt, inviting them to a place of compassion and empathy, and inviting them to realize the need for reconciliation. We can't just move on, and the peace being offered needs to come with a humble admittance that there is brokenness that requires healing. Otherwise it's just words.

How crucial is it, though, that Our Lord shows His wounds without coming from a place of woundedness? This is not a lashing out - no accusations or finger-pointing, no shouting. Certainly no veiled threat that His offering of peace is contingent on their asking forgiveness. But it occurs to me that He didn't even specifically state what they had or hadn't done; rather, He showed the wounds He had received and invited them to come to see the fault of their inaction in light of their sorrow at the pain He endured.

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Friends, there are some wounds within the Body of Christ this evening (as if this is at all a surprise). I think it is so much more complicated within the Church, because there is such a temptation to just move on and seek that artificial half-peace of pretending the wounds aren't there. Or generally avoiding dealing with them, as if they will go away. There is a place for giving time to heal and return with cooler heads, but at some point you have to properly heal, rather than simply patching over it.

I have to confess that - insofar as I see myself in this story as Christ - the one wounded - I failed to be Christ. I waited longer than I should have to reach out and offer peace, which just made things awkward for a bit. And when I offered the peace, there were no words that went along with it - nor was there any acknowledgement of what had happened and the wounds I have experienced. I still have the intention of doing so, but I am distinctly aware that the Enemy is clever and makes us avoid these opportunities for reconciliation because of further fear of rejection.

Of course, the reality is that I am also the disciples locked in the upper room - avoiding doing my part, avoiding acknowledging my own responsibility in the situation, and wishing I wouldn't have to be the one to move first. When it was pointed out recently that I hadn't done my part or left the metaphorical room, I have to confess that my initial reaction was from that place of woundedness - shouting where were you?

So much for blessed are the meek (or peacemakers, or poor in spirit). Brother Francis, pray for me!

It's funny, in a way, how a situation can get so confused and uncomfortable without any real interaction even taking place - just festering. You think I would know this by now, because I've been here before in my divorce.

So, here we are, preparing to move up the stairs and knock - or coming to the door and opening it - depending on which side of the door I see myself on at the moment. Uncomfortable conversations are uncomfortable, but I would much rather grace flow freely again than leave these wounds in the Body of Christ.