Mark 10:45

  • To Hold the Heart of Heaven: St. Paulinus, Bishop

    To Hold the Heart of Heaven: St. Paulinus, Bishop

    2 Kings 22:8-13; 23:1-3; Matthew 7:15-20

    Paulinus was born around the year 354 in France, the son of a Roman governor. Well-educated, eloquent, and from a long line of politicians, it was hardly surprising that he too pursued a political career. He quickly worked his way through the ranks, all the way up to governor of Campagna in Italy, and made a fortune along the way. He married a young lady named Therasia, the daughter of a Spanish nobleman, and soon they were among the wealthiest people in Europe. They seemed to be set for life.

    Although politics was bred into Paulinus, the blood of a poet also coursed through his veins. Unlike the high priest and the scribe in 2 Kings who held the holy book yet couldn’t see its value, he seemed to possess the sacramental vision to see behind the things and events of life to their deeper meaning. The patron saint of that area in Italy was named San Felice, and the governor felt himself being drawn toward the saint and the cult of devotion that surrounded him.

    When Paulinus became a catechumen, this sacramental sense would soon be severely tested. He watched with great joy as his infant son Celsus was born, only to stand helplessly by as the boy died just ten days later.

    We are not given to know the inner workings of grace upon the heart that stir it to conversion. Perhaps Paulinus needed the seeds of his faith to be watered by the tears he shed while burying and mourning the loss of their son. Perhaps he came to understand the futility of eloquence, wealth, and influence when weighed against the value of a single human life. All we know is that, where some would turn in anger away from God in the heat of such a moment, Paulinus drew closer and received the grace of baptism.

    That grace was to have a huge effect. The young couple moved to Spain and systematically divested themselves of their enormous wealth to benefit the poor. According to St. Jerome, it was as if both East and West benefited from their huge donations. In Barcelona, Paulinus was so highly regarded that the people insisted he be ordained to the priesthood. Once ordained, he returned to Campagna in Italy, settling in the town of Nola. There he and Therasia embraced a life of strict asceticism. They even chose to live as celibates in a spirit of true poverty, spending more of their wealth to build and maintain a beautiful basilica dedicated to San Felice, along with a hospice and separate quarters for male and female pilgrims.

    Over time, Paulinus acquired an almost legendary reputation for self-giving. He was even rumored to have sold himself into slavery to pay off the debts of a local woman. No one knows if this is true, but it speaks to the large heart for which he was renowned and not long after made bishop of Nola, a position he held for many years.

    On top of his asceticism and charity, Paulinus developed a deep love for Christ which he expressed in different ways through his poetry. First, although he loved and ministered to all who came to him, in his heart he loved and sought the unity of all people with the church, the Mystical Body, and Christ her head, for he wrote:

    It is not surprising if, despite being far apart, we are present to each other and, without being acquainted, know each other, because we are members of one body, we have one head, we are steeped in one grace, we live on one loaf, we walk on one road and we dwell in the same house.

    Second, he loved meeting Christ in Sacred Scripture, and his poetry draws us into contemplation to this day. For example, let us take a few moments to contemplate the Crucified One in light of his own words that every good tree bears good fruit, as Bishop Paulinus writes:

    Look on thy God, Christ hidden in our flesh.
    A bitter word, the cross, and bitter sight:
    Hard rind without, to hold the heart of heaven.
    Yet sweet it is; for God upon that tree did offer up His life…

    St. Paulinus, pray for us.

  • Twisted Iron: St. Aloysius Gonzaga

    2 Corinthians 9:6-11; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18

    While every death is in some way a loss to the world, there is something especially tragic about the death of a young person. Our thoughts naturally gravitate around that bright future now lost; we think of the wonderful things they might have accomplished, all the lives they might have touched.

    This is no less true for the young man we know by the Latin name Aloysius. Born March 9th 1568, Luigi de Gonzaga had a very bright future. His family enjoyed the kind of power and wealth enjoyed by few. What’s more, as the eldest son, Luigi stood to inherit the wealth of his powerful family.

    His father, a landowner and military commander, molded his son to follow in his footsteps. Almost from the time Luigi was able to walk, he was dressed in armor and went along with father to troop inspections. His father also saw to it that the boy traveled and became very familiar with the aristocracy of the time, perhaps believing that this was the kind of cultural enrichment that would help him learn the ways and wiles of the elite social circle into which he was born.

    If that was his strategy, it backfired. By the age of 16, Luigi had seen enough to know that this lifestyle was not for him. He didn’t want the armor, wealth and power of his family or political enrichment for his own gain; he preferred the armor of God and the wealth and power of his grace that he might be enriched for all generosity (2 Cor 9:11). Luigi saw at an early age what many do not see until years later, if ever: In God, he already had everything he needed. So he sought his father, not to ask his blessing as future head of the Gonzaga family, but to be released to pursue his desire to serve God as a Jesuit missionary.

    It would be understatement to say that Luigi’s father was unhappy to hear this; he was furious. It took him nearly two years but eventually he relented. He may not have become a cheerful giver when it came to his firstborn but he loved his son and respected his resolve. In a letter to the Superior General of the Jesuits he wrote: “I am giving into your Reverence’s hands the most precious thing I possess in all the world.” Once Luigi had signed over the rights of inheritance to his brother, he left home to begin a novitiate with the Jesuits.

    Adapting himself to life as a novice was both easy and hard. As a boy, Luigi had adopted such severe penances that those of the novitiate seemed almost trivial by comparison. True to the words of Christ in today’s gospel, he did not try to draw attention to himself, but his asceticism was noticeable. St. Robert Bellarmine, his spiritual advisor, counseled him to eat more, pray less, and become more a part of community life. This was hard for Luigi, for although he was pious he was also stubborn. Nevertheless, he took the advice, saying “I am a piece of twisted iron. I entered religious life to get twisted straight.”

    Part of his duties included hospital service and at that time an outbreak of the plague struck Rome. Aloysius confessed to his advisor that serving these patients was extremely difficult for him, yet he let no one else know and gave himself over entirely to the work. Despite precautions, he contracted the disease and after a courageous battle, died at the age of 23.

    St. Aloysius would not want us to mourn his early passing; indeed, he would tell us that he hadn’t lost a future, he had gained an eternity! Through him we learn that what matters isn’t the length of time we are given on this earth but how we use it. He would urge us to do as the readings counsel: Sow bountifully, give cheerfully, pray and fast without fanfare or notoriety, and in all things give thanks to God.

    blacksmith-2371002_640This may sound easy but we know it isn’t, for we too are twisted iron. Perhaps we can’t enter religious life to get twisted straight but we can enter into the silence of our thoughts and the privacy of the confessional to learn how to deal with the sins that are holding us back. Whatever they are, the example of St. Aloysius shows us that while change may be difficult or painful, it is possible.

    The keys for us are the same as for him: Humility and docility. Humility is that poverty of spirit by which we come to see that only God has all we need, and docility is the teachable spirit through which we open ourselves to the instruction that fosters change within us. These are the virtues which, through constant practice, the grace of God gradually works to soften and straighten the iron of our self-will.

    St. Aloysius, pray for us.

  • Conquer by Yielding: Monday of the 11th Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Corinthians 6:1-10; Matthew 5:38-42

    Centuries ago, the Vikings sailed their warships down from the north, onto the coasts and into the rivers of Europe. Although they didn’t discriminate much, one of their favorite targets was the Church. They quickly learned that her monasteries and buildings not only held great riches but were the homes of religious men and women who offered virtually no resistance at all.

    Eventually the Vikings tired of their pilgrimages south to plunder and decided to settle in Europe. The French bought them off by giving them a large tract of land known still as Normandy, named after the Norsemen. The first Normans were pagans and scoffed at the religious ways of the Europeans but over time their children and their children’s children, raised in those ways, became not only fierce warriors but also devout Catholics. In fact, at least one historian has referred to the Norman armies as the “Pope’s marines.”1 Not only that, but Normandy became a place of great monastic reform within the Church.

    It’s paradoxical but also one of the great strategies for ultimate victory in battle. It is ancient, known even to Ovid, the Roman poet of Christ’s time who wrote, “Yield to him who opposes you; by yielding you conquer.”

    That is what Christ commands in today’s gospel. Conquer by yielding. Measure his words: offer no resistance to one who is evil. He does not advocate losing, giving in, or even passive resistance. He advocates no resistance at all. Offer the other cheek; give your cloak and your tunic; go two miles when asked for one; give when asked. An adversary is powerless in the face of this. What difference does it make how hard a river wave strikes a reed if the reed bends at a mere ripple? One slender reed that bends renders the entire power of the river useless.

    There is pain in the bending. Jesus doesn’t say that yielding is easy or pain-free. In the first reading, St. Paul recounts the many ways it hurt him: afflictions, hardships, constraints, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, vigils, fasts (2 Corinthians 6:4-5). Not a path for the faint of heart. Yet consider the alternative; when fighting a vastly superior force, is resistance easier and a guarantee of victory? Indeed, just as we all know how trees that cannot bend in the wind will break, we’ve all felt the pain and futility of trying to conquer the worst enemy of all: our own will. Think how often our own resistance has been so easily overcome.

    Now consider what it means to yield to the superior forces of temptation and evil around us. It doesn’t mean to give in, for that would be losing. No, to yield is to have the humility to acknowledge that these forces are more powerful than I, so I must rely on the greatest power, the Holy Spirit. St. Paul also lists the benefits of that: purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, unfeigned love, truthful speech (2 Corinthians 6:6-7). These are the gentle, God-given strengths available to us; although they take time to cultivate and develop, even the largest boulder is smoothed and worn down over time by a gentle stream.

    viking-1114632_640It took a long time – generations – but the Church in Europe triumphed even over the seemingly invincible Vikings. I say “seemingly” for we who hear the words of Christ in the gospel know that in reality the Vikings never had a chance. All they had were swords, brute strength, and a fierce warrior spirit; what is that against the gentle, persistent, indomitable power of God? Through the ministers of the Church, the Spirit of God flowed over that mighty Norman rock and carved it into a force that would defend and promote the faith they once mocked for yielding so easily.

    The key to victory then and now is patient endurance. We may know it as the virtue of ‘long-suffering,’ and for this virtue we must constantly pray. Long-suffering requires tremendous strength but it is the strength born of hope, hope in that one great victory promised by Christ who, envisioning his own redemptive passion, death, and resurrection said through the evangelist John, In the world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have conquered the world (John 16:33).

    1 Crocker III, H.W. (2000). Triumph: The Power and the Glory of the Catholic Church. New York: Three Rivers Press, p. 160.

  • The Sanctity of Suffering: St. Germaine

    2 Corinthians 5:14-21; Luke 10:29-37

    Of all of life’s difficult questions, perhaps the most challenging concerns suffering. It can be put very simply: Why do good people suffer? Of all the saints whose life most clearly poses that question it is the young girl known as St. Germaine.

    She was born Germaine Cousin in 1579 in Pibrac, a small village in south central France. When Germaine was just a baby her mother died. Laurent, her father, soon married a woman named Hortense who for some reason intensely disliked Germaine. It may have been because Germaine was born with a deformed arm, prone to illness, and suffered from a disease that caused unsightly, discharging lesions on her neck.

    Under the pretense that she might infect others, Hortense insisted that the little girl live outside, either in the unheated barn or under the stairs. So, Germaine slept on mat, was given only table scraps to eat, and never owned a pair of shoes. By the age of five, Hortense forced her to work every day shepherding sheep or spinning a quota of wool, a difficult task given the deformity of her arm. Regardless, failure meant starvation. As if all this weren’t enough, neighbors saw her stepmother regularly beating the child.

    Her one consolation was also the greatest; Germaine loved our Lord and His Mother. Denied a formal education, she taught herself enough about the faith to receive First Communion. She loved adoring and receiving Our Lord in the Holy Eucharist and never missed daily Mass even though this meant leaving the flock, which she innocently and simply entrusted to the Good Shepherd. No harm ever came to it. She loved to pray the rosary and would fall to her knees to recite the Angelus at the sound of the bells, no matter where she was. The other children noticed Germaine’s piety and would gather around her to listen as she taught them about Jesus and Mary.

    Adults also noticed but dismissed her as either a lunatic or religious fanatic. Still, no one could deny her charity. Even though all she had to eat was bread, she gave it to the poor whenever she came upon them. When some townspeople witnessed the waters of a local stream part for Germaine on her way to holy Mass, everyone began to realize that God was specially present to this starved, frail, abused young girl.

    Once this news reached her family, they began to repent. Her father finally put a stop to his wife’s abusive behavior and offered his daughter a place at home with the other children. In her humility, Germaine begged to be allowed to remain outside and it was there, early in the summer of her 22nd year, that her father found her. She had passed away during the night, lying on her bed made of twigs.

    The life of St. Germaine is so compelling, so heartrending that we cannot help but ask again: Why would God allow such suffering to happen? I think that before we focus on God, we should use the story of St. Germaine to take a deeper look inside ourselves.

    First, we cannot blame God for the suffering we willfully inflict on each other. Of her own free will, Hortense banished Germaine from the house, starved her, overworked her, and beat her. While few of us have ever gone this far, we have all found ways to hurt others. In anger, pain, or frustration, we’ve banished people from our lives, starved them of affection, demanded too much from them, and even been verbally abusive toward them. Like Hortense, they may be some of the people closest to us.

    Then there is the suffering we don’t cause but also don’t do anything about. Laurent stood idly by for years and allowed his wife to abuse his daughter. On top of this, neighbors watched in silence as Hortense physically abused Germaine. They may have thought it was none of their business, but the parable of the Good Samaritan reminds us that the true neighbor is the one who shows mercy (Luke 10:35-37). Again we must ask ourselves how we are Good Samaritans to the hungry, sick, addicted, imprisoned – all the needy of our time.

    Finally and most mysteriously, there is suffering that just seems to happen. No one caused Germaine’s birth defect, frailty, or skin disease. We look to God and wonder why He would allow anyone to suffer like this.

    fire-8837_640Although we cannot know the answer in this lifetime, the example of this little saint gives us some insight into it. St. Germaine did not endure suffering, she triumphed over it. Suffering was not a test given to her but a means through which she might glorify God and sanctify herself. No one likes to have misfortunes or hardships come their way, but how would virtues such as fortitude, patience, humility, or long-suffering develop without them? Without virtue, the terrible conditions in which Germaine found herself would have been a living hell; with them, they became a sanctifying fire. Thus, it was not anger or revenge but love of Christ that impelled her (2 Corinthians 5:14); for the sake of that love she drew closer to Him and in imitation of it she brought others to Him. Such is the marvelous, inscrutable way of God that Germaine would become the instrument by which Hortense herself, the source of so much of her suffering, would repent and be converted.

    Let the example of St. Germaine always remind us that we are not defined by what we’ve been given but by what we give; not by who we are but by who we become; and not by our suffering but by our God-given dignity.

    St. Germaine, pray for us.

  • The Teachable Spirit: St. Anthony of Padua, Priest and Doctor of the Church

    1 Kings 21:1-16; Matthew 5:38-42

    The readings today remind me of Winston Churchill’s observation that “we make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.” In the reading from 1 Kings, we see how hardness of heart leads Ahab and Jezebel to become possessed by possessions. The more they desire them, the more they are owned by them. In the gospel, Jesus teaches the opposite; the docile or teachable heart has learned that faith is the only valuable possession. The more that faith is given away in a spirit of Christ-like charity, the more we enrich others and the more it abounds.

    Few people better exemplify the wealth of docility, charity, and faith than the man known to us as St. Anthony of Padua. He was born Fernando Martins de Bulhões on August 15, 1195 into a wealthy family living near Lisbon. When he was 15, he entered the nearby Augustinian monastery of St. Vincent. Although he loved the monastic life, friends and family proved too much of a distraction. He moved to the Abbey of the Holy Cross in Coimbra, where he immersed himself in theology and Latin, fell in love with Scripture, and was ordained a priest.

    Several years later, Father Fernando met 5 missionaries from a new order called the Franciscans. They were traveling to Morocco to preach the gospel. Father was moved by their simplicity, poverty, and zeal. Just a few months after meeting them, he watched as their martyred remains were carried past the abbey toward Assisi. Perhaps he contemplated Christ’s words, When someone strikes you on your right cheek, turn the other one to him as well, for he resolved then and there to become a missionary to Africa and literally become the other cheek. He received permission to enter the Franciscans, took the name Anthony after the great hermit Anthony of the Desert, and set out as a missionary to Morocco.

    But it was not to be. Upon his arrival in Africa, Father became so ill that he was forced to return home. Yet Portugal was not to be, either; while en route, a violent storm blew their ship so far off course that they reached shore in Sicily. Upon his recovery, Father was sent to a small town north of Assisi where he worked and lived quietly in the background at the local Franciscan friary.

    Yet again the hand of God intervened. During a celebration at which a group of Dominicans had joined the Franciscans, each order assumed that the other would provide a speaker. When no one stepped forward, Anthony was ordered to say a few words. His eloquence, charisma, and depth of Scriptural knowledge stunned everyone in the room. Not surprisingly, he was ordered to preach throughout the area. Father Anthony was so personable, eloquent, and effective that St. Francis himself asked him to be the first theology instructor to the Franciscans.

    Father soon became Provincial Superior of the Franciscans in northern Italy, but also made time to preach and to organize his sermons into volumes that are of great value to this day. Upon finishing his term as Provincial, Anthony went to live near Padua. About a year later, he died at the city gates on June 13, 1231. He was 36 years old. The reigning pope, Gregory IX, had heard Father preach and nicknamed him the “Ark of the Testament.” Miracles attributed to Anthony’s intercession led to his canonization the next year, one of the fastest in history.

    In the gospel, Jesus told his disciples: Should anyone press you into service for one mile, go with him for two miles. St. Anthony’s life echoes with the lesson that such great charity does not require understanding, it requires a teachable spirit. God knows the plan he has in mind for us; we simply have to listen and learn. This can be hard, especially when we think that we’re already doing exactly what God wants. Again, consider St. Anthony: Serving in the monastery was good, but he was sent away to study. Serving as an Augustinian was good, but he was called to the Franciscans. Serving as a missionary willing to die for love of the gospel was good, but he was kept alive and sent to Italy instead. Serving quietly and in the background at the friary was good, but he was sent to preach to the people and to teach and lead his brothers. In every case, what Anthony was already doing was good; yet in every case, he faithfully responded to the call and gave it all he had.

    statue-2695581_640No one can give what they do not possess. Father Anthony possessed great faith and great charity, but what transformed him from service in an Augustinian monastery to service as one of the greatest preachers and teachers of the faith was his love of Christ, shown in his constant willingness to discern and pursue the call of Christ in his life as well as his desire to keep Christ at the center of his life. As he once so eloquently said, “If you preach Jesus, he will melt hardened hearts; if you invoke him he will soften harsh temptations; if you think of him he will enlighten your mind; if you read of him he will satisfy your intellect.”

    St. Anthony of Padua, pray for us.

  • Perfect Love: Memorial of Blessed Diana d’Andalo (June 9)

    1 John 4: 11-21; Matthew 19:16-26

    The readings today speak in different ways of love and fear. First, John reminds us that because God is love (1 John 4:16), we who desire to know Him and share in His life must love God and each other as God loves: perfectly. We remain in His love through faith in Christ and the working of the Spirit and, as love comes to perfection, fear subsides; for perfect love casts out all fear (1 John 4:18). This sounds wonderful, and it is, but it isn’t easy. We see that in the gospel. The rich young man loved God but he didn’t know Him; lacking the eyes of faith he looked at Jesus and saw not the Lord but a teacher who asked of him what he most feared to give: his wealth. No wonder he went away sad; he allowed fear keep him from the perfect love Christ offered.

    Today’s saint, Blessed Diana d’Andalo, probably understood that man as well as anyone. Born around the year 1201 in northern Italy, Diana was the 5th child of Octavia and Andalo de Lovella. Andalo means “Little Andrew,” but even if her father was small in stature, he was larger than life. Mayor of a mountainous district of Bologna, Andrew was a powerful, wealthy, and influential man, both warrior and statesman.

    Diana emerges in the annals of history at the age of seventeen. She is described as good, intelligent, brave, sympathetic, and resourceful but also spoiled, vain, worldly, obstinate, and not overly pious. Like her father, Diana preferred to give orders, not take them. Finally, like most wealthy young socialites, she loved the finer things in life – dresses and jewelry – and enjoyed the pursuit of pleasure.

    While she pursued pleasure the Holy Spirit pursued her. He made His first inroads into her heart through the missionaries visiting Bologna from the newly-formed Order of Preachers, the Dominicans. She loved listening to them for they intrigued her, but what interested her most was their results. They were converting people in great number.

    At the right moment the Spirit made His move in the person of Blessed Reginald of Orleans, a French Dominican sent to Bologna to preach. He had a way about him, a charism for preaching that attracted people. He captivated Diana. As he spoke about the pride, vanity, and worldliness infecting society she felt his words, like Christ’s to the rich young man, bringing her face to face with her own sinfulness.

    The fire of enlightenment is one thing, the fire of purgation another. Like the man in the gospel Diana had a choice to make: Draw near to the Light of the World and endure His cleansing fire or retreat into the darkness of her old, familiar ways. The rich young man had made his choice; Diana, hers. She resolved to give her life to Christ as His bride.

    Although this was certainly the right choice, she soon learned that it was no guarantee of easy times ahead. As was the custom, Diana asked her father’s permission to leave home and take the habit of the Dominicans. Having a husband in mind for her, he said no. Greatly disappointed but undeterred, she left home to do it anyway. Her brothers rode to the convent and, when she resisted, dragged her away with such force that they broke one of her ribs. Back at home and in physical and spiritual pain, she spent a year begging her father’s permission, then once more eloped to the convent. This time her father relented and Diana was received into the order by St. Dominic himself.

    She could overcome her father’s will; could she overcome her own? Recall that Diana liked being in charge and giving orders. She was comfortable when appointed prioress of the convent but when it became clear to her advisor that leadership was not among her gifts, obedience was a bitter pill to swallow. What she thought or felt about this we cannot know; she left no record and died at the age of 36. But from contemporaries we learn that Diana used this time to pray tirelessly, accept direction enthusiastically, and become a model of humility. An ancient biographer wrote:

    Profoundly humble, she thought herself the least of all and saw to it that she wore the poorest habit. She loved to keep in the background [and was] possessed by the spirit of poverty, completely detached from the goods of this world…1

    How far she had come from that spoiled teenager in love with the finer things of life!

    jesus-284515_640The life of Blessed Diana d’Andalo shows us that to those docile to His promptings the Holy Spirit will show both the greatness and the folly inside ourselves. Diana’s folly lay in the selfishness and will to dominate that has plagued mankind since it first heard the voice that whispers You can be like God (Genesis 3:5). Her greatness lay in her steadfast determination to conquer any enemy, especially herself; to cast aside all fear, remain in God’s love, keep faith in Christ, and abandon herself to the power and working of the Holy Spirit, that her love for God and her neighbor may be made as perfect as possible.

    Blessed Diana d’Andalo, pray for us.

    1From Georges, N., OP, STL. Blessed Diana and Blessed Jordan of the Order of Preachers. Available online at http://opcentral.org/resources/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/dijolives.pdf, p 87.

  • The Pursuit of Happiness: St. Norbert, Bishop

    Matthew 5:1-12

    The deacon is ordained in persona Christi Servi, in the person of Christ the Servant, and the priest in persona Christi Capitis, in the person of Christ the Head. Those who aspire to these orders are first called to deep reflection and discernment, to determine whether they are called to live as Christ lived, in service and self-denial.

    Reflection, discernment, service, self-denial; these are not words that one would have used to describe the man who would become Saint Norbert. Born in Germany in the year 1080 into a wealthy and influential family, Norbert was an intelligent and sophisticated young man, but was also worldly, shallow, and spoiled. He had studied for ordination, but found that he liked less responsibility and more fun, so he was content to remain a subdeacon. Ordination was for other people; Norbert enjoyed being served far too much to even consider the thought of serving.

    One summer day this 30 year-old bon vivant started out for a nearby town in his usual pursuit of pleasure, along with one his servants. Caught in a sudden, violent storm, his horse startled at a nearby thunderbolt. Norbert was thrown and knocked unconscious. Coming to, he sensed the presence of God and called out, “Lord, what would you have me do?” A verse from Psalm 34 began running through his head, “Turn away from evil and do good: seek after peace, and pursue it.”

    For the first time in a long time, Norbert began seriously reflecting on his life.

    We read in Matthew’s gospel that once Jesus was seated on the mountain, his disciples came to him. After his own divine encounter in that rainstorm, Norbert also came to Christ. Perhaps he even recalled him saying, Blessed are the poor in spirit, because when he returned home, Norbert signed away his wealth and spent the next two years preparing for ordination to the diaconate and priesthood.

    The grace of Holy Orders worked wonders within him. This newly humbled man was a great preacher. What’s more, his own conversion kindled in him a desire to reform other clerics who were now living the same high life that he once enjoyed. He would have good reason to remember Christ’s words, Blessed are you when they insult you, for many of these men had known Norbert for a long time and strongly resented his deep and newfound piety. These bitter and resistant clerics heaped insults upon him; one of them even spat right in his face.

    Yet, Norbert knew that Jesus also said, Blessed are the meek. He bore every insult without resentment and offered it all up in reparation for his own sinfulness. His reward would be to inherit the land twice over. First, Norbert’s work bore so much fruit that he was asked to spread reform across both France and Germany. Second, he was given land at Premontre in France to build his first monastery. On Christmas Day 1121, he established with his growing band of followers the order known as the Premonstratensians, also called the Norbertines.

    Norbert had turned from evil to do good; next he would seek after peace. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. This may have been his greatest work. He combined his intellect and social skill with the grace of his office and became famous for finding ways to broker peace where many thought it impossible. His reputation as a peacemaker was unparalleled in his time.

    arabs-1367173_640Norbert did not become a saint because he fell off a horse and heard a Scripture verse; he became a saint because he took a hard look at himself and realized that he had no idea what happiness is. Happiness is beatitude, or eternal union with Christ. As a young man he once aspired to imitate Christ through Holy Orders, but when that life looked difficult and a worldly one much easier, he allowed himself to settle for less. We aren’t so different. In our own spiritual lives, we sometimes try to draw closer to Christ by setting some new and ambitious goal, only to find how hard it is to do in practice. Like Norbert, we end up settling for less and allowing other more worldly things to come between us and a closer union with God.

    The beatitudes teach us that Jesus did not suffer and die so that we might settle for less. God desires only our happiness, and that means union with him. The example of Saint Norbert shows us that true union with God means becoming what we were meant to be and what Christ already is: poor in spirit; mourning our sins; meek; hungry and thirsty for righteousness; merciful; clean of heart; a peacemaker; willing to be insulted and persecuted out of love for his Father and for us. Jesus settled for no less than the cross because he wanted no less than our resurrection. May we desire no less than to be like him, that we may be with him, our one true happiness.

    Saint Norbert, pray for us.

  • True Charisma – The Feast of the Visitation

    Romans 12:9-16; Luke 1:39-56

    They call it stage presence in the theatre; in movies, star quality. We may know it as charisma, or perhaps in French as je ne sais quoi. By whatever name, it is that “certain something” that some people seem to be born with and others long to acquire, that ability to command attention from the moment they step into the scene. Today, as we meditate on the scene in Sacred Scripture we call the Visitation, we see that even from the womb our Blessed Lord has the ability to make his presence felt.

    Of course, the first to feel the presence of Christ is Mary, his mother. Paul reminded us in the first reading that we are to let love be sincere… to love one another with mutual affection; anticipate one another in showing honor (Romans 12:9-10). Soon after learning that she is pregnant with the Son of God, Mary goes “in haste” to visit Elizabeth, pregnant with His forerunner. The most sincere love, the deepest honor Mary could show, was to bring her the very presence of Christ. This is what mission in the Church has always been: the desire to bring Christ to people and allow Him to move them in His own inscrutable ways.

    John is the first to be moved, and that literally. Research shows that infants of his age in the womb hear and react to all kinds of sounds around them. For John, already gifted with great sensitivity to the divine presence, the mere sound of Mary’s voice was enough to animate him and send him into ecstasy. From the moment he was filled with the Holy Spirit, John became the epitome of St. Paul’s words, Do not grow slack in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord (Romans 12:11). John would serve Christ to the death.

    Mary’s greeting also moved Elizabeth. When St. Paul said, Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer (Romans 12:12), it almost seems as if he was thinking of her. For many years Elizabeth endured the affliction of barrenness; nevertheless, as a righteous daughter of Aaron she also persevered in prayer (Luke 1:5-7). Now, she reaped the reward of rejoicing in the presence of Christ who is Hope and filled with the Holy Spirit was privileged to be the first to call Mary the Mother of our Lord (Luke 1:43).

    virgin-mary-2234532_640The first reading closes with this exhortation from St. Paul: Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Have the same regard for one another; do not be haughty but associate with the lowly; do not be wise in your own estimation (Romans 12:15-16). What better or more fitting words are there to describe her whose very soul rejoices in God, her Savior? In the fullness of the grace bestowed on her as a singular gift of God and there visiting Elizabeth and pregnant with the Christ-child, Mary is the very answer to the question Nathanael would ask, “Can anything good come from Nazareth (John 1:46)?” Anything good, indeed! Only she, who by her fiat consented to bring the world Goodness itself; she, not wise in the world’s estimation yet wise enough to leave us with the best advice a mother could tell her children, Do whatever he tells you (John 2:5).

  • A Love Song To Christ For the World: Wednesday of the 6th Week of Easter

    Acts 17:15, 22 – 18:1; John 16:12-15

    Music has been an important part of my life for many decades. I grew up with the sounds of music in the house; Mom loved the Irish songs of her childhood and Dad the classical and big band music of his. As I grew up and learned how to play the guitar I began to compose and sing my own music, which reflected my own passions and influences. I devoted more and more time to learning how to compose and gradually became daring enough to share my songs with others.

    When I was 20, I met a young woman about my age who wanted to hear my music. I invited her over and, with my heart beating almost into my throat, sang a couple of my songs. When I finished she asked, “Have you written anything without God in it?” I hadn’t. Clearly uninterested but very polite, she excused herself and that was the last I ever saw of her.

    Over the ensuing years I sent my music to every Catholic music publisher I could find. Every one of them replied with similar notes: “Thank you for sending us your songs. They are very pretty but do not fit in with our plans.” Once, one of my songs made it into a “second review” process, having passed the first level of reviewers, but eventually it too was rejected; although very lovely, it “didn’t fit in with their plans.” I gave up on publishers and instead played my songs for music directors at their parishes. As you might guess by now, more polite rejection. It became clear to me that no matter how inspired I thought my music was, no matter how badly I wanted it to move people or give them a deeper love for Christ, I was in the vast minority.

    Paul was in the minority when he came to Athens. Though a shadow of its former self, Athens was still the center of learning and the place to go for the pursuit of philosophical truth. Philosophers are lovers of wisdom, that’s what the word means, but Paul had something more to give them for Christ is no mere lover of wisdom; Christ is Wisdom. So Paul went into Athens and, in the face of a pagan public, preached the truth he had received directly from the Truth Himself.

    As we heard, Paul was rejected, rebuffed; told no matter how politely that his message “didn’t fit in with their plans.” We could focus on the pain or discouragement that we might feel for being rejected – and I have done that many times – but if we do, we miss the larger lesson. Those who are called to proclaim the gospel are to do so in the pattern of Christ: To call, to invite, even to challenge, but never to force people. This is exactly what Paul did; whether in Athens or elsewhere, everyone who heard him was free to accept or reject the gospel.

    Paul certainly felt the pain of rejection; his letters speak of it at times. Yet those same letters have been read for literally thousands of years; untold billions of people have found their hearts moved to the point of conversion by words he wrote with no such purpose in mind. The purpose was not his, it was Christ’s. That much Paul did understand. He knew that the message belonged to Christ who called him to bring the gospel to the world and who had a plan that far exceeded anything he or any of the Apostles could have ever imagined. It was this understanding that drove all of them onward, not the blessings of security and success.

    Little has changed since then. On the one hand, the modern world is at heart no different from ancient Athens; it still tends to go its own way, to call “truth” whatever is convenient to it and reject however politely whatever doesn’t fit into its plans, including the reality of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection. On the other hand, God is also no different and His is the only plan that matters: the plan of the Father, the Eternal Word Jesus Christ, and the power and working of the Holy Spirit. And even though the fear of rejection by the world also remains the same, so does the fact that every one of us who call ourselves His followers have by virtue of our baptism and confirmation received the infinite power of grace to overcome all fear.

    boy-984293_640Leaving Mass, the priest or deacon will say, “Go and announce the gospel of the Lord,” or “Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.” This is our mandate, our call. We have each been given our own unique gifts, not meant only for ourselves. However we do it, our lives are to be a love song to Christ for the world. That our song may be rejected isn’t important. What matters to God is that we sang it for everyone to hear.

  • I Stand at the Door and Knock: Monday the 6th Week of Easter

    Acts 16:11-15; John 15:26-16:4a

    There is a very popular painting called The Light of the World by the artist William Holman Hunt. You’ve probably seen it, you may even have a copy. It is an image of Christ holding a lantern and knocking on the door of a house.

    In the gospel reading, Jesus told the Apostles that the synagogue doors would soon be closed to them. This did much more than just cut off their means of worship. For Jews, the synagogue was the center not only of religious life but social life as well. The Apostles, their families, friends, neighbors, and co-workers spent their entire lives within the confines of Judaism and the synagogue. Expulsion meant a total separation from the only way of life they had ever known.

    Yet God never closes one door without opening another; if the doors of Jewish society were closing, the doors of Europe were about to open. In Chapter 16 of Acts, we read that (d)uring the night Paul had a vision. A Macedonian stood before him and implored him with these words, “Come over to Macedonia and help us” (Acts 16:9). So it was that Paul and his companions arrived at Philippi. They would find very few Jews; Philippi’s residents were mostly descended from Roman soldiers settled there in retirement by Augustus Caesar about 80 years earlier. That is why Paul went to a local river; lacking a synagogue, the Jews and God-fearers would gather for prayer there because they needed water for ritual washing.

    As Paul spoke on the river bank in Philippi, a Gentile woman named Lydia listened, and the Lord opened her heart to pay attention to what Paul was saying (Acts 16:14). After she and her household welcomed Christ into their hearts through the waters of baptism, they welcomed Paul and the others into their house. We take church buildings for granted, but in those early days Christians had nowhere to meet for worship, instruction, and fellowship. Thanks to Lydia and her family’s generosity, the Christians at Philippi now had a house of worship.

    Earlier, I referred to the painting of Christ knocking on the door of a house. Some people miss the fact that the door in the painting has no handle on the outside. The door to the human heart opens only from the inside. God could deliver Paul and his companions to Philippi, he could put the words in their mouths, even put them in her ears, but Lydia’s heart could only be opened by an act of her own free will in cooperation with grace.

    glass-door-861007_1280Love is also an act of the will, and to love like Christ requires cooperation with divine grace. This is the love that we are all called to; the love constantly reaches out even to those who push it away; that speaks of healing even to those content only to wound; that speaks of light even to those who love the darkness; that echoes to our neighbor the same words that inspired the artist to paint that famous image of the true Light of the World knocking on the door of our heart: Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, then I will enter his house and dine with him, and he with me (Rev 3:20).