Monthly Archives: April 2014

Saints and Heroes

With the canonization of Popes John Paul II and John XXIII this Sunday morning, many have written about sanctity and what it means not only to the Church but to the world, both secular and sacred.

As Peggy Noonan wrote in her Saturday “Declarations” (Wall Street Journal, April 26-27, 2014):

Saints are not perfect, they’re human. A saint is recognized for heroic virtue in the service of Christ, but saints have flaws, failings and eccentricities. It is because they are not perfect that they are inspiring (italics mine). They remind you what you could become.

So these two priests, elevated to the papacy, had their failings like all of us. But they impacted our world in powerful ways, good ways, ways that made the world safer, better. Pope John presided over Vatican II, saying he “wanted to throw open the windows of the Church,” and soon reform followed, freshening spirits and opening hearts. Pope John Paul presided over the fall of communism embodied in the Soviet regime responsible for the slaughter of over twenty million people of faith and freedom.

Daniel Henninger, also in the Wall Street Journal, observed that institutions are the pillars of society, holding the parts together. These institutions, I would add, such as the Catholic Church, are able to raise up and nurture heroes, men and women who become the face of social goodness, cultural cohesion. We ordinary folks need tangible images, icons, to understand our world and our place in it, who we are, who we are meant to be. The Church gives us those images in her saints. We learn through the saints how to practice our faith, how to be truly human.

Other institutions – governments and schools – once gave us heroes to emulate; not so much today with the decline of the study of history, the decline in the ideal of charity, the decline in giving of oneself for another. Despair works to replace hope, nihilism tries to destroy faith, selfishness seeks to banish selflessness. Anarchy threatens the rule of law as every man looks out for number one and the resulting disorder trumps order. When we lose the stories of goodness, these good icons, these holy heroes, these great men and women of the past, we become smaller for it, we slowly lose ourselves. As W. B. Yeats wrote after the horrors of World War I, “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” What would this great poet write today?

This is not to say that there are not islands of faith and practice, of law and order, communities of belief where heroes sacrifice for others.  It is good when our world recognizes these lives of love, and even better when we do not forget these saints as we travel in our own journeys through time.

And so history holds civilization in its palm, protecting it by telling its stories again and again to its children, stories about who we are and who we are meant to be. It is difficult but hopefully not impossible to put things back together in a world disdainful of Judeo-Christian belief, faith, and freedom. It is difficult but hopefully not impossible to create a public square where the pillars of civilization may once again hold things together, may once again rise from strong historical foundations to build a house not of sand but of stone, build a strong future together as a free and good society.

So I am so very thankful for the sanctity of these two popes. I am thankful for their heroic contributions to our time and culture. I am thankful that millions streamed into St. Peter’s Square this morning to witness this event, to this island of sanity in Rome, in Italy, in Europe, in the world. I am thankful that the center is still  holding.

To see some ring-side photos of the canonization, visit the Facebook page of my friend in Rome, Sister Emanuela of the Missionaries of Divine Revelation: https://www.facebook.com/missionariesdivine.revelation?fref=photo

Resurrection Flowers

The great festival of Easter is the pivotal point of Christianity, and indeed, the history of the world. 

There is no point to such faith, and indeed, to life itself, without Easter’s celebration, the resurrection of Christ. Everything depends upon it. Without the resurrection, we are left with an itinerant preacher who might have healed, might have walked on water, might have fed the five thousand with a few loaves and a few fish. We are left with a self-styled prophet who told us how to live but who lied about who he was. We are left with a delusional beggar who gave us false hope. 

But there is ample evidence that the resurrection occurred. The crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, “King of the Jews,” is chronicled in accounts of the time. More importantly, we have witnesses to the empty tomb, and scores of witnesses to the risen Christ as he walked the earth before his ascension to heaven. 

So on Easter morning, as the children and teachers placed the colorful freshly cut flowers in the straw baskets and waited in the back pew for the right moment, I thought of the small but immense part we played in this great drama. After the triumphal procession (Hail thee festival day…), after the Epistle and Gospel readings, after we affirmed the Nicene Creed as one voice, we stepped up the aisle toward the white wooden cross.

The cross had been placed at the foot of the chancel steps. Beyond, under the thirteenth-century crucifix, I could see the white-tented tabernacle in its garden of lilies and flaming candles. As the congregation sang Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia… the children shoved the green stems into the deep holes on the cross, clothing the whiteness with brilliant color. The cross now glowed with life, life sacrificed in our gardens. The sign of salvation was peopled with petals glorifying this Son of God who gave himself to us for us.

Spring is our season of resurrection. Gone are the cold dark nights of winter. Born to us is the flowering life of spring. Everywhere we see creation budding, birthing, mating, and mothering. Easter distills this rebirthing, this life-banishing-death into a few hours of incredible – credible – beauty. The Church pulls us into this intense beauty as she portrays and celebrates this drama of redemption. 

Scripture tells us that after his death, Christ went into Hades, the place of sleep for all those who had died before his incarnation. He opens the gates and rescues the prisoners, so that not one would be lost who desired to be saved. Then on Easter morning, robed as a gardener, he greets Mary Magdalene who came to the tomb with precious oils to anoint the body of her Lord.

This is the real Magdalene mystery. This is the pivotal point of our history, upon which everything depends. Have we solved the mystery? Is her account true? Do we trust the witnesses and those who recorded their testimony? Is it all a hopeful dream, a great leap of faith? We must consider the sources, examine the accounts, and most of all, read the testimonies of those who gathered in that first century to celebrate Christ Jesus’ resurrection. How did they behave? What happened in those early gatherings? Were these early followers, the first Church, changed by their belief in Christ? Was the world changed by them? 

These questions have been asked and answered, again and again, and all point to the historicity of the resurrection of Christ. The accounts, recorded on codices and handed through the centuries to our present day in the form of Gospels and Epistles, reflect a high degree of probability, the same degree we apply to other historical accounts we assume to be true.

But then, if Christ rose from the dead, we must listen to him. We must take him seriously. We must follow his commandments, and those of his people, the sons and daughters of Israel. We must believe in judgment day, and we must believe that our sins can be forgiven, if we choose to repent.

And if it is indeed true that he with the wounded hands and feet and side conquered death to give us life, we are the most happy of men, the most blessed of women. For we, through this suffering act of love become part of the resurrected one, part of his divine nature. His spirit infuses ours, and we become his body as we eat and drink in the supper he ordained for us.

So as we flowered the cross with the new life from our gardens, we knew Christ flowered us as we became one with him, filled with his risen life.

The Gates of Jerusalem

The great festivals of the year mark our time on earth, our passage, our pilgrimage from birth to death. Where was I last Palm Sunday? Where will I be Palm Sunday 2015? We mark time with festivals, for time is limited, making it precious; numbered days are valuable days. Was I journeying closer to God or away from him?

This morning in church, as I gazed upon the purple-veiled altar and tabernacle, purple-shrouded candlesticks and crucifix rising above, I considered Palm Sunday, how Christ’s entry into the holy city of Jerusalem two thousand years ago was a climactic, crucial moment in man’s history. Riding a donkey through the welcoming crowds, the Son of God enters the City of Man. The people had heard of this Jesus of Nazareth, this possible messiah, and they waved palm branches. Palms were associated with kingship, but this king came on a humble beast of burden. Could he really be their king?

In our sanctuary this morning our king was covered in royal purple, penitential purple, hidden from sight. But the purple shrouds draped against the brick apse were somehow beautiful, framed by giant green palm branches on each side of the altar. The palms reached high, rising above the shrouds, framing the purple with their vivid green. All was the purple of death and the green of life; all was flaming candles, incense, and chanting. Death and life touched one another in that sanctuary, as we, God’s people, followers of the Christ, began the suffering Way of the Cross, a pilgrimage to Easter joy.

We stepped to the altar to receive our own blessed palms and formed a procession. We sang as we stepped around the nave, All glory laud and honor, to thee redeemer king, to whom the lips of children, made sweet hosannas ring… We waved our palms, and followed the draped crucifix raised high above us, the torchbearers, the clergy. We became the Jerusalem crowd. We became mankind receiving God among them. We became a moment in history replayed and replayed throughout the world, throughout time, solemnly and tearfully and with great thanksgiving.

As I walked with my brothers and sisters, my children and mothers and fathers – my parish family – I sensed I was walking all of the Palm Sundays of my life. There have been many, I am happy to say, perhaps over thirty processions that reenacted that day outside the gates of Jerusalem. And today I was able to add one more, weaving a tapestry of time in my soul, a fabric of purples and greens and flaming candles. It is a tapestry that will enshroud me at my own death, ensuring that that moment in time will usher me into eternity, that I will be clothed with white linen and golden brocade.

On these great festival days, time collapses as it is purified into these intense moments of meaning. Time deepens and changes as we walk through Holy Week, as we meet in the upper room and share a Passover meal like no other before, as we pray in the Garden of Gethsemane, and as we walk the suffering Way of the Cross that Our Lord walked. We follow this path year after year through all of the years of our lives. We follow it to the Hill of the Skull, Golgotha, where the Son of God finishes his great act, his passionate passion.

I am certain that these re-enactments, these humble pilgrim processions around the church nave, wed me to the Body of Christ, the Church, in a true and mysterious way. As I take each step, as I sing and wave my palm frond, I become part of the eternal intersecting time. With every Sunday, every Eucharist, I draw closer to that miracle that occurred not only two thousand years ago, but occurs each Sunday, and in every sacramental gathering of the Body of Christ. 

Time stands still yet disappears as I enter the gates of Jerusalem, as I become one with the love of God.

 

 

 

On Seeing Clearly

I had cataract surgery this week on my right eye, improving my vision from 20/80 with glasses to 20/20 with none. The effect was nearly immediate. Within twenty-four hours I could see the world again, and see it so very clearly. 

I often wryly comment that I like to schedule my dental work during Lent – it reminds me of my human frailty. This Lent my teeth didn’t need attention, but the lens in my eye sure needed replacing. 

It was a remarkable procedure, taking about ten to twenty minutes, in which the cloudy natural lens in my eye was removed and a new clear prescription lens was implanted. I reported in at 7:45 and left the building at 10:00 a.m. The nurse gave me an I-V to relax me. They wheeled me into the surgery room. Soon, I saw the doctor’s upside down face peering at me. “Okay?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Then let’s do this,” he replied. He aimed the overhead light on my eye. There was no pain. Soon, to my surprise, I was seeing bright colors – hot pinks, brilliant blues – that formed vertical bars dancing in my vision. Then it was over. A woven metal patch, like a fine grill, was taped over my eye, through which I could see out partially, and I was wheeled into recovery. 

To be able to see clearly when all of your life you have struggled with your vision seems like a miracle. The last few days I have found myself watching the world around me as though reborn, noticing the edges of things, leaves and clouds and blades of grass. I said to a friend that I felt like Bartimaeus, the “man born blind” in the Gospels, healed by Christ.

So the experience hasn’t been very penitential and I’m grateful. But blindness and seeing again, a recurring image and event in Scripture (or the reverse with Samson), has taken on new meaning. I understand those who say they were “reborn” when they become Christians. To suddenly see the world in a new and different way is like being healed of blindness, being given new eyes to see.

And I’ve often considered Lent a dark time, a time of patience and discipline, a time of self-denial and greater love. We wait for spring, for the lighter and longer days, for the darkness of the nights of winter to lessen. Somehow, as we work our way into deep Lent, drawing closer to the Way of the Cross, we find that the small acts of self-discipline and denial we suffer allow us to see better. It is as though we don’t get in the way of God’s healing power. He touches our eyes and restores our sight.

A friend often says his daily prayer is that he doesn’t get in the way of God’s will. He stands aside, waits, watches, faithfully lives a live of worship, sacrament, Scripture, service. He searches his heart, confesses, and is washed clean. He makes room for God to work in his life.

Lent teaches us how to do this, how to become smaller, and in becoming smaller, allowing God to fill us, fulfill us, work his will in us. Like St. Therese of Lisieux, the “Little Flower.”

The Gospel today isn’t about Bartimaeus, but nevertheless wakes us up with its urgent claims. It reminds us forcefully who Jesus Christ was and is, that he stated unequivocally that he was God. He tells his questioners that he is “I AM,” which, as they well knew, was the holy, unspeakable name for God, an extremely dangerous and blasphemous claim to make in that time and place. So today, Passion Sunday, we see the crux, the cross of our faith, that God became one of us to suffer as one of us, to suffer for us because of his love for us.

It is said that “The Passion” is the union of love and suffering. Passion comes from the Latin root passio, meaning to suffer, and became passion in Old French. It has come to mean deep physical and emotional experience, such as the passion of falling in love. It was used for many centuries to refer to crucial, dramatic events in a person’s life. And so we call the last two weeks of Christ’s life on earth his “Passion,” when God’s love, his unobstructed will, was acted out among his own creation so that they could conquer death and live with him forever.

We now enter Great Lent when the world re-enacts, relives those miraculous, passion-ate days. On Palm Sunday we will wave palms in procession, greeting Our Lord’s entry through the great gates of the holy city of Jerusalem. We shall follow his Way of the Cross through Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday. We shall, with Mary Magdalene, rush to the open tomb on Easter morning to anoint his body, but will find the tomb empty.

As we walk these days of the Passion, we listen, watch, and wait. For we know that suddenly our own veils will be parted and we will see, no more through a cloudy lens, no more through a glass darkly, but see clearly all that we are meant to see and all that we are meant to be.