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totus tuus: day 12

self-gift

I’ve come to the end of the period within the 33 days of consecration known as the “preliminary days”, which concentrate on some of the not-so-basic basics of Christianity, like the persons of the Trinity, divine providence, sin and mercy. I feel like I’ve been putting mental bookmarks into thoughts and ideas along the way, like “ooh, I want to learn more about that” or, “I wonder why THAT was so hard”, some of which I wrote about, a lot of which I kept private.

I mentioned this before, but St. Louis de Montfort’s consecration is nothing like I imagined it to be, but really digs its heels into one’s perception and love of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. It truly is a consecration to Jesus. It’s humbling in a soul-stripping sort of way, satisfying in a getting-truly-fed sort of way. It’s hard work, and I think it’s going to get harder in the days to come.

What’s becoming increasingly clear, though, is Mary’s role in the consecration, the “why” of growing closer to Jesus through Mary. I’m sure to many Catholics, that’d be followed by a “well, duh”, but I know I’m not alone in the suspicion/curiosity/befuddlement of why Mary has to be involved, and why this would become increasingly clear in contemplating the Trinity.

About a year ago, a friend recommended I read the 20th century Catholic theologian Hans urs von Balthasar, as well as Adrienne von Speyr, a Swiss Catholic writer. Balthasar is a theologian I never knew I always loved. Even though he makes a distinction from theologians and the lover-saints, I think he approaches God as a lover-theologian; he strives to explain mysteries of God with a lover’s heart and theologian’s mind. And Adrienne von Speyr is a feast to read; I started with Handmaid of the Lord, a contemplative insight into the mysteries of Mary’s life. I had to take it in pieces, ponder it, then go back to read more. The timing of having just read (and still reading) these writers is providential as I work through the consecration and draw upon the wisdom and insight of both Balthasar and Speyr.

I imagine I will write more on this, but the most repetitive and potent point right now is the nature of self-gift in both the Trinity and in Mary’s fiat. Balthasar explains the Trinity as an on-going giving and receiving of love. Jesus’ obedience to the Father, therefore, is “essentially love”. Speyr writes, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ is given to us only through the self-giving love of God the Father, so that we can participate in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit” (The Holy Mass). And St. John Paul II writes, “In the Holy Spirit the intimate life of the Triune God becomes totally gift, an exchange of mutual love between the Divine Persons” (Dominum et Vivificantem, as quoted by Fr. McMaster in Totus Tuus).

Because of our sinful nature, it is not natural for us to think in terms of self-gift. To give of ourselves is an effort that requires grace. But we were created for self-gift, since we were created in the image of God. Before the fall in Eden, I assume we were able to enter into that giving of self and exchange of mutual love, freely and beautifully. Now by the merits of Christ, we are invited into that exchange, but it is a constant struggle with our sinful nature.

Yet for Mary, who was without original sin by the grace of God, it wasn’t against her nature to act in total self-gift. It is natural for her to give of herself without reservation to God and His will. She unites her will to His; His mission becomes hers; His desires become hers. Even while experiencing great suffering and trials, while watching her Son and Lord be tortured and crucified, she is confident in the good design of the Father. This is why she’s the example to all Christians: “Her obedience is the prototype of every future instance of Christian obedience, which draws its whole meaning from the life of prayer and the perception of God’s will” (Handmaid). Even if Mary’s immaculate-ness (that she was born without original sin) makes you uncomfortable or you don’t believe it, you would have to agree that she followed and carried out God’s will as no one else had before her (or since).

During my life as a Catholic, whenever it has come to Mary, my brain takes a detour; the radius of space around her has slowly slimmed down, but I have been reticent to get much closer. I’ll write more about this later, but at this point, in large part thanks to von Speyr’s comprehensible descriptions of Mary and these first several days of the consecration, I truly do see and completely embrace the why of growing closer to Jesus through Mary. Through her, we learn perfect Christian obedience, perfect surrender, and perfect unity with God’s holy will, which all flows from perfect love.

totus tuus: day 10

mercy, and the prodigal son

I’ve heard a lot of memorable sermons on the Prodigal Son parable: that the father willingly gives the son his inheritance in the first place, or the fact that the son ends up with the swine indicates he’s in a foreign, non-Jewish place, or that the father recognizes him from far away and runs to meet him. All great.

But I’ve always had a difficult time with this parable because I strongly identify with the elder son who feels jilted. In my own family, we had a real-life prodigal son. My brother left us through addiction—he was still physically present, but his true self was chained up and slowly silenced by drugs. It was a roller coaster of emotions and events, and none of us handled it well for the first several years; we wanted him to take responsibility, but the rest of us didn’t know we had stuff of our own to deal with in the mess. I say “we”, but I felt alone. I think my parents saw it as their problem to deal with, and out of love and concern for me, didn’t want to include me. But what they didn’t realize until later is that I was already very much involved—entwined would be a better word—with the behavior of addiction. But I’m sure my mom felt alone, and I’m sure my dad felt alone, and I’m sure my brother felt alone (otherwise he wouldn’t have used, right?). So there we were, all living in the same house, feeling alone and isolated. Addiction does that; it’s a thing.

Even before my brother’s addiction, I’d been the easier kid. I took great pride in pleasing my parents, which doesn’t mean I never wronged them—I certainly did, and experienced deep shame and self-loathing when I did. What I didn’t realize until much later was how much of my identity I’d wrapped up in making people happy, whatever the cost. Then life shifted, my conversion began, I wanted to be Catholic—and suddenly, I wasn’t the perfect daughter anymore. I saw my parents as worried, distressed, perplexed, and disappointed. My identity within my family went belly-up. The night I was baptized, my parents sat in the back of the church, probably feeling like fish out of water. I was thankful they came, but it was awkward—they were uncomfortable, I was overjoyed.

Years later, my brother got clean and was baptized. The whole family of non-baptizing Quakers came to witness his baptism. There was joy and excitement. I was excited for him too, but I had to fight back a building resentment. In our family, my baptism was treated as a rite of dissent, a flood that formed a canyon between us, whereas my brother’s baptism was a triumphal entry. I was so proud of him, but I was also jealous that they were prepared to kill the fatted calf for him. On top of that was a layer of guilt for even feeling jealous—my brother was dead, and had come back to life!

So this parable makes me ask myself: was I obedient to my parents out of love, fear, or obligation? For me, obedience was tightly wound with my vanity because it was all about how I was perceived, not what was true and real, much like the elder son in the prodigal parable. So when another child was shown mercy and love, jealousy reared its ugly head and exposed my lack of love. There is an honesty and humility in the prodigal son, which the elder does not yet possess. If I had obeyed out of love, and had been more aware of how much mercy I’d received in my own life, I would have selflessly rejoiced that day with my family and not simmered in my own fear of rejection. Alas, I’m not perfect, no surprise there. So yeah, I get why the elder son was perturbed. And I also get why he was mistaken.

But it’s given me a lot to think about how I relate to God, my Father. Do I obey out of fear or out of love? It was one of the things on my short, but pointed list I wanted to really examine during these 33 days of consecration, and now we’ve come to it. Several days back I was supposed to contemplate God the Father and I struggled with that. The image in my mind of Jesus is pretty clear and distinct, but God the Father shifts and morphs depending on how I’m feeling. If I’m feeling guilty, God is a wrathful, fearful being from whom I want to hide. If I’m feeling good, He’s this beautiful Creator encompassing me with His wings. I want to bridge these two images, because a true father is both— tenderly showing the way with unwavering truth and unfathomable mercy.

Also… I forget that I’m the prodigal son, too. In my pride, I don’t want to admit that I’ve chosen to starve with the swine at times in my life. When I sin—which is a way of seeking meaning and purpose outside of God’s kingdom—and go to Confession, I am returning to the Father’s house in repentance, in the light of God’s mercy and love. I hear the voice of the elder son telling me that I’m not worthy of the Father’s mercy, not worthy of the Eucharistic feast He’s set before me. But God says I am.

In True Devotion, St. Louis de Montfort points out that scrupulosity or “servile fear” cramp, imprison, and confuse the soul. To this I can say, amen amen. One trait in St. Thérèse of Liseiux that I admire is her confidence in God’s mercy, which in action translates to a humility about her imperfections. I admire it precisely because I find that so difficult. To do that, God has to be seen as a tender, merciful Father, who waits for the prodigal to return and goes to great lengths—death, for instance—to be reunited.

totus tuus: day 6

the Beatitudes

Nerds that we are, whenever my husband or I are reading a good book, we will excitedly punch the other one in the shoulder and say, “Listen to this!” or “Can I read you something?” Several months ago, my husband was reading Life of Christ by Ven. Fulton Sheen and, with tears in his eyes, read out loud a passage from the chapter on the Beatitudes:

But let any man put these Beatitudes into practice in his own life, and he too will draw down upon himself the wrath of the world. The Sermon on the Mount cannot be separated from His Crucifixion, any more than day can be separated from night. The day our Lord taught the Beatitudes, He signed His own death warrant.

My husband was so visibly moved by the passage, I didn’t want to betray my confusion. How could that be so? I thought. The Beatitudes are so beautiful. In my head I imagined a hippie-like Christ sitting on a hill talking about blessed this and blessed that— idyllic, and nothing like the crucifixion. I knew I was missing something, but after a “hmmm” and a nod, I went back to reading my own book.

Fast-forward to now, Day 6 of the Consecration to Jesus through Mary, a day to ponder the Beatitudes. I read the familiar Scripture passage from Matthew 5, Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, and so on. Yes, lovely; sure, powerful. But the next piece for reflection was from St. John Paul II’s homily from the Mount of Beatitudes in Israel in 2000. He said, “Jesus did not merely speak the beatitudes. He lives the Beatitudes. He is the Beatitudes.” I went back to the Scripture passage and began to read it differently: Jesus is poor in spirit… Jesus mourns… Jesus is meek… Jesus hungers and thirsts for righteousness… Jesus is merciful… Jesus is pure of heart… Jesus is a peacemaker… Jesus is persecuted…

The passage suddenly turned into an arrow that pierced my heart and I had to ask myself: Am I poor in spirit? Am I willing to mourn? Am I meek? Do I hunger and thirst for righteousness? Am I merciful? Am I pure of heart? Am I a peacemaker? How do I react to persecution?

I realized I had grazed over the Beatitudes most of my Christian life like the eunuch who meets Philip and says, “How can I read with no one to teach me?” I remembered Fulton Sheen’s words about the Beatitudes and immediately went looking on the bookshelf for Life of Christ. In just ten pages, he illuminates those twelve verses with piercing clarity: “Our divine Lord takes those eight flimsy catch-words of the world- ‘Security’, ‘Revenge’, ‘Laughter’, ‘Popularity’, ‘Getting Even’, ‘Sex’, ‘Armed Might’, and ‘Comfort’- and turns them upside down.” Sheen goes through each, discussing the opposition to each Beatitude. He finishes how he began:

Crucifixion cannot be far away when a Teacher says ‘woe’ to the rich, the satiated… the popular. Truth is not the Sermon on the Mount alone; it is in the One Who lived out the Sermon on the Mount on Golgotha… On the Mount of the Beatitudes, He bade men hurl themselves on the cross of self-denial; on the Mount of Calvary, He embraced that very cross.

John Paul II, at the close of his Beatitude homily, says, “[Christ] does not simply say, ‘Do as I say.’ He says, ‘Come follow me’.” When I read the Beatitudes as traits of Christ, I can see how saints like Mother Theresa or Damien of Molokai were willing to answer God’s call to serve the poorest of the poor, for in them they saw the face of their beloved Savior. Or in a more ordinary sort of way, Thérèse of Liseiux could react with charity to hurtful sisters and Chiara Badano could accept suffering and death at the hand of cancer because they followed Christ in the Beatitudes—knowing they were blessed in mourning, in persecution, in their meekness— not because they relished suffering, but because they loved Jesus and followed him to the mount.

totus tuus: day 4

the “what”

“This devotion is necessary for us only in order that we may find Christ perfectly, may love Him tenderly and serve Him faithfully.”

True Devotion, St. Louis de Montfort

When I finally picked up True Devotion by St. Louis de Montfort after giving it almost two decades of a shelf-life, I was surprised to realize how much I had misunderstood Marian consecration, even during my years as a Catholic. My mistake was to think of it as just a Mary-thing, which is why I kept a safe distance. I was made immediately aware of this when I realized the correct title of the consecration is not to Mary, but to Jesus, through Mary. St. Louis de Montfort spends many pages singing God’s praises:

“He is our only Master… our only Lord… our only Head… our only Shepherd… our only Way… our only Truth… Except the Name of Jesus, there is no name given under Heaven whereby we must be saved.”

He repeats this throughout the book, again and again stressing that the primary goal of the consecration—because it is the primary goal of our life—is to grow closer to Jesus Christ, and Mary shows us how to do that. He writes, “Mary is so transformed by You by Grace, that she no longer lives as of herself; it is You alone, O Jesus, Who live and reign in her,” which is why she is the model of all Christians.

As powerful and beautiful as True Devotion is, when faced with the actual, practical consecration, I was confused and overwhelmed by it. Essentially, it’s like a 33-day retreat, but in real time, all while living out one’s real day-to-day life. So how do I, a partially over-whelmed home-schooling mother of six, stay focused through an increasingly challenging 33-day period?  A dear friend suggested I use Totus Tuus: A Consecration to Jesus through Mary with Saint John Paul II by Father Brian McMaster. I’m extremely grateful for this book. It is faithful to St. Louis de Montfort’s form and prayers, while also including daily focal points, Scripture readings, and selections from JPII’s writings. It’s been really helpful in focusing my prayer time and contemplation throughout the day.

The consecration is divided into sections. In the first part, what is called the “preliminary days”, the focus is on the fundamentals of the Christian faith (i.e. the Trinity, the Incarnation, prayer, etc.). The next period encourages a knowledge of self, followed by a knowledge of Mary, and finishes with a knowledge of Jesus. The act of consecration is prayed on the 34th day, which for me will be May 31, the Feast of the Visitation, and the anniversary of my baptism.

In the introduction to Fr. McMaster’s book, he includes an excerpt from John Paul II’s memoirs where he remembers that as a young man, he thought he should steer away from the ardent Marian devotion of his childhood, afraid it might compromise his worship of Christ. But after reading True Devotion, he realized his error, and sees how Marian devotion is truly rooted in the mysteries of the Trinity, the Incarnation, and the Word of God.

Though our circumstances of hesitancy towards Marian devotion were quite different, I was heartened by this. I still see St. John Paul II as a spiritual father, like most Catholics in my generation; he was pope when I came into the Church and was a true “papa” and shepherd who exemplified love, joy, and mercy. His devotion to Our Lady was so public and undeniable during his pontificate that, though it was not something I fully understood, planted a seed in my heart. I am glad to have him with me throughout this consecration.

totus tuus: day 1

There’s this little blue book on my shelf that I’ve had for a long time. A well-meaning Catholic must have given it to me at my baptism. I have considered giving it away several times, but have never been able to actually do it. It’s by St. Louis de Montfort, and it’s called True Devotion. Knowing it had something to do with Mary, I was a bit scared of it. I just didn’t think it’d be my kind of book.

It’s a longer story, one that I’ll flesh out more in the following weeks, but I finally did pick up that book. I don’t know that I would officially recommend it even though it’s a spiritual classic. Like many books, I think it’s for certain people at certain times. I wouldn’t have been ready to read it five years ago. But it was in True Devotion that St. Louis de Montfort lays out the process of consecration, which is actually a consecration to Jesus, but through Mary, just as He came into this world.

I realized it was exactly the thing I’d been feeling called towards. The most recent scandals were breaking all over the news. It seemed a logical answer, in some ways: the Church is hurt, a little lost, looking for answers, consolation, and strength —time to run to Mama. If I want the world to love Jesus more, for Mass to be reverent, for people to uphold the dignity of life, then I need an example: Mary, as the first Christian, as the Christian who obeyed God perfectly in perfect love, is who I am looking to.

It’s customary to make the consecration on a Marian feast. As the consecration is also a way to renew one’s baptismal promises, the Feast of the Visitation seemed the appropriate Marian feast for me, as it is also the day I was baptized. As it so happens, this year the day I need to begin the 33-day devotion is Divine Mercy Sunday.

Thus I go, full-throttle Catholic nearly 18 years after my baptism, into Marian consecration. I am both excited and nervous. If you think of it, say a prayer for me, and I’ll pray for you.

my meet-cute with the Divine Mercy

In October of 2013, my husband and I were living north of Boston, and on a whim one Saturday morning we decided to drive with our four kids across the state of Massachusetts to Stockbridge to visit the National Shrine of Divine Mercy. It wasn’t entirely random; I’d been really wanting to go—St. Faustina was the first saint I loved and had taken as patroness at my baptism and confirmation (along with St. Thérèse of Lisieux). It was also the 75th anniversary of her death, so there would be an especially large gathering at the Shrine.

It was a beautiful drive, just as one would expect in New England in the fall; the trees that lined the turnpike were red and golden-hued, the air was crisp, the sky was clear. My heart was full as our little family prayed the chaplet on the lawn. As I looked around at all the people gathered there, humbled by the multiple priests hearing Confessions and the lines that trailed behind them, I was moved, but also amused by God’s leading in my life. I first encountered St. Faustina right at the dawn of my awakening to Catholicism, and she walked quietly alongside me up to my baptism a few years later. At that time, I had no idea of the impact the message of Divine Mercy had made on the world, only what an impact it had made on my own life.

I first heard of St. Faustina in the basement of my boyfriend’s house when I was around 16 years old. At the time I would often walk to his house after school. We’d do some homework, then “watch a movie” in his basement (code for “make-out”). On that particular day, his mom had borrowed a movie from their church library and was very excited about it. I don’t know why I was willing to watch this obviously religious video; maybe because I was trying to be nice, acquiescing to her earnest recommendation of this B-quality documentary. Or maybe she knew our code language (it wasn’t altogether clever). But I actually did watch this movie. It was about a simple, Polish nun named Sister Maria Faustina who had received a message from Our Lord, a message of mercy for the whole world at a time when the evils that preceded World War II had already been unleashed, unbeknownst to her. Normally a skeptic of anything Catholic, I was moved by her life, by her suffering and humility, by her solitude and contemplation, by how much Jesus clearly loved her. I wanted that. And that image of Jesus… He is touching his heart, from which two streams flow: one red, one white— blood and water— just as it was at the crucifixion when his side was pierced. Underneath this gentle and heroic Christ is written the words: Jesus, I trust in You.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the Divine Mercy. Like the image of the Sacred Heart, it had found a foothold in my entire being. I typed “Divine Mercy chaplet” into the search engine on our computer at home. It was an accessible prayer—an appeal to God’s mercy by the suffering of His son, for the salvation of the world. There was also something about the recalling of His “sorrowful Passion” and the meditation on His suffering that appealed to me. I prayed the chaplet in secret every so often, and increasingly more as I grew closer to Our Lord and the Church.

At the time, I really needed not just the message of Divine Mercy, but the image too. Home life had become increasingly stressful as addiction reared its ugly head and demanded the full attention of us all. I needed to see that look of tenderness from Our Lord, and to remember that He poured Himself out for love of me. I needed to call out for mercy as an intercession for my family, but also for myself in the midst of what seemed hopeless; I needed that mantra of Jesus, I trust in You, when there was no clear path forward.

The Divine Mercy message, chaplet, image, and the holy example of St. Faustina herself would become a staple in my spiritual life: in my struggles with anxiety and scrupulosity, in prayer for loved ones struggling with addiction and other over-powering difficulties, and in just remembering Christ’s mercy for me in my own continual struggle with sin. God knows I wasn’t looking for it, and certainly not where I encountered it, but how sorely I needed it.

At the National Shrine of Divine Mercy, there are life-size sculptures for each station in the Stations of the Cross.

To learn more about St. Faustina and the Divine Mercy message, visit here. For more information about the National Shrine, visit here.

stormy parenthood

I’ve been fortunate as a parent to have never felt competent. From the very beginning I have felt completely out of my league in both knowledge and skill, to say the least of experience. God threw me a curveball from my very first days of motherhood—and I thank Him for it. It brought me to my knees, and I haven’t risen up since.

Most recently, it has been my eldest son who has caused me the most befuddlement and angst (here, I call him Bear). The poor guy is utterly surrounded by women—he’s flanked by sisters, two elder and two younger. His younger brother is only now beginning to want to play and wrestle, but the 7-year age difference will require restraint on Bear’s part for a while. He’s ten years old, and around the same age and stage with his older sisters, I was equally befuddled because they started to change. It was like human plate tectonics—the hormones, the feelings, the body—everything starts to shift and adolescent natural disasters begin to avalanche. Sure, it’s frustrating and tiring, but most of all I begin to feel helpless. I want to help them through this trying stage, but it’s as though I have to get to know them all over again.

Recently, a friend from my parish wanted to get together with some other ladies and pray aloud for each other’s children. I had low expectations going into it, afraid it would be too like long days past at Quaker camp when we would all cry around a campfire while someone played worship songs. But it was surprisingly moving and powerful to listen to a friend pray out loud for my son, and petition God’s assistance in his life and mine as a parent.

In the weeks that followed, I noticed that when Bear had a blow-up or break-down, instead of reacting, somehow I didn’t. Somehow I remained calm. Somehow I listened. Somehow I tried to figure him out in that moment and do what was best for him. I could feel the grace of God in those moments, knew the words I was speaking weren’t my own. The confrontation would end and I would find myself shaking my head, kind of in awe of what just transpired.

Nothing’s permanently fixed, of course. From experience I know that soon we’ll pass through another confusing and trying stage of behavior. Parenting is forever clinging to a lifeboat at sea, constantly feeling out the movement of the ocean, riding each wave as it comes, learning some from experience, but relying mostly on grace.

how much farther?

Walking through dew-lit grass in the early hours of late summer mornings conjures a specific memory for me, and I’m surprised what a hold it still has on my senses. It’s a mix of nerves, dread, and nausea. I played soccer for my formative years, from the ages of five to sixteen, and in the later years of competitive play, training began in August (though unofficially all year). I was never a good or happy runner. There was this one particular run in pre-season training where the last mile was uphill (and was aptly named “suicide hill”). It was through a thickly forested area, which provided some refreshing shade from the August sun. Even so, this part of the run was the worst, the most difficult, the most tiring, the most painful—and it was also when I had no clear idea of where I was in my run—I knew I was towards the end, but how close? And that thought—how much farther?—nearly drove me mad. Other girls were passing me, seemingly energized by the thought that they were almost done, while I felt more discouraged than ever. Their breathless, motivational exclamations as they passed did the opposite of motivate—I wanted to be maliciously clever, but I mercifully didn’t have the energy even to spit.

Then I’d crown the hill, and just like that I was in suburbia, the dark forest behind me, running down the paved road towards the soccer field where most of my team waited (yes, I was usually last), bent over, guzzling water, or lying on the ground in a sweaty mess.

I can honestly say that, while I don’t willingly subject myself to running as an adult, I am grateful for that experience—for the discipline, the drive, and just to know that I could do it and not die. But that moment on “suicide hill”, those aching minutes where I was haunted with the thought of how much farther has come to my mind repeatedly in so many other instances—in labor, in difficult relationships, exhausting days, Job-like years of life—and even annually in Lent. How much farther?

This Lent hasn’t been particularly trying for me, in fact it’s been sprinkled with graces. But the past week has been like trudging through mud. The daily grind of life was grinding me down and I really wanted to hit up my old stand-bys for comfort and sustenance, the very things that I’d given up for Lent (or that I’d given up for life). I’d failed, tripped up under the cross, and felt like an embarrassed child at the foot of Our Lord, half hiding my face, half ignoring Him. To indulge the metaphor, I was stuck on “suicide hill”, only thinking about how hard it was, how much I hurt, and not looking up and ahead towards the finish line.

Yesterday, my family and I trekked an hour and a half north to visit a monastic-community-in-formation. The Maronite monks of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are in the process of building a monastery in Castle Rock, Washington. Their enthusiasm and love for the faith, vocation, Our Lord and thus His people, is infectious and inspiring. Even though I was dreading the drive through a mud-puddled highway and spatially-challenged vehicle, it was well worth every minute of car bickering and the penitential porta-potty.

Aside from the beautiful divine liturgy (which was food for my soul!), the homily, augmented after Mass in Abouna’s announcements, was all about answering, “How much farther?” In short, we’re at Passiontide, only two weeks away from Easter. But the real answer is eucharistia, a word that’s chock-full of meaning. In Greek, it means thanksgiving; for Catholics our Eucharistic feast is an offering of thanksgiving as we receive our Lord’s Body and Blood. As I listened to both priests, I thought of quotes I have on my frig (that I apparently need to be looking at more often) that read, “Gratitude is the root of joy,” and, “Gratitude is the beginning of trust.” As I took the Body of Christ that had been dipped in the Precious Blood, I was reminded to not only make an act of thanksgiving for this Eucharist, but that this was the true sustenance that would help me get through to the end.

Another message of these holy priests that was echoed in today’s readings and a rich homily from our own parish priest, was that as we continue on to the end, not to look back. “Go and sin no more,” Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery. It reminds me of how often Jesus said to paralytics, “Pick up your mat and walk,” as though to say, your half-lived existence is over—go and live fully, sin no more, take your light into the darkness, baptize nations, preach the good news, etc. Lent is the time to renew repentance, and renew the Christian life. Only with eucharistia—with gratitude and the Eucharist—can I accept what has been and have the strength to move on.

Thinking back to “suicide hill” and that run of all runs, I got lost in what I had run to that point. I was overcome by how far I had run, and was sure I couldn’t finish the race. My teammates who passed me were thinking about the finish line, not about the space between.

The answer is not to look behind where lie our failures or even past glory, but to look up and ahead where Christ is raised up on the cross. I have been thinking a lot about two “secular” songs this Lent—“Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails (Johnny Cash’s cover) and “I Can Change” by Lake Street Dive. These songs echo the self-loathing that either precedes repentance and new life, or despair and death. In any perpetuating sin or addiction, it is our past failures that take our eyes off of what’s ahead and concentrate instead on sin. It’s not a lack of knowledge of our shortcoming, but a deafening awareness of it that drowns out hope and chokes our joy. It takes strength and humility to call out to God who is all too eager to wipe out our offenses and give us new life. But if we allow Him to do that, we need to think on it no longer, to keep no record of our failings once they’re offered up in the sacrament of reconciliation, but to be content to “go, and sin no more”, over and over again, until the final race is run.

I for my part do not consider myself to have taken possession. Just one thing: forgetting what lies behind but straining forward to what lies ahead, I continue my pursuit toward the goal, the prize of God’s upward calling, in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3:13-14

finding Jesus in the Temple

What St. John of the Cross describes as “the dark night of the soul” is, as far as I understand it from saints’ writings, a true loss of all consolation, or a sustaining sense of having been abandoned by God. The presence of God, however strong or faint, which had sustained such souls in their vocations, no longer calms their spirit or is their source of strength; they feel quite alone. Most recently, the world was shocked—even scandalized among some groups—to learn of the darkness and silence that had pervaded the spiritual life of the great Mother Teresa, who served God faithfully to the end. The response of holy men and women is not to despair, but to have faith in the darkest time.

Yet one can experience God’s stillness or silence without a dark night of the soul, and it can be unsettling. Though there may not be a temptation to despair, there is a temptation to panic, to act impulsively, or to find consolation elsewhere. Just as Jesus’ time in the desert gives us insight into the trial of temptation, and Jesus on the Cross illuminates the forsakenness of the “dark night of the soul”, an earlier event in His life offers some clarity on that more gentle, but aggravating sense of a loss of His presence.

It’s appropriately labeled a mystery- “Finding Jesus in the Temple”—and the Gospel account can be found in Luke, chapter two . Joseph and Mary head to Jerusalem in a caravan for Passover, and Jesus accompanies them as a boy of twelve. After everything is done according to the law—and undoubtedly beautiful, fruitful moments have passed between Jesus and His parents as they speak of Jerusalem, God’s covenants, and the Mosaic Law—the Holy Family departs. But it turns out Jesus is not with them, and Joseph and Mary are, for three days, left with unimaginable imaginings about their son as they scour Jerusalem for him.

They must have thought they saw him several times, only for their hearts to drop when they realized it wasn’t him. Of course, we know they found him, and in the Temple no less, amazing the scribes with His wisdom. (Some of those scholars must have remembered Jesus when he returned twenty years later.) Both a peace and anxiety must have come over those holy parents—a peace to see Jesus already understanding and fulfilling His mission, and an anxiety that it has begun. What Mary and Joseph felt, thought, and did after that is speculation, or contemplation; we only know what is written in the Gospel account.

Twentieth-century Catholic writers Caryll Houselander and Adrienne von Speyr do just that—they speculate and contemplate what this event meant to the Holy Family. Both writers discuss the trial of trust that Mary and Joseph underwent in those three agonizing days. Von Speyr calls it “the school of noncomprehension”, the act of learning how to surrender one’s intellect in God’s intimate workings. She writes:

        No Christian is spared the collision with God’s ever-greater reality or the blind obedience from man that is included in it and required by it. Christ’s parents, too, must already come to know in their Son the hidden presence of fathomless divine mysteries.

And when His parents confront Him in the temple, Christ still offers no explanation. He only asks, almost rhetorically, “Did you not know I must be about my Father’s business?” This is not a rude retort, but Him pointing the way, the way of not needing to comprehend, but to follow. This is not the first time Mary and Joseph have been asked to obey without comprehension. And they will be asked to do this again, particularly Mary during Christ’s ministry and death, and so preparing all Christians to do the same: obey without comprehension. Through Mary and Joseph’s example, we see it’s not an occasion to grow angry or despair, but is cause for a “greater opening-up of [the] soul to God and, therefore, a new fruitfulness.”

Houselander writes that this story from the Gospel is revealed to us because Mary and Joseph “experienced the loss of the Child because it is an experience which we all have to go through, that our love may be sifted and purified.” Houselander calls this sense of loss “the most universal and most purifying.” She goes on to describe the different ways and circumstances we might experience this sense of loss. She even writes of people who may suffer daily emotional ups and downs, who feel keenly what they perceive to be the loss of Christ’s presence through scruples and irrational guilt—this disposition can walk with Mary and Joseph through Jerusalem.

If it is true that, as Von Speyr writes, “one does not approach the Cross with the understanding but only with the renouncing surrender of comprehension”, then periods of thirsting and seeking—whether from spiritual dryness, doubt, emotional instability, silence in prayer—promise to prepare us for the Cross that unites us to Jesus.

  • Handmaid of the Lord, Adrienne von Speyr
  • Reed of God, Caryl Houselander

St. Joseph, give me your silence

St. Joseph is a quiet saint. For my first several years as a Catholic, his March 19 feast day passed by without my acknowledgment. This wasn’t fair or just on my part because he’d definitely been around in my life. But, like Mary, his brief appearance in Scripture and near-silence left more to the imagination than I was ready to spend on him. Other male saints—like St. John the Apostle, St. Thomas More, St. Isaac Jogues—captured my attention with their accolades and heroism. St. Joseph was just too quiet to notice.

Yet, like Mary, Joseph’s silence in Scripture, coupled with His faithful obedience to God, offer rich food for meditation. As I grow more deeply in my own vocation—where I will not live a life of big heroics like John, Thomas, or Isaac, love them as I do—my attention has turned more and more towards the Holy Family to find the heart of this interior life that spends itself physically in the home, mostly unseen.

Of St. Joseph’s silence, Pope Benedict XVI wrote it is “a silence woven of constant prayer, a prayer of blessing of the Lord, of the adoration of his holy will and of unreserved entrustment to his providence.” In one homily I heard years ago at a local parish, the priest pointed out that Joseph was so prayerful, he could listen to God in his sleep. Pope Benedict XVI also wrote, “Let us allow ourselves to be ‘filled’ with St Joseph’s silence! In a world that is often too noisy, that encourages neither recollection nor listening to God’s voice, we are in such deep need of it.”

It’s so difficult to find actual, physical silence anywhere, particularly in a home. When I had my first baby, there was so much silence that it made me uncomfortable. Whenever she was asleep, I enjoyed the first several minutes of quiet, but wasn’t sure what to do with myself after that; I was so unaccustomed to silence that it made me agitated. Now, with so much to do and so much activity in the house, I would know exactly what to do with that hour of silence.

But there is a silence of the heart that I am praying for the grace to develop, that stillness spoken of in the psalms, the stillness that Jesus asked of the disciples on the stormy sea. Ideally, one would start the day with prayer or Mass, and I used to have such high expectations—a Rosary! Liturgy of the Hours! Wake-up at 4:00 and pray on my knees! Yeah, that never happened. I have settled for a brief morning offering. It orients my heart and mind towards God in a simple, straightforward moment. Evening prayer has gone the same way: I’ve settled for a brief examination, a brief list of gratitude—and honestly, sometimes it’s just a “Glory Be” beside my bed before collapsing. 

It’s the middle of the day that needs so much work. When life doesn’t happen the way I want it to, even simple daily tasks, I get agitated and that stillness is disrupted: if I don’t eat breakfast soon enough, if I have to clean up spilt milky cereal, if my little ones won’t occupy themselves long enough for me to help another child with division, if my toddler is screaming for food while I’m making dinner… the list is generous. If I fail to pray throughout the day—and these are little prayers, little cries and thank-you’s to God—then I grow more and more disgruntled and agitated, and instead of silence, I have a litany of complaints turning over in my head.

The Holy Family couldn’t have been without those daily annoyances. As a carpenter, Joseph must have dealt with the messy business of getting paid, jobs taking longer than anticipated, dissatisfied customers. And like every family, I’m sure they dealt with not having enough food on the table, illness, the circulating village gossip. But they weren’t somber puritans either—they were friendly, generous neighbors who partook in the feasts and festivals of the year. I’m certain they danced. Yet, in all this, they maintained peace and a still readiness before God. I hunger and pray for that.