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.

My Mother

What do I do or say to even attempt to repay my Mom for what she has done for me? Do I tell her of all the ways she has shaped me? Do I recount my favorite memories? How about sharing my appreciation for every ounce of love she poured out - many of which I used to roll my eyes at (or worse, ask her to stop)?

Honestly, there is so much to say about my Mother. And since I could never so much as approach being able to return her love for me, I'd like to just tell you all about her - what makes her my Mother.

• She loves telling stories, often the same ones she has shared dozens of times before - but they say something about what she considers most memorable.

• So much of herself is wound up in those who she loves. Past experience tells me that asking what is new in her life will result in her telling me all about others who are on her heart.

• She sometimes keeps her distance out of fear of being overbearing (which she wouldn't be) or crossing boundaries (which deserve to be torn down anyways).

• The first thing she tells me when I visit - which isn't nearly often enough - is where I can find coffee for the morning, and what there is to eat. The guest bed is always made, and there are always fresh towels in the bathroom.

• She taught me how to fold sheets, and how to put them on the bed (though for the life of me I still never figured out hospital corners).

• She loves getting flowers as a gift, but always worries about killing them.

• When I was growing up she drove an hour each way to work 9 hours a day, and still came home and made dinner for us. She also took every other Friday afternoon off.

• She taught me to crochet and use a sewing machine (though I am out of practice on both), and my favorite afghan growing up was one she made for me.

• Once in college I didn't call for a few weeks (months?). She emailed me a form letter with blanks for me to fill in - to which my immediate reaction was oh no, I messed up.

• At some point in life, she got the impression I loved macadamia nuts. From that point on, every Christmas stocking and care package included a jar of macadamia nuts. It wasn't until years later that I told her I don't really care for them all that much, but never had the heart to say anything.

• She used to be part of the church choir, and loves singing along to songs in the car. She has a beautiful singing voice, and I still remember her rocking and singing me to sleep when I was young.

• Christmas Eve found Mom up in her bedroom wrapping presents with the door mostly closed. The room was off-limits right up to the point that our presents were taken care of, at which point I could come in and watch TV and get help with my wrapping. I always got to be her thumb when she was tying bows.

• My Mom has always had tight shoulders and neck pain, and growing up with that meant I learned how to give (and receive) shoulder rubs. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs and helping each other out with knots.

• My Mom taught me to love cooking, though she would say these days I'm better at it than she is.

• When I was a Junior in High School I broke my dominant hand. For the weeks I couldn't write, she acted as scribe for my math homework.

• She was there at every soccer game, taekwando competition, gymnastics meet. She was there for every practice.

• She knew how to make my favorite sandwich, which was an incomprehensible combination of baloney, cheese, and a variety of condiments (including grape jelly). Talk about sacrificial love.

• She loves playing games, and was unbelievably patient with me when I was a kid - allowing me to bring out the dictionary when it was my turn in Scrabble. Especially now that I have a son who is inclined to "take his time", I appreciate so much more how difficult that was.

• She supported me in my conversion, and was there when I was Confirmed at the Easter Vigil. I don't know how she managed that one, because I'm sure part of her was breaking realizing we wouldn't be able to receive the Eucharist together anymore, but she was there, pouring herself out yet again, as she always has.

• She is kind, warm, and thoughtful. She worries about her children and always puts them first. She will support us through anything.

It must be so hard to be a Mother, being so near to your children - so near that you physically carry them the first 9 months - then watching them slowly move further away from you the rest of their lives. Wanting to pour yourself out and yet finding your love not always welcomed or received. I suspect she still bears parts of my sister and me, even from miles apart.

When I was younger she took care of me. She was protector, nurse, comforter, tender-of-hangnails, tissue-holder. These days, I'm older and more independent, and I think our relationship has changed in some ways. I'd like to think it has just matured. I have more to offer her in return, though I could never come close to all she has given me. I'm stronger and more capable than I was when she used to tie my shoes and comb my hair, so the things I need from her are different.

I try to give the impression I am a capable adult who has it all together, but she still is able to find all the spots in my house that need cleaning when she visits.

But I still need my Mother to be my Mother, and I have so much still to learn from her.

Easter in the Desert

Today is Easter, and in Atlanta it's raining. More to it, we are stuck inside because of the shelter-in-place order, and unable to worship in Church. Many are unable to celebrate at all, because they are fighting illness or suddenly unemployed. It feels like we are still in the desert, remarked Father this morning in his homily.

And yet we still celebrate - we still rejoice, shouting Alleluia! as we ring bells and sing.

I was talking with a woman a few months ago during Advent, who was puzzled about the reasons we enter into the desert of Lent, or the darkness of Advent. She rejoices in a risen Christ, a world where light has already entered and the promise of salvation already attained. And she wondered - what is the point of the drama? Why bother acting as if God was not with us when He is?

Personally, I think it is crucial to our faith to enter into the Liturgical Year, because life isn't Easter eggs and butterflies and flowers (this year is certainly teaching us as much). Most days, we don't get excitement and the pleasant surprise of the resurrection. We get the dull monotony of yet another day that seems like every day that came before. We get the pain of an unexpected diagnosis, or divorce, or death.

The Liturgical Year intentionally walks through much of scripture - and we are encouraged to take up and read as well - for exactly this reason. When we read through salvation history and God's self-revelation through scripture - the good, bad, and ugly - we see how God was at work, even when life was bleak. Judges, Lamentations, Job: they all tell the ways that God was working even when all seemed hopeless.

This is meant to encourage us, just as much as the resurrection - although, perhaps it only can encourage us in light of the resurrection.

God allowed the Fall, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the slavery of Israel by Egypt, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the split of the Kingdom, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the destruction of the Temple, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the exile, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the Crucifixion, to give us the resurrection.

O Happy Fault that merited such and so great a Redeemer!

You know, it occurred to me that - yes, this current pandemic is clearly the worst thing much of the world, collectively, has lived through. But we all have tragedies. Darkness is just as much a part of life as light. It doesn't take a global catastrophe to give us a need for hope, it simply takes a single moment that brings us to our knees and makes us wonder - why, God?

The resurrection give us hope that in all things God is working for your good, that He is for you, that He loves you, that He has not forgotten you.

Rejoice in the Lord always, urges Saint Paul. Christ is the Divine Bridegroom, and we are His bride, pledging our fidelity. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.

It is raining in Atlanta today on Easter, and we are living in dark times; and still we will celebrate, for what God is doing even here and now - all in light of the resurrection. Christ is risen; He is truly risen, alleluia!

Waiting - Triduum Journal (Holy Saturday, 40/40)

Holy Saturday is a day of waiting. We wait to sing the Alleluia. [1] We wait to celebrate Christ's resurrection. We wait to feast and rejoice and turn the lights on.

It seems fitting, seeing as we are also waiting for the end of this epidemic. Waiting for health updates of those we worry about. Waiting to visit friends and family. Waiting for the lifting of restrictions. Waiting for churches and businesses to re-open. Waiting to receive the Eucharist. Some types of "waiting" are more painful than others, require more patience and cost more of our emotional strength.

But you know, today we also remember the years that Jesus waited for us. As eager as Christ was to save us, it's a wonder He took as long as He did in order to begin. He waited 30 years before beginning his public ministry, but I can just imagine him as a kid, asking Mary and Joseph - Can I redeem them today, Mom? No, beloved child; today's not the day either.

But even that waiting was nothing, because God "waited" [2] through millennia, slowly revealing Himself to us. The Easter Vigil offers us a brief glimpse at salvation history - "the great rescue operation" - Creation; Fall; Flood; Sacrifice; Covenant; Kingdom; Exile. We see the way God formed a people, Israel, who would seek after His heart and image His love to the nations. But it took ages, and we can't conceive of the reasons God determined to bring about our redemption the way He did. God waited for the right moment, knowing His chosen people would turn away again and again, and He always calling them back - reminding them of His love for them.

We remember the centuries Israel waited for the Messiah - the centuries after the kingdom split. The ten Northern tribes captured and scattered. The Southern tribe of Judah exiled to Babylon, the Temple destroyed, and the line of kings shattered. The rebuilding of the Temple, but without God's presence - without the Ark. Waiting through conqueror after conqueror. [3]

And now, we know how the story ends - Jesus Christ, True God and True Man, who takes the sin of the world unto Himself. He performed signs and wonders, taught, preached, cast out demons, and forgave sins, all while proclaiming the Kingdom of God. Through all this, His ministry interminably led Him to Jerusalem; wherein He was ultimately condemned to death for blasphemy - for declaring Himself the Son of God. He carried the weight of all our guilt to Calvary and offered His life for our sake out of love for you and me.

But even that wasn't the end, because tonight we celebrate the monumental and unthinkable fact of His resurrection - the Empty Tomb. He defeated sin and death, taking on the worst of all - and each - of us, swallowing it up and showing only His Mercy in its place. Incredibly, God shows us that He redeems all the broken bits of ourselves, making them beautiful.

But still, we wait. And He waits. We may know the end of the story - Satan defeated, our resurrections, a New Heavens and New Creation, every tear wiped away for all eternity - but we haven't reached the end yet. We are still living in the midst of a story that continues until God only knows when. He continues to call us to repentance, to salvation, to receiving His life into our very being.

So here we are, on Holy Saturday, remembering all the waitings that have been, are, and will be; knowing what will come tomorrow, but knowing that we are not yet there.

Let us continue to wait.

[1] It's not time yet, so I don't want to spoil it

[2] It appeared that way to us, at least. Being outside of time, there is no concept of God waiting. Just saying.

[3] If you haven't read the whole of scripture, I encourage you to do so - it's beautiful, if viewed through the proper lens.

Life and Death United - Triduum Journal (Good Friday, 39/40)

Lord, the day you died ... the world went on turning. Infants were born. Fish-mongers continued selling fish. Shepherds continued tending their flocks. The sun continued to burn, and You continued to sustain the cosmos.

Somehow, everyone kept breathing, even as You gave up your spirit.

On a day that should have resulted in the end of everything, much of the world didn't even take note. People had their own problems, their own hopes, their own lives.

Isn't it so utterly mysterious? Today we celebrate what was humanity's most tragic moment, when we looked at God-become-man and spat in Your face as You longed to redeem and love us back to life. Even on an earthly level, we condemned an innocent man to death and abandoned him.

Not all. Not all abandoned You. The women devoted to You were there - all of them. John, the beloved disciple, was there. Simon of Cyrene - even if he was conscripted - still faithfully bore Your cross and eased the journey up to Calvary. But most of us turned against You.

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And yet You died for them. For all. For each of us. Your devotion to us was total, and as You hung from the tree You offered Yourself entirely to us.

That tree. I would want to curse it, if it weren't such a beautiful gift. You deserved better - infinitely better - and yet You embraced it, knowing all that would come because of it.

I would want to take Your place. Or ease Your suffering. Or find another way, a better way, so You could continue living. You, whose life was most precious. Come down from the Cross, Lord. How could anything good possibly come of this moment happening this way to You? It is so easy to see only the finality to death, forgetting the resurrection.

But we know how that would have gone. Get behind me, Satan, You said to Peter when he made the same offer. You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.

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We have thousands of doctors, nurses, surgeons, and others who are living their own Good Fridays today. Offering their lives for the sake of their patients, selflessly giving up everything for the sake of the other. Thousands of people will die today, many of them alone or abandoned. They have borne our infirmities and carried our diseases. To see the gift of their lives as only a tragedy (which it certainly is) would be a mistake. There is so much life that will grow from these sacrifices.

If this world is all there is - if this earthly life is all there is - the Cross is senseless. Suffering and death are meaningless. There would be no reason to endure any of it, no ultimate purpose besides the ugliness.

Your vision is different. If the ultimate purpose of life is love, which is to say death to self, the Cross is everything. The greater the Cross, the greater the opportunity for love. The more suffering endured, the more we can find ourselves seeking God and faithfully uniting ourselves with You, who suffered most.

This is how we find true life, You tell us, in marrying ourselves to You. Just as You offer us everything - all that You are, and all that You have - we do the same in return. We find life in giving ourselves away, just as You did.

Stripping the Altar - Triduum Journal (Maundy Thursday, 38/40)

I'm finding it especially difficult to write about the Triduum this year.

My initial instinct on Maundy Thursday would be to talk about the importance of spending time with Jesus in the garden, honoring him for the agony he endured alone and promising to never leave him that way again. I do intend to spend a Holy Hour this evening in prayer in front of the church - as near as I can get to what I want this night to be - but it won't be the same. It feels like that has been stripped away.

Following that, I want to write about Jesus washing the feet of the disciples - the importance of his example of servant leadership. The need for humility and vulnerability when all we have been taught is the importance of standing on our own. But for so many of us at the moment, servanthood means being at home. So it feels a bit like that, too, has been stripped away.

Obviously we could also talk about the Eucharist - the importance of Jesus instituting it at Passover, and seeing Jesus as the true sacrificial Lamb of God, whose flesh we must eat and whose blood washes us clean. The Church still has the Eucharist, but most of us can't receive at the moment. Yet another aspect of tonight that has been stripped away.

We could talk about how today we also celebrated the institution of the ordained priesthood. There are so many beautiful examples right now of shepherds putting their lives on the line for the sake of their flocks, and we could emphasize just how wonderful it is that we have these men who trust Our Lord so much. But the primary purpose of the priesthood is the sacraments, and while that hasn't strictly been stripped away, our access to the sacramental life of the Church has been greatly limited.

So I guess that leaves the stripping of the altar and the removing of the Blessed Sacrament, two of the most somber moments from the Maundy Thursday liturgy. There is something so stark about seeing the Church emptied of all color and stripped down to its bare wood and stone, and I think this year especially the image is so poignant.

Frankly, we're already living that.

We've been living with a stripped-down Church and a stripped-down life the past few weeks, and I know just how hard it is to see one thing after another taken away. We have entered into the Maundy Thursday liturgy, and we're just ready to move on to Easter Sunday - the renewal of color, and warmth, and life.

This stripping-down is something to embrace, because it will lead to resurrection. The Church strips the altar as the soldiers stripped Our Lord. In the same way, we can strip the altars of our hearts - removing all the stuff and leaving behind the bare basics.

Here is our opportunity. Tonight, we can dim the lights. We can turn off the computer and the music and empty ourselves the way our Churches are empty. In place, we can let Our Lord fill us with His presence the way He fills the tabernacle. We can become an Altar of Repose ourselves, where Jesus rests this night.

Tonight, we may not have much that we want. But we still have all that we need.

All the Difference - Lent Journal (Spy Wednesday - 37/40)

When it was evening, he reclined at table with the Twelve. And while they were eating, he said, “Amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” Deeply distressed at this, they began to say to him one after another, “Surely it is not I, Lord?” He said in reply, “He who has dipped his hand into the dish with me is the one who will betray me. The Son of Man indeed goes, as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed. It would be better for that man if he had never been born.” Then Judas, his betrayer, said in reply, “Surely it is not I, Rabbi?” He answered, “You have said so.” (Mt 26:20-25)

What do you think got Judas to the point that he no longer recognized Jesus as Lord? How long had he been following him as a disciple, but simply going through the motions? Regardless, when it came down to the end - to the upper room, Passover, and the Last Supper - he shows his hand in calling Jesus "Rabbi".

The difference is everything.

One says that Jesus is a great teacher, prophet, healer - perhaps even Messiah - and there is respect in that. But the other recognizes the qualitative difference, that Jesus is God.

One recognizes that there are great spiritual insights to be learned from this man. But the other declares that this man can forgive sins and defeat death.

But I do still wonder: what was Judas's fall? Did it begin when Peter declared Jesus's divinity? Was it the Bread of Life Discourse (John 6)? Was it disillusionment with the type of kingdom that the Son of David was establishing? Was it when Jesus asked his disciples to take up their crosses and follow him? Maybe it was just all the rules?

I think the question for us is: are there any conditions where we would stop seeing Jesus as Lord? Or, I guess a better way to frame the question: are there conditions where we would stop serving Jesus as Lord? We have to confront that question and identify the answer, then ask for the grace of faith to invite Him into that place of weakness.

What was the moment where the rest of the twelve truly gave themselves to Him? In the meanwhile, Judas straggled behind. Maybe he hoped he would eventually get it. Maybe he started looking for an opportunity to take advantage.

Either way, he stopped trusting Jesus and began trusting himself. Because if Jesus isn't Lord, then he is no more authority than any other great guru. He certainly isn't someone you devote your entire self to serving. In doing so, Judas cut himself off from hope, because he lost sight of God's vision for us.

Judas lowered his eyes - lowered his desires - to something less than what was on offer, because he didn't recognize that it was being offered in the person of Jesus: redemption, sanctification, and finally being whole.

The rest of the twelve betrayed Jesus as well in abandoning him in the Garden. Peter even denied knowing him altogether. They weren't perfect, and they needed years of grace poured into them to become the great Saints they became. Their failures were never the issue, because God's mercy is greater than our weaknesses. They repented, asked for forgiveness, were reconciled, and started again.

But we have to know that forgiveness is being extended, so we don't despair when we inevitably fall short. We have to look upward and outward, rather than settling. Knowing who Jesus is makes all the difference.

Resting and Divine Intimacy - Lent Journal (Tuesday, Holy Week - 36/40)

One of [Jesus's] disciples, the one whom Jesus loved, was reclining at Jesus’ side. So Simon Peter nodded to him to find out whom he meant. He leaned back against Jesus’ chest and said to him,“Master, who is it?” (Jn 13:23-25)

The presence of God in the Old Testament was always fearful to approach - you couldn't touch Him, you couldn't see Him (except in part), you certainly couldn't rest against Him. God's presence protected Israel, but the Ark of the Covenant couldn't be touched. When you go outside on a clear night and see the vastness of the universe, you experience the numinous - a spiritual experience of the divine - but it is always distant, something to be observed.

I love that the Incarnation makes God tangible. I adore the images of those who get to touch Him - Simeon and Anna holding him; John baptizing him; the woman who experienced hemorrhaging; the little girl he raises; Mary, who anoints His feet and dries them with her hair; Thomas, who gets to explore his pierced side. Even the centurion who nailed Christ to the Cross came into contact with the Divine in a way no prophet or king of Israel ever had.

John, the beloved disciple, got to rest his head against Jesus's chest. The operative term is rest - this is an image of Divine Intimacy, of total vulnerability and drawing near to his Sacred Heart. We are meant to place ourselves in the narrative - we are the beloved disciple.

But even that pales in comparison with what is being offered once our redemption was won. John rested his head on Jesus's chest; we have entered into Christ's body. And, in turn, Christ has entered into ours.

I'm leaving this post short tonight because I think Our Lord wants to speak to us through this image. I think He wants us to pray with this in mind: that we, even now, can rest against a lover who truly cares for us and longs to embrace us - the Bridegroom embracing his Bride.

Walking on Anointed Feet - Lent Journal (Monday, Holy Week - 35/40)

At the end of the long, tiresome march

   up to Calvary

stumbling, falling, rising again

   only to be Crucified

Do you think Mary's anointing made it somehow

   easier

      painless

         comfortable?

Did his feet bleed any less

   when they were pierced?

Did the aromatic nard cover the stench of

   sweat

      blood

         death?

I suspect not.

In any measurable sense, the spilling of perfume accomplished nothing.

And yet

   that act of kindness

      of devotion

         of gratitude

carried Jesus up the mountain

   as He walked

      on anointed feet.

Perhaps we place too much value

   on the results of our actions

and not enough

   on the love that is demonstrated?

Interrupted Routines - Lent Journal (Passion Sunday)

It was an otherwise ordinary day in 1st century Jerusalem, with villagers from the surrounding countryside entering the city to prepare for the upcoming Passover sacrifice. Hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visited the religious center of Judaism in the course of a week, as they had done daily for a thousand years (minus the Babylonian exile, that is).

It was the same ceremony year in and year out, commemorating an event none of the faithful had lived through: the institution of the Passover, the Exodus from Egypt, the freeing from slavery. Families had their standard visits to purchase their lamb, bread, and bitter herbs; visiting the temple; offering the lamb to the priest; and, of course, the Passover meal. But a lifetime of running through the same events can easily lose its deeper religious significance. Beyond the reminders on the Passover evening from the father of the family, the event could have become routine; ordinary; a non-event.

When a preacher from Galilee entered town riding an ass, everyone woke up; who was that? they wondered, as they rushed over to see who was generating all the excitement. Heard all through the city were the sounds of Hossana to the Son of David, effectively declaring this man King. He swept into the city, interrupting all the typical festivities of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. He entered the courtyard of the temple preaching and calling for repentance, scattering money-changers and booths, and flipping more than just tables.

By the time the Passover came about, nobody was walking through the motions. That same preacher would be arrested and condemned to death for blasphemy on the holiest of all nights, and I suspect the news spread through the city and interrupted the plans of every single faithful Jew.

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Today was such an unusual way to celebrate Palm Sunday. We did a small procession of palms around the cul-de-sac before going in and having Mass. We made palm crosses and generally enjoyed ourselves. But it simply isn't the same.

I guess the thing I'm wondering about the most tonight is what we're going to do with this situation. We've been broken out of the ordinary and the mundane (even the ordinary and mundane that only come once a year). The typical ways we celebrate Holy Week have been scattered like so many disciples after the Last Supper, and those of us who still celebrate Holy Week are forced to get creative.

Whenever you know what to expect year after year - especially in any type of ceremony - it can be so easy to go through the motions. This is the way it's always been done, we say, and we don't think about the deeper significance. We lose our sense of wonder for the fact that there is a ceremony at all.

We take it for granted that on Palm Sunday (Passion Sunday) we will get our palms blessed; hear the Gospel account of Jesus's entry into Jerusalem; process into church singing All Glory, Laud, and Honor. Even the shouts of Let him be crucified! become just another expected part of the liturgy, and we miss some of the meaning that should hit us in it all.

Speaking for myself, I love Holy Week. I love all the liturgy, all the details and events throughout the Triduum. I'm going to be missing them, and it's not going to be the same. But it occurs to me that this interruption might be an opportunity.

We can almost make an idol out of the liturgy of Holy Week (I say all this as a lover of the liturgy), treating it like a retired band that still performs all the old hits at gigs. Play "Washing of the feet", we say. Or we wonder at how Father didn't give us enough time to venerate the Cross on Good Friday. Or we get upset because there were too many readings at the Easter Vigil. Or too few readings.

Liturgy and ceremony are important. But only because they point to something that is significant and meaningful. For some of us, in wanting the perfect Holy Week we made it all about the aesthetics and the choreography. For others, we just wanted to skip past all the fluff and get straight to Easter. Regardless, we forgot the real message of the Gospel in God's love for us through Jesus's passion, death, and resurrection.

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As I said - what I'm wondering about tonight is how these circumstances will wake us up. Will we look at the liturgy in a whole new light? Will we be able to successfully look past the liturgy to the person of Jesus, putting a new perspective on this Week? Will we find new ways of getting back to the Paschal mystery that is at the heart of the liturgy? Will we come to see Jesus's sacrifice through fresh eyes?

Jesus's Last Sabbath - Lent Journal (33/40)

What would you do if you knew you were going to die in one week? As we enter into Holy Week, we get to retrace Jesus's last steps - the final days of his life, as he entered into the mystery of his Passion, Death, and Resurrection.

But we're not there yet. Tonight is Jesus's last Sabbath. His final day of rest. His final opportunity to simply enjoy his Father's Creation.

I bet he spent it in Bethany with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus - with dear friends, steeling himself for the whirlwind of his entry into Jerusalem. I bet they knew what he was about to do, and spent the evening comforting him. Maybe Lazarus even reminded Jesus that he, too, would be raised - just as he had been.

How was the Jewish Sabbath celebrated in the first century? Did he break bread and bless wine, thinking already of what he would do in six nights? Did he sing hymns and make joyful noise, or was he silent as he kept all these things, and pondered them in his heart, the way his mother did at his birth?

Speaking of Mary ... was she with him for a final family meal, Mother and Son eating together for the last time? Were there tears, hugs, kisses? Long goodbyes and toasts in commemoration for what was about to take place? Reminders to stay faithful and trust the Father's will even in the total darkness that was to come?

Did they read the Torah? Did they step through the creation story in Genesis, while Jesus reminded them that he was there bringing about creation? Did they look at Exodus and the manna in the desert, as Jesus showed them how he would be fulfilling the prototype in the Eucharist? Did they read the prophecies of the Suffering Servant and the Messianic promises in Isaiah, as Jesus told them yet again how it would be brought about?

Do you think Jesus slept at all that night? Do you think Jesus would have suffered from insomnia or racing thoughts? Did every moment seem to race by - far too quickly - as they brought him one heartbeat closer to Calvary?

I don't know. If it was me, I wouldn't have slept at all that night. I'd have been wide awake with a mind that wouldn't stop thinking about all the moments that got me to that point. I'd be revisiting conversations that had long since ended. I would be second-guessing because I haven't yet learned to abandon myself to Divine Providence.

Lord, thank you so much for your last Sabbath. Thank you for giving us this coming week. Give us hearts that draw nearer to you and long to see, and touch, and smell. Give us minds that come to life in contemplating your words and deeds, inspired to comprehend just a bit more of the mystery. Give us feet that will draw us after you in walking the Via Dolorosa, carrying our own Crosses. Give us redemption, resurrection, and waves of unending mercy. Give us yourself, poured out and always on offer for us to receive.

Staying In and Going Out - Lent Journal (32/40)

This evening I met Alfonso, a man experiencing homelessness, while picking up dinner. I gave him some money (I made sure not to touch him as I handed him the money) and sat with him for a bit (at a safe distance) to learn more about his story. I also called a few hotels to find him a room for the night (I tried to find a way to get one within walking distance for him, so he could go on his own). Turns out he didn't have an ID, so I needed to book the room in my name and then drive him over (I had both of us use hand sanitizer, opened the door for him, and had him sit in the back seat). After I signed the paperwork at the hotel (I used hand sanitizer again), and shook Alfonso's hand (used hand sanitizer yet again), and drove home (used a disinfecting wipe to wipe down the inside of the car where he had sat, changed my clothes, and washed my hands).

I included all those parentheticals just to say, I was very conscious of how to minimize risk every step of the way. And yet it still may not have been enough, and I'm sure quite a few people are reading this thinking it was a foolish thing to do.

I get it. We have to be so careful right now, and we have a shelter-in-place order for a reason. Especially for myself, I'm conscious of the fact that I have a son - albeit one who I don't see every day - and my parents are visiting this weekend (that's a separate story). All the warnings are right, and people should be at home away for the sake of everyone else.

But I'm still left wondering: if all the people who can shelter-in-place do so, what about all those who have no shelter? If all the people who have sufficient food remain at home, what about all those who are going without? If all those who can care for themselves stay safe, what about all those who require care?

Food pantries, homeless shelters, meal packing for families experiencing food insecurity ... these still need to exist. Individuals keeping an eye out for others ... we need these too. Heck, we've already established that we need grocers, cleaners, EMS workers, etc. As much as we would love to just shut down society altogether for 6 weeks, it doesn't quite work that way in practice. And the ones who suffer the most are the ones who can't afford to be left to their own devices. If all the helpers remain at home - lots of vulnerable people are going to have issues.

I say this even as I also say that every necessary step should be taken to avoid infection, including avoiding going out altogether. But when you see someone in need, it would be callous to simply ignore them. Even more when you feel the tug of the Holy Spirit telling you to give from the heart, from your abundance.

I don't know. I don't have any real answers. I just know that we belong to each other. We owe it to those most at risk of serious complications from the virus, and to the weak and helpless in our communities.

Desiderata - Lent Journal (31/40)

Back in 2002 when I graduated from high school, my grandfather gave me this framed poem, Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann. I let it collect dust until just a few months ago, when I pulled it out and put it where I can see it every day. Right now it's sitting next to my computer on my home office desk, and I'm reading through it tonight while trying to come up with something to write about.

Go placidly amid the noise & haste, & remember what peace there may be in silence.

For the longest time I assumed this referred to my own silence (avoiding conflict), but I think just as valid an interpretation - and potentially more significant - is our need to embrace silence, to find a break from the shouting and constant news from across the globe.

Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity & disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

My girlfriend and I are continuing to pray together throughout the day, and especially tonight we were encouraging each other to maintain hope. Both of us are frustrated at the uncertainty, at the struggle to find ways to serve and support the local community, at the knowledge that the next three weeks are going to get bad for our hospitals and those who care for people who cannot care for themselves. We all need to cling to love right now.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. 

Honestly, this afternoon was just hard, and the most recent news out of Georgia has not made things any easier. On a personal level: my son's birthday is next week, and my parents were planning to visit this weekend. At the moment I'm thinking it may be best to not chance it. I'm feeling a bit crushed that they won't be here. I know my son will be as well, though I'm going to try and make the most of it with him - he will bounce back, with a lot of help. I could use some coaching and encouragement myself, to be honest, and no question I need more sleep.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Boy, is that a tough nut to swallow at the moment. I'm sure I am not alone in that respect. Lord, I do believe; help my unbelief.

Therefore be at peace with God ... in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

Keep peace with your soul ... it's an effort, but doable. Maintain hope, remind ourselves of the great examples of saints who have gone before us, remember that even this is temporary.

With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

We do live in a beautiful world, and the people in it make it that much more beautiful, if that were possible. The encouragement, strength of resolve, unity and solidarity in the face of disaster is simply breathtaking. We're going to press on and keep struggling for every single life.

"Beloved" - Lent Journal (29/40)

Have you ever noticed how often the authors of the New Testament letters call each other "beloved"? Paul, John, Peter, James, and Luke all use the term, and I think it's just beautiful.

I wonder who started doing it first? Was that a common phrase even in the ancient world that we just miss because of lack of context, or is this something distinctive to Christianity? I would guess the latter.

In all three Synoptic Gospels, the Father calls Jesus "my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased". This declaration is more than just a sign of affection, it's an identifying mark for Christ as being the second person of the Trinity. In other words, the Son is always the beloved of the Father - it is a necessary and essential characteristic of who He is.

What is fascinating about Christianity is the claim that we can actually enter into that dynamic (with God's grace, of course). When God became Man, he took on our humanity and elevated it. We are then invited to receive that gift: and what a gift, that we may be called the children of God! We are blessed to be able to join in the eternal dance of Lover, Beloved, and the Love they share.

So many of the New Testament letters and epistles are spent unpacking that and attempting to explain the significance of that idea, and it's certainly why we call each other brothers and sisters. But that term has been somewhat domesticated and has lost a bit of its punch when we throw the terms around without living out that reality in how we treat each other.

Now, beloved - that term still carries some weight, even if only sentimentally. It reminds me of sweet Spanish mothers calling their dear children mi amor, of lovers calling each other dearest.  Which I think is why it strikes me as so wonderful to see.

Now - all that being said, I suspect the authors are going for something much deeper than the lovely sentiments of terms of endearment when they call each other beloved. I read it as referring to our family ties - not with each other, but with Christ. The suggestion is that we are beloved in the same way that Jesus (the Beloved Son) is beloved.

That says a lot about our dignity in God's eyes, but it also speaks volumes about the reverence we should have for each other. When we use the word to refer to another, we are making a statement about their value, and reminding ourselves of the depths of love we aught to share with all humanity, though this is especially the case with all baptized Christians. And when I say all, I mean all - no strings attached. We can disagree, but we still need to see Christ in the face of the other.

So, beloved - be grateful for the respect and dignity that you deserve; but also remember that same perspective when considering how you speak about others.

Do You Believe This? - Lent Journal (Sunday Lent V)

My confession yesterday was impatience with God.

On the one hand, I do trust that God has a plan, and that His plan is good even in the trials. On the other - I just want things fixed. Between my son's challenges with reading comprehension, wanting my ex and I to communicate better, social distancing with my girlfriend, wanting answers with what integration looks like in managing my gender dysphoria, praying for my son to receive the sacraments, and just wanting some normalcy ... I can't help but relate to the cry of exiled Judah: how long, Lord?

Clearly I wouldn't have made it 40 years in the desert, or 70 years in Babylon. I'm that child who wants things my way, right now.

I mean, I do believe God has my best interests, and is working for my Good. I just wish He would hurry up about it, because it's so hard to trust that waiting on a good thing is best for us. Of course, the things I'm waiting on are minuscule compared with what many of you are waiting on: matters of life and death.

I think we have to admit that faith is a process, one that we struggle with our whole lives. Can't we all relate to the men and women who looked at Jesus's delay in coming to Lazarus and said, could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying? Or, to put it more pointedly: don't you love us?

Of course He does. But that love doesn't look the way we expect it. God is interested in matters much more important than whether we are satisfied in our dreams and plans in this moment. He's interested in our salvation - in making us Saints. The Lord who spent two millennia revealing Himself to us through salvation history, won't hesitate to let us wait a lifetime for our own goals to be met - assuming we even have the right goals, which seems unlikely.

I suppose in a way that is at least part of what Jesus was hoping to accomplish by waiting. Or, for that matter, the examples of Noah; Abraham; Moses; Hannah; David; Jeremiah. God's ways are not our ways, and it seems we move much quicker than Him.

But God's patience for us surpasses our impatience for Him a thousand-fold. Trusting God isn't just a one-time intellectual ascent to some doctrinal statements - it's a relationship, one that develops and unfolds. Jesus enters into that space, the space of our broken hearts waiting to be healed, and meets us there. He finds us in the tomb, waiting to roll away the stone. Or He finds us standing outside, weeping and wondering where He was; because that's what it took to draw us to Him again. In the meantime, we need to be like the psalmist:

I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the LORD, more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.

I don't know, honestly. If you were to ask me what God is doing by allowing all this tragedy, I couldn't even begin to provide a satisfactory answer. But God reveals Himself to us as a lover and a savior. He promises to love us more than we love ourselves, and provide for us all that we need in order to be satisfied. In this context, Jesus's question to Martha is one we should sit with:

Do you believe this?

Celebrating Holy Week - Lent Journal (28/40)

With this Lent being about three years long now, it's hard to think that we are only one week out from Holy Week, and two weeks out from Easter. Seeing as we are only two weeks into at least 6 weeks of social distancing and closed churches, it's time to start thinking through how to commemorate Holy Week without the opportunities for attending the standard Triduum liturgies [1]. Personally I won't be with my son this year for the weekend of Easter, and opportunities to celebrate in a group are limited. Thankfully, I know many parishes are planning to offer stripped-down versions of the Holy Week liturgy; but personally I think I'm going to need to supplement that.

So, with that in mind here are some thoughts on ways we can make the most of things and still enter into the most sacred time of the year (either as a family, or on your own):

• Commemorate Palm Sunday with a procession around the neighborhood, singing "All Glory, Laud, and Honor". Many of us have blessed palms laying around the house from past years, and while they are more than a bit dry and stiff, I don't see any reason we can't reuse them. This can be done either as a family or by yourself; just remember that the Communion of Saints are singing along with you.

• Veil religious images, especially crucifixes, during Passiontide. If you're a traditionalist, that would begin this Sunday; otherwise, it begins with Palm Sunday.

• On Holy Thursday, re-enact the foot washing within the home, if possible. Especially with frayed nerves and living arrangements that are nearer than usual, find opportunities to serve each other and show those you love that you are in this together.

• Also on Holy Thursday, perform the stripping of the altar: take down the religious images and put them away. Churches won't be removing the Blessed Sacrament from the tabernacle this year, but we can empty our homes and experience the starkness.

• If you aren't under curfew and are feeling up to it, make a Holy Hour, or an all-night vigil, in front of your local parish. While Eucharistic Adoration won't be an option, Christ's presence extends beyond the walls of the church. Whether directly in front of the church doors, from the parking lot, or from your home, you can still watch over our suffering Lord as he endures the agony in the garden.

• On Good Friday, pray the Stations around the house. Designate different rooms or locations in the yard with the 14 stations.

• Recite the Seven Last Words with friends and family over Zoom. Assign each saying to a different person, and invite them to share their reflections and sorrows.

• Read the Passion narrative in the four Gospels. Let yourself be struck by the way Our Lord loves you, and the lengths to which He went to demonstrate His desire to give you fullness of life.

• Don't forget to fast and abstain from meat on Good Friday! As far as I'm aware, neither requirement has been abrogated - and it's going to be that much harder this year, between being at home and the days all flowing together.

• On Holy Saturday, remind yourself that this is the one day that the lack of Mass and the inability to receive the Eucharist is actually normal. Rest for a few hours in being reminded of ordinary life, and the way that living according to the liturgical calendar provides a season for all moments of life - even this one.

• For the Easter Vigil, buy or make a candle to be treated as the Paschal Candle. Turn the lights out and spend some time reflecting on the day that humanity extinguished the Light of the World. Let your heart break with the uncertainty and disappointment the disciples felt, and try to put yourself in the shoes of someone who doesn't already know that the resurrection is about to come.

• Once evening has come and the Vigil has begun: light the candle outside, and come into the dark house. Light candles around the home from that initial flame, and take in the glow of the light of the world spreading as hope comes back into our hearts.

• Celebrate Easter joy by going around the neighborhood proclaiming Christ's resurrection.

• Break out the holy water during the renewal of the baptismal promises - bless the home, yourselves, and each other (reverently, of course; we're not talking about an excuse to have a water fight).

• Pray for all those currently in RCIA who had thought they would be receiving the Sacraments this Easter. Think of how you feel missing the Eucharist, and unite your own sufferings with theirs.

• For Easter Sunday, dress in your Easter best. Visit the church and Jesus if possible. 

• Keep the Easter meal simple: feast, but do it in solidarity with all those who are suffering in any way in this time.

[1] Side note: One positive of all this is there won't be any churches hosting Easter egg hunts on Good Friday or Holy Saturday this year.

Two Weeks Update - Lent Journal (27/40)

Well, here we are two weeks in - still maintaining distance. I know we're all in the same boat, but since it's late (as always) I wanted to jot down some rough thoughts from the past week, my personal experience.

You know, on the one hand I am so grateful we have the Internet and our technology to enable us to isolate. On the other, I am so glad for this weekend and an opportunity to get away from my computer. Between work, the blog, reading the news, and video chats, I don't know that I've spent so much time starting at screens. I badly need to get away and give my eyes a break.

Yesterday I moved my patio table and chairs to my front lawn - am currently growing sweet potato slips in jars. No idea if they will work out, but I wanted to give it a shot. I planted the rest of my garden this week on Tuesday: beets, radishes, spinach, beans, carrots, lettuce, and strawberries. With Spring finally arriving, I've been going on daily walks and taking in the falling cherry blossoms, getting out and enjoying the beautiful Atlanta weather (if you ignore the pollen count). Windows have been open during the day, and the fresh air has been so refreshing.

There have been plenty of opportunities for prayer recently. I mentioned this before, but my girlfriend and I have been praying daily Rosary in the morning at 7:30am; Angelus at noon; and Divine Mercy Chaplet (with a group) at 3pm. I've also been generally keeping up with daily scripture reading. We're up to Tobit, Second Isaiah, and the Gospel of Mark. Two thirds through reading the Bible "in a year" (which I've been working on for about 2-1/2 years).

Early this week I was working through Lamentations, Jeremiah describing the Babylonian Exile, and the Passion narrative in Matthew's gospel - so many parallels with today's circumstances. In the meantime Sam and Frodo were entering Cirith Ungol and approaching Shelob's lair. I told my girlfriend - I need something positive and uplifting to read.

This week, and especially today, I've been missing human contact. While video chatting is nice at helping maintain connections, you just can't look eye-to-eye because of the location of the camera. Beyond that, there is just a certain dimension that is missing, and I'm really starting to ache for physical touch.

You know what, though? That's a good thing. I would be sorely disappointed if I found myself entirely comfortable with being alone. Having a longing and recognizing a lack are the healthy response to reality - we aren't supposed to find our hearts satisfied easily, because they hunger for greater things. So I am encouraged by the fact that I want more, and better, even as I trust God in the solitude and try to offer it to Him as a sacrifice.

Off to bed now, and off of technology for a bit (though I'll still be blogging and video chatting). Time to get in touch with the simplicity and beauty of reality again.

Letting Him Help - Lent Journal (26/40)

My son has been having a tough time with remote learning, especially with how long it is taking him to complete the assignments. I've been trying to convince him to ask for help (in the capacity that I can, when he's at mom's house), and it's been a point of conflict for us. He keeps telling me "I'm okay", wanting to reassure me, and if we're honest maybe also wanting me to back off and let him do it his way. Part of getting older is wanting to be more independent, and it's hard for me to let him be.

I think I am at least slightly justified in worrying; when I hear him say that he didn't finish his school work until 9-10pm, something isn't working. When it's Thursday afternoon and he hasn't started a few week-long assignments that are due Friday, I get angsty. To be fair, some of this is just on me because I tend to get anxious anytime something happens to him that I have no control over, or when I just don't know what is happening (divorced dad problems - pray for me to simply trust and let go!). We need advice from his teachers, we need resources, we need to sit with him and help him understand the material.

And he keeps saying, "I'm okay". On the one hand I get it, because he wants me to have confidence in him, and he wants to have self-confidence. He is also a not-quite-10-year-old who thinks he knows so much (sometimes he really does), but he doesn't have the mental tools to properly manage time.

In the meantime, I continue to ask that he just let me help - that he call me when he doesn't understand something. I'm okay. Call me when it's taking longer than it should. I'm okay. Call me when he needs computer support. I'm okay. Call me to help figure out what to work on first. I'm okay.

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It occurred to me today while I was trying to walk off my worries: don't we all do the same thing with God? We keep Him at arm's distance, trying to do it on our own. I'm okay, we tell Him as we find ourselves struggling; but we have to do it on our own, because we have to be strong and independent.

Our Father looks down on us as we struggle, doing it the hard way and feeling defeated in the process. He reaches down and offers us a hand, again and again. He takes so many more deep breaths than I ever could, so much more patient than I am as a father. He loves us and compassionately speaks:

My dear child ... I know you think you're okay. But I can see you struggling on your own. You have so much more to learn, and you don't have to learn on your own. I AM here for you, and I want to guide you. You don't have to be strong and independent. You need to let me be the One Who Is Strong. 

I know you think you're okay. But just being okay isn't enough - I want you to be great.

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But you know, what is amazing about our Father is the way He will respect our boundaries - how He lets us struggle, even as He calls us to let Him in. He will let us have things our way, even while He knows it won't be good for us. He knows that often we come to see we made a mistake through experiencing the consequences of our actions.

At the same time, He also unceasingly points the way out. Every time Israel turned away from The LORD in the Old Testament, God raised up a prophet to warn them - this isn't good for you; come back to me. When Judah turned to foreign nations and their gods to defend them from outside threats, God's word would follow - Turn to me and live; let me help. While I have no doubt that we can ignore the signs, God's love for us is a constant desire that we find the path to salvation.

I don't know how God does it, because it drives me mad. Maybe it's my own lack of trust in God's Providence, or just feeling a need to compensate for not being there enough. Maybe it's my own grasping at that which is God's: the need to be in control and know how things will turn out. I just know that there is a balancing act between how much I let him go it alone and how much I step in to show the way.

In a sense, this is an area in my own life where I'm trying to go it alone, sometimes failing to look to God for answers or strength or peace of heart. I'm a child of the Father too, and I need to let Him help me too. We all do.

Longing to be Borne - Lent Journal (25/50)

Last year when teaching our teens at church about the Eucharist, I started my talk with the following riddle:

Who was the first person to receive the Eucharist?

A few suggested John, the beloved disciple, for being the nearest to Jesus at the table at the Last Supper. Others suggested Peter, and a few guessed John the Baptist (which is obviously wrong, but you can't fault the teens for at least trying to guess). Finally, one clever teen raised his hand and said:

"Well, if the Eucharist is Jesus, and receiving the Eucharist means having Jesus in your body ... then I guess Mary?"

Today was the Feast of the Annunciation, and we celebrated both Mary's great fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum. Her yes, cooperating with God's yes for us, brought about the Incarnation - the Creator's entry into Creation.

Today we wonder at the daughter of the Father becoming the Mother of the Son. As a human person, I can look at Mary and love her with such gratitude for what she's done for me. As a baptized Christian, I can look at Mary as my adopted mother who loves me just as she loves Jesus. As a sinner, I can be amazed at what God did in making Mary immaculate: the way it shows how holy He can make me, if I ever stop getting in my own way.

But one thing I can't relate to - at least, not through lived experience - is the physical sense of actually carrying Christ in my womb. Being a man, on a natural level the buck stops there, and I can't enter into that mystery. For friends who are mothers, they can relate to the tenderness and the depth of love and intimacy they have with their children as they bring them into the world.

They have a longing for that closeness to never end, and I don't blame them: what a gift, to be that near to another soul. I think that longing must also draw them nearer to Our Lady in relating to those months and years of being Christ's mother.

I guess what really amazes me though is the way God longed for Mary to bear Him - both for her own sake, and for ours, and I suppose also for the delight God has in His will being done. That God loves us so much as to save us is incredible enough; the fact that He actually desires to unite Himself with us, though, is unthinkable.

My friend Mary Grace pointed out that March 25th has traditionally been celebrated both as the date of the Annunciation and the date of the Crucifixion because the two are entangled: Jesus's birth was always destined to lead to the Cross.

At the same time ... I wonder: the Incarnation and Crucifixion were a means to an end, leading to something greater: Union with the Divine. I mean - there is no doubt that we needed redemption and reconciliation, and the way God brought that about was fitting. So I certainly would never dream of taking anything away from the Cross. But even that isn't "sufficient" (in the sense that we are each still in the process of being sanctified).

Mary longed for her child once she knew she would bear Him. We long for God once we realize our hunger. God longs for us until we are home. Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee, and in the meantime God continually calls us until we rest in Him.

Perhaps that's part of the reason we have such a love for the Eucharist. God was first borne by Mary, but in a very real sense He desires to extend that same dignity to each of us: we each can carry Christ.

Wonderings on the Annunciation - Lent Journal (24/40)

Was it silent and still in Nazareth when Gabriel came to Mary?

Was she at home, or out walking?

What was on her mind before the angel knelt before her and asked her favor?

I suppose a young woman like Mary - always a saint in the making, always full of grace - was perpetually caring for someone; who was she thinking about that evening?

Whose burden was she carrying before being given this new task?

Did Christ's conception take place the same night that Mary gave her fiat?

I wonder how it felt - holding God in her womb?

Did she radiate light from the moment of Christ's conception?

When Saint Christopher carried Christ on his shoulders, he was weighed down by the weight of the sins of the world; was that the case for Mary too, as she carried Christ in her womb?

Did she realize she was the new Ark of the Covenant immediately, or was it a mystery that took decades for her to unwrap?

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I was starting to wonder if Mary ever doubted if she would be strong enough, but it occurred to me: Mary was the first to have a true relationship with God since the beginning. She knew implicitly that she would never need to be strong enough. She understood that God would be the one to fulfill the promise. She knew where to turn when things were difficult, and trusted His will in all circumstances.

Mary received God's promises and humbly accepted them as the gift that they were. We each have our own promises from God, though many of us drown Him out with noise and distractions.

I wonder, when we listen and cooperate with His grace - what new life will we carry within ourselves?

Quick Hits - Lent Journal (23/40)

It's hard to really give much thought to anything other than worldwide efforts to survive right now, so tonight will just be bullet-form again. I'm also wondering about the merits of moving to every other day instead of daily, but I need to pray on it.

• There are few moments that I am glad to work for a supply chain software company, but right now is one of them. Our clients include Publix and Home Depot, and they need all the support they can get to keep inventory.

• So many of us have come out of the first week of social distancing ready to support their local communities. The Atlanta Facebook community has coordinated mask making for local hospitals that will be out of protective equipment in less than two weeks. They need volunteers for every part of this effort: supply donors, sewers, pickup / delivery.

• Last week a group of us started praying a daily Chaplet of Divine Mercy at 3pm over video chat. Since then, my girlfriend and I (and her family) have started praying the Angelus at noon, and now my girlfriend is video-hosting a daily rosary at 7:30am. Lots of opportunities for prayer, and lots of need as well, especially in groups.

• I'm so glad to see Church leadership finding so many ways to extend God's mercy. If you aren't Catholic this won't make much sense or may just seem unnecessary, but for those who are:

• Bishops and pastors are being encouraged (where necessary) to grant general absolution to the faithful. To be clear this is not a doctrinal change - however, the practice is not common except in emergency circumstances where individual confession may not be an option. Individual confession is still so much better though; as hard as it can sometimes be to speak my sins to another human person, it's so enriching to and beautiful to hear the words "I absolve you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit".

• The Vatican granted a set of plenary indulgences this past week to support the faithful and those who love them. This includes those who are quarantined; those who risk their health and lives in caring for the sick; and those who pray for the end of this pandemic.

• The Franciscan Friars of the Renewal will be streaming a nightly parish mission including Eucharistic adoration, music, prayer, and preaching. There's so much about this I'm excited about.

• Fr. Giuseppe Barardelli died from COVID-19 today - an elderly priest in Italy. He had given his respirator to a younger patient, and as a result become ill. A tragedy, but also a beautiful witness to the love and mercy of God. Fr. Barardelli, pray for us!

• So many opportunities from pastors and bishops for live-streamed Mass - not as entertainment to watch, but as prayer to unite ourselves with and participate in: the source of spiritual life for the Church. Heartfelt homilies, praying for spiritual communion even as physical communion is not currently available.

• My girlfriend and I will be spending tomorrow evening enjoying "company" (from afar) with each other, and COVID-19 will not be a topic of conversation. This, after tonight when we only got to talk for about 30 minutes and the entirety was discussing today's local happenings and what we can do to help.

Brief Thoughts - Lent Journal (Sunday Lent IV)

A few brief thoughts that came up from today's readings:

• Isn't it curious how the LORD never reveals the full plans? He could have simply told Samuel, "Go and anoint David, Jesse's son, in Bethlehem". Instead, Samuel's faith is tested by having to go without knowing - he discovers God's plan in his faithfulness. This allows him the joy of being surprised by who is chosen, and who is rejected. Where am I being asked to trust without knowing the full story?

• Anointing with oil was symbolic of the richness of creation. It always makes me remember Confirmation, specifically the scent of the oil. I remember feeling the rush of the Holy Spirit at the Easter Vigil three years ago, a truly awesome sensation - which you could certainly partially attribute to good old-fashioned adrenaline, but was such a vivid extraordinary feeling that I have a hard time reducing it to anything naturalistic.

• "He guides me in right paths ... even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side" -- It still seems so counter-intuitive that God leads us into the dark valley. Or I suppose the appropriate preposition would be through instead of into. Our Father wants us to come to understand that we can rely on Him for everything, which means we have to come to see that we can't do it on our own.

• I have been working my way through the Bible - I just finished Jeremiah and most of Isaiah after getting through Kings and Chronicles. The lesson of primary importance is that same message - God asks that we look to Him for answers. This is so counter-cultural for those of us who were raised in contemporary American individualism that says self-reliance is the only type of reliance that can be counted on.

• The suggestion that we are light in the Lord is such a surprising twist in the spiritual life. While God is capable of doing all things on His own, the implication here is that we become the lights that expose darkness in the world, so that it can be rooted out. We are constantly on mission to enter into the deep dark undergrowth of society to uncover that which would otherwise go unnoticed. The Church needed that type of mentality through the decades of sexual abuse.

• We also need that mentality in our own lives, here and now. We need daily examinations, and we need to ask the Holy Spirit for the gift of humility and honesty in investigating every corner of our souls for the corruption of sin.

• There's too much to cover about the man born blind. Sometimes we get so caught up on the question of whether a person's circumstances were their own fault. Jesus's answer should undermine an accusatory attitude that would treat others as being outside of the Body of Christ. If any pain or suffering is allowed by God, it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.

• The story of the man born blind isn't just about physical blindness. It can just as easily be applied to spiritual blindness in our own lives. What are we blind do, either in our own lives or in society around us? What do we fail to see, and where does Christ wish to enter in and open our eyes? 

Redemptive Suffering - Lent Journal (22/40)

Tonight my girlfriend and I were video chatting, and I think we both were feeling the burden of uncertainty and lack of control over the future. We've been trying to maintain balance: paying attention to the news (both local and ecclesial); trying to talk through concrete plans for how to prepare for the worst; keeping cautious with social distancing; and trying to not focus exclusively on COVID-19. I'm sure we aren't alone in feeling as if this is the only topic on everyone's mind right now, and just needing to talk about anything else to keep some sort of normalcy.

I can't tell exactly what we are more anxious about: the prospects about potentially becoming infected ourselves, of potentially infecting those who we care about, or the likelihood of some form of rationing and food/supply shortages. I went to the grocery store tonight and my mind immediately went to food insecurity during the Great Depression and needing to stand in line for hours to receive daily rations.

The Catholic perspective on all this is so curious because it is so honest about the reality of suffering. I've already written about hope, but what didn't go into that discussion was the Catholic answer to the question: why does a perfectly loving God allow suffering? Now, 11:30pm is hardly the time for me to engage that question with any veracity (nor am I equipped to give more than a basic and perhaps unsatisfactory argument). But at the very least I can wrestle with the painfully beautiful claim that God allows suffering and evil to bring about a greater good. In other words - God promises to redeem suffering, transforming it so that we can actually be grateful for whatever suffering we endure.

It is definitely an act of the will to accept that as a principle by which to live your life - within the greater Catholic framework, that is. You can't just say everything happens for a reason without a broader understanding of the world that can back up the belief. For example, unless there is an afterlife you can't honestly say you believe in the concept of universal justice. Similarly, unless God is the transcendent reality that sustains all creation can we say both that God is in control and that we have free will.

I think we can understand these things in the abstract and still want nothing to do with them in our lived reality. Because I would prefer this not to be happening, and in the moment it is impossible even to attempt to predict what greater good will come out of this. Then again, I'm sure the same was set of the black death; the fall of Rome; the suffering of innocent bystanders; so many other atrocities that weigh on us emotionally.

So on the one hand I do want to point out all the beautiful gifts that are already coming out of this virus:

• A return to simpler and slower lives
• The care of medical workers
• Upholding the dignity of every person, employed or unemployed
• Seeing how much we all touch each others' lives, and what we have been missing the past couple decades of loneliness and shallow friendships
• Remembering the importance of Mass, and especially of the Eucharist
• Incredible examples of pastors caring for their flocks in creative ways

But I can also imagine that those who have actually been directly affected by this virus - those who have been infected or have lost loved ones - aren't interested right now in seeing any redeeming value to something that has caused them so much pain. The question that seems appropriate is why did I have to be sacrificed for this greater good to come about? Why me?

I don't want to dismiss that question, because we worship a God who cried out My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? from the cross. We need to show so much support and compassion to those who are suffering, and platitudes just don't cut it. When confronted with suffering - especially the suffering of those we love - we don't want to see the silver lining; we just want it to stop.

But at some point we have to be confronted with the question of hope yet again: is God present in every moment or not? Is Emmanuel - God-with-us - the truth of how reality is configured? Is God truly benevolent? Do I trust my Father that He has my best interests in mind and is infinitely concerned with doing what it takes to demonstrate His love for me?

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I have this image I've been chewing on the past couple years, of Purgatory. Typically when we discuss it we are focused on the need for expiation of temporal punishment due to sins. But I'm convinced that what most of us need healing from is our relationship with Our Father. I think when we die, we will meet Saint Peter, who will hand us the million-page tome of our lives, with all the details filled in for how God was working in every moment. And our time in Purgatory will be spent reading the book, realizing for the first time So that's what He was doing there; I'm so thankful I went through that.

I know there is merit in simply trusting without seeing, and to some extent the onus is on us to accept the truth that God loves us; but God is merciful and tender and compassionate, and I sincerely believe He understands that we need His help to get to that point.