Mark 10:45

Tag: Saints

  • The Vision of True Faith: Sts. John Fisher and Thomas More

    The Vision of True Faith: Sts. John Fisher and Thomas More

    Genesis 12:1-9; Matthew 7:1-5

    In the story The Emperor’s New Clothes, author Hans Christian Anderson cleverly lays bare not only the emperor but also the human tendency to go along with the crowd. This becomes most obvious near the end of the story, when a child proclaims the truth that all can see but none are willing to admit: “He hasn’t got anything on!”

    In the England of the 16th century, King Henry VIII was emperor and his new clothes were the pretension that he alone held supreme authority over the Church in England. For reasons related to his marriage annulment from Catherine of Aragon it was convenient for him to believe this, and history is clear that those who surrounded the king were like the crowd in Anderson’s story; they knew it was fantasy but called it reality anyway.

    Jesus had a word for them, and he used it in the reading from Matthew: hypocrites. The meaning of the word hypocrite has changed over the centuries. Nowadays we think of a hypocrite as someone who says one thing and does another, but in those days a hypocrite was someone who pretended, like an actor; a person who got along by going along.

    In the reading from Genesis, Abraham went along with God, but there was no pretense. Although to the naked eye he held a promise as invisible as the emperor’s new clothes or King Henry’s pretensions, Abraham was in reality clothed by God in a seven-fold blessing that made him the father of one nation and a blessing for every other nation on earth. Abraham would never live in the Promised Land but he would build an altar there to worship the one, true, and living God.

    This is the vision of true faith; it is the eyes to see the truth and the courage to live out the destiny that beckons, come what may.

    Born of the same faith, this was the same vision given to St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More. When King Henry VIII demanded not a denial of the faith but a redefinition of it, they looked past their earthly king to their heavenly one. Christ was their help and their shield, and it was love for him and his Church that emboldened them to expose the naked ambition of a king who would arrogate to himself the keys of the Kingdom of God. Of course, that kind of courage comes at a cost, but the same courage that compelled them to remain with Christ did not abandon them when their own journey led them up the platform at Tower Hill in London to be executed.

    While we must remember the courage and faith with which these men died, we must never forget that this was same courage and the same faith by which they lived; it is the same faith and courage by which we too must live. In our own time we have heard politicians warn, “Religious beliefs must change.” Henry VIII might have said that. How little things have really changed.

    Like Bishop John Fisher, Sir Thomas More and all holy martyrs, our conscience must choose. Will we be the hypocrite who marvels at the emperor’s new clothes or the child who sees the truth and calls it what it is? The witness of the saints testifies now and for all time that there is only one Emperor; he who shed his vestments at the foot of the cross yet was clothed in the glory to which we all aspire and who comes to us cloaked in a host. Ask him and he will remove the wooden beam from your eye that you may better behold the wooden beam that saved the world.

    St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More, pray for us.

  • The Sanctity of Suffering: Feast of St. Germaine

    The Sanctity of Suffering: Feast of 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, the one whose life most clearly poses that question 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.

    Although 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.

  • Truth Beyond the World: The Feast of St. George

    Revelation 21:5-7; Luke 9:23-26

    When I was a boy my favorite comic book was The Amazing Spiderman. Every month I haunted the drugstore waiting for the next issue. When it finally arrived I’d read it over and over again. It was great fun imagining myself as the quirky yet powerful superhero.

    Although comic books date back only to the 1930’s and 40’s, the kids of bygone eras had something every bit as exciting: The Golden Legend, a classic of the faith from the 13th century, which contained in great and often colorful detail the dashing exploits of the heroes of ancient Christianity.

    Among the most dashing was St. George. Like most saints of the early Church, little is known. He appears to have been a young soldier martyred in Palestine around the year 304. What we do know is that there must have been something especially appealing about him, for he quickly became legendary. The Golden Legend includes a few stories about him, the most familiar being the dragon. Passing through a foreign kingdom and coming upon a princess about to be devoured by a dragon, George slayed the dragon and converted the kingdom to Christ. There is also the amazing story of his martyrdom. Arrested during a persecution of Christians, George was handed over to the torturers. Despite their best attempts, which included beating him literally to pieces, crushing him beneath heavy spiked wheels, and submerging him in molten lead, George miraculously reassembled unharmed. Amazed and inspired by this, the governor’s own wife converted to the faith. Infuriated, he had her executed and George finally martyred by beheading.

    But that’s not the end of the story. If he was powerful in life, St. George was even more so in death. The Legend tells of victories won by soldiers carrying his relics into battle, of healings at his tomb by those placing their hand in it, and of healings of those who touched the chains he wore in prison. His tomb became a place of pilgrimage and churches bearing his name were built as far away as Italy. Little wonder that England, whose Crusaders brought home his story, chose him as its national patron, that a kingdom in the Caucasus mountains was named Georgia in his honor, or that to this day Palestinian Muslims, Jews, and Christians would all honor him and ask his intercession for those suffering from various illnesses. Clearly, St. George became a man of mythic proportions.

    Unfortunately many stumble on the word “myth.” As early as the 5th century, the stories of St. George were dismissed as fantasy. Like some ancient, amazing Spiderman, he was too large for life; his adventures unreal and unrealistic; the product of uneducated, unsophisticated people. A fairy tale.

    They completely miss the point, as Chesterton knew when he said, “Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” Or, to paraphrase the French philosopher Jean-Paul Ricœur, the purpose of myths is not to tell the truth about the world but the truth beyond it. The deeper truth about St. George is written between the lines of the stories, not within them. What matters is not that St. George slayed a dragon but that, in committing to follow Christ, he received the grace to slay the dragons in his own life. Similarly, it doesn’t matter whether he was actually beaten to pieces, crushed by wheels, submerged in molten lead, and miraculously reassembled; the truth is that St. George loved Christ and did what he asked in the gospel; he took up his cross daily and followed him (Luke 9:23), saving his life by quite literally losing it.

    statue-1394654_1920Of course these truths are not reserved to St. George, they are for all of us. In Revelation Christ says, Behold, I make all things new (Revelation 21:5); for that to mean anything, we must ask for the grace to find and slay our own dragons. We all have them; they are the sins we allow to linger, the attachments we find hardest to put aside, and the fear, self-doubt, and self-condemnation that keep us from drawing nearer to God. The fear is real because the pain is real; it is the pain of having our pride beaten to pieces, allowing our bodies to be crushed by illness or infirmity, and submerging ourselves in the depths of humility. Nevertheless, the truth is that if we allow the power of God to work within us, we will experience what even the legend of St. George could never imagine: The joy of being reassembled into the person that Christ has called us from all eternity to be.

    St. George, pray for us.

  • Passing By the Dragon

    Every week I scour the internet and various hard- and soft-bound sources for quotes that I think might make a difference to somebody, somewhere. I know I’m not always successful but I also know for sure that at least once in a while a quote touches someone for the better.

    Well, today’s quote touched me. Some might find it off-putting or unmoving but for whatever reason it’s been running through my head like a mantra. It comes from today’s saint, Cyril of Jerusalem, who knew a little something about the topic and who I think would approve of my selection for the times we now find ourselves in.

    You know what I mean. These are times where people, feeling driven to desperation out of what I can only describe as panic, are depriving each other and themselves of their God-given dignity, fighting over or hoarding such things as bottled water, rolls of toilet paper, canned food, and hand sanitizers.

    St. Cyril once said:

    The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those who pass. Beware lest he devour you. We go to the Father of Souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon.

    The road is life and at every turn the dragon lurks – always hungry, always on the prowl, always ready to devour the unwitting, the arrogant, the unbelieving, the slothful. In one way or another, at one time or another, we are all of these; sometimes of our own free will, sometimes under the compulsion of habit, sometimes the result of forces we cannot name and do not understand, but cannot seem to resist.

    the dragonWhen we think of the dragon we think of the Devil and it is right to do so, for Scripture does refer to him that way (Revelation 12, for example). There is no doubt that the dragon is the Enemy but there is also no doubt that too often the dragon looks back from our own mirror. Worse yet, the victim does too; we allow sinfulness such a hold over us that in effect we devour ourselves, relent to the darker angels of our nature.

    Most recently we have begun to treat the virus as though it were the dragon. That’s easy to understand; insidious, potentially lethal, virtually invisible, it waits not only by the side of the road but perhaps in the air we breathe or the people we touch. That inspires fear, and it should.

    However, it also reminds me of St Teresa of Avila’s words, “I do not fear Satan half so much as I fear those who fear him.” While we are right to fear the virus, we should more rightly fear our own fear of it; fear is the true dragon lurking behind the unloving, self-centered actions we have heard and read about recently.

    How to combat that kind of servile fear? With holy fear. Remember the next part of St. Cyril’s quote. We go to the Father of Souls. It is God whom we most love, God whom we most fear offending. What pleases God is not fear but faith; that we take advantage of the opportunities He has given us to draw closer to Him and each other.

    Where do such opportunities lie in the trial we face today? Right in front of us. First, let us resolve to do the best we can with what we have been given. If the virus prevents us from going out, then we stay in and bring ourselves back to the kind of simpler time that many of us knew as children: Simple, modest home-cooked meals; conversation around the dinner table; recreation time; work time; quiet time. Nothing works to calm those around us like quiet assurance. Second, let us take advantage of the opportunities this sequestered time gives us to get back to the basics of our faith. If the churches are closed to holy Mass they are wide open for Confession. What better time to go than when we feel the dragon near? And what better time to fall on our knees and pray for those who have fallen ill or died and to thank Him that we and so many others have been spared? Finally, we can make this a time to worry less about our own needs and more on those most vulnerable – the elderly, those with small children, those with few resources.

    Fear is not the time to turn away from God but toward Him, for God alone has the power to save. I quoted Cyril of Jerusalem and Teresa of Avila; let me close by quoting our Lord.

    Do not fear: I am with you; do not be anxious: I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand. (Isaiah 41:10)

    The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear? The LORD is my life’s refuge; of whom should I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1)

    It is necessary to pass by the dragon, but no dragon is fearsome in the face of such strength.

  • The True Cornerstone: Memorial of St. Patrick, Bishop

    August 15th, the Feast of the Assumption, fell on a Sunday in the year 1858; that afternoon, a 22 year-old Irish immigrant named Cormack McCall1 may well have watched as a stone that he had cut with his own hands was blessed as the cornerstone of the new St. Patrick’s Cathedral by New York City’s Archbishop John Hughes. Around Hughes stood seven bishops, 130 priests, and 100 choirboys. The crowd was estimated at 100,000 people or more; New York’s entire fleet of streetcars had been diverted to the area just to accommodate them.

    It is an oddity in keeping with St. Patrick that to this day no one knows exactly where the cathedral’s cornerstone is or when it went missing.2 It has sunk into obscurity like the details of the life of the great saint himself. Nevertheless, St. Patrick’s impact on the faith is every bit as real and foundational as the cathedral’s mysterious cornerstone.

    Patrick was similar in a few ways to Israel’s son Joseph, whose life story closes the book of Genesis. Both became slaves in their youth, both were bright and resourceful men of dreams, and both used their gifts not just to endure their captivity but to be victorious over it.

    Of course, there were differences. Unlike Joseph, Patrick was not raised by parents with a strong and vibrant faith; nevertheless, during his captivity he found that his faith was strengthened. Moreover, although both were men of dreams, Patrick focused on one particular vision from his youth and was determined to see it come to fruition. While a slave he had a vision of Irish children reaching out for him and resolved that should he escape he would return and convert the pagan Irish to Christianity. In fact, he did escape and reunite with his family in Britain for awhile; however, Patrick never lost sight of that vision from his youth. Around the year 431, after being ordained in France, Patrick was sent to Ireland as its bishop by Pope Celestine I.

    At first, Bishop Patrick began by supporting the small band of Christians already on the island but was soon evangelizing far and wide, preaching, writing and baptizing countless people. It is ironic that Patrick was so self-conscious of his lack of formal education for as an evangelizer he was brilliant. He understood that the truth of Christ transcends culture, that certain symbols or practices of the pagan people could be imbued with Christian meaning. For example, an ancient pagan image of two crossed lines and a circle was reinterpreted by Patrick as the Cross of Christ with the circle symbolizing the eternity of God. We know it as the Celtic Cross to this day.

    Over the course his years a missionary bishop to Ireland, Patrick truly was a cornerstone of the Irish Church. He installed and supported church officials, created councils, founded monasteries and organized Ireland into dioceses. He died around the year 461 and was buried in the land that he first came to as a slave and to which he returned, faithful to his promise to the end.

    ireland-2184916_640The psalmist must have had Joseph in mind as he sang, they had weighed him down with fetters, and he was bound with chains till his prediction came to pass and the word of the LORD proved him true (Psalm 105:18-19) but it applies to St. Patrick as well. In a larger sense it applies to all of us, for to one degree or another we are all weighed down with the fetters of sin. Many are bound with the additional chains of addiction or illness, either our own or someone we love. Perhaps we have not been given visions or dreams like Joseph or Patrick, but we have been given the vision of Christ, the Eternal Word who proved himself true to the greatest promise ever given mankind: That every fetter would be lifted, every chain broken, every tear wiped away for all those who cling to him as their salvation. As much as they did, as faithful as they were, both Joseph and Patrick humbly bend their knee and fade into the background like an old cathedral cornerstone before the Stone rejected by the builders, the one true Cornerstone who is Christ.

    St. Patrick, pray for us.

  • Holy and Immaculate: Memorial of Our Lady of Lourdes

    Isaiah 66:10-14c; John 2:1-11

    Between 1830 and 1858 the Blessed Mother made three separate visits to France. First in Paris to Sr. Catherine Laboure, whence came the Miraculous Medal and the prayer, “Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.” Next she appeared to two shepherd children near La Salette in the French Alps, where she pleaded for a return to prayer and the Sacraments. Finally and most famously she appeared 18 times to the young teenager Marie-Bernarde Soubirous, also known as Bernadette, near Lourdes in the foothills of the Pyrenees.

    In all these we see that Mary appeared not to the powerful or influential but to the lowly – mostly, to children. Simple, honest, and unsophisticated, they were not interested in either notoriety or personal gain. Indeed Bernadette in her typical, straightforward fashion said, “When I’m dead they’ll come and touch holy pictures and rosaries to me, and all the while I’ll be getting boiled on a grill in purgatory.” Hardly the words of someone looking to sell the book and movie rights.

    Not that she couldn’t have used the money. Those such as Bernadette were not only innocents but familiar with suffering, people who understood poverty of spirit and body. In fact, she first met Our Lady while gathering sticks so that her family, mostly children who would not survive to adulthood, could have some heat in what they called home but everyone else called a musty, abandoned prison block.

    But as Mary knows, home is where the heart is and the heart of the Soubirous family was faith in Christ. Although the prosperity and wealth of nations spoken of in the first reading (Isaiah 66:12) eluded them, spiritual wealth was theirs in abundance. On hearing of the mystical vision in the grotto, Bernadette’s father said to his family, “Let us pray.” He knew that, whether a heavenly vision or one from the lower depths, their only recourse was to fall to their knees. Perhaps this is why Bernadette was chosen; she like Mary was raised from birth to understand that true wealth, true prosperity, comes only from the hand of God.

    This was the same God who said, As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you (Isaiah 66:13), who gave Bernadette visions of his mother, and who defined comfort in her words, “I do not promise to make you happy in this world but in the next.” It is true that Bernadette, who suffered terrible pain in her body in the later years of her short life, never sought the healing waters that Christ gave the world in that little grotto. She knew that Mary had given her the only promise of happiness that means anything: Eternal union with God. This is why Mary constantly urges meditation on the gospel of Christ through the rosary, why she begs the conversion of sinners, and especially why she asks that chapels be built, for there her Son dwells in the complete sacramental fullness of his Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

    virgin-1615390_1920At every apparition Mary is highly honored and rightly so for she is as she said, the Immaculate Conception. But the honor we give her goes far beyond her identity to the two-fold reality behind it. First, Mary points us to Christ. Through the grace bestowed on her by the will of God and her total abandonment to it, Mary has perfectly heeded her own advice: Do whatever he tells you (John 2:5). In this, she is the first and best example of a Christian. Second, Mary points to our own destiny. Like her, we are asked to abandon our will to his, be perfect as the Father is perfect (Matthew 5:28), and so be presented to him holy and immaculate (Colossians 1:22). For this we need neither the water of Lourdes nor the water turned to wine, but that which wells up to eternal life (John 4:14), our Lord Jesus Christ, by whose love wine becomes the blood poured out for the forgiveness of sins (Matthew 26:28).

  • The Law of the Harvest: Memorial of St. Angela Merici

    Hebrews 10:32-39; Mark 4:26-34

    Jonathan Swift once said that vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others. Saint Angela Merici exemplified that art.

    As a child, Angela might well have foreseen a bright future. Born into a middle class family during the Italian Renaissance, Angela and her sister were raised by devoutly Catholic parents who made sure their daughters were well-educated in the faith.

    Listening to their father as he read them stories from the lives of the saints, the girls learned that the road to sanctity was no different for them than it was for anyone else, even the earliest Christians who first heard those consoling words in the letter to the Hebrews. The lesson transcends time and space: Those who choose to love Christ and follow Him wherever He leads learn that the road to sanctity always includes the cross.

    Angela learned this lesson very well. By the time she was 10, both of her parents had died; by 15, her sister was also gone. Some people might have despaired over these great losses, seeing the absence of God, but Angela did not. The seeds of the faith planted by her parents in those early years and watered by the grace of God had taken root within her as surely as the mustard seed which our Lord spoke of in the gospel. Rather than turn away from Christ or the cross, Angela consecrated herself to him as a Third Order Franciscan.

    Just 20 years old, Angela did not wait to find a way to serve. Looking at the society around her, she saw the disorder in it and traced it to disorder in the family. One thing was especially problematic. In Italian society of the time, only the wealthiest girls received any kind of education; the vast majority received little or none. Angela wondered how these girls, the wives and mothers of the future, could ever grow up to be the first teachers of their children in the ways of the faith if the seeds of their own faith withered and died.

    Inspired to action, Angela immediately converted her family home into a school and devoted herself to providing religious education to the young girls of the area. She was gentle, focused on the dignity of each girl as a unique person, and used persuasion over force. This was so effective that she was invited to the larger nearby town of Brescia so that she might more broadly and formally institute the same program throughout the area. Ultimately, Angela would go on to found the Ursulines, an order of consecrated virgins devoted to St. Ursula, whose mission it became to bring religious education to young girls. Her order was so successful that the Pope himself asked Angela to relocate to Rome. She declined, saying that she was devoted to the children of the rural country she called home and wished to remain there. This she did until her death in 1540.

    wheat-field-640960_640Angela Merici was a visionary; she saw what was invisible to everyone else. Where others saw the Italian countryside she saw the Kingdom of God; where they saw poor and middle class girls, Angela saw fertile ground waiting for seed. Christ asked her to sow and she obeyed. He asks no less of us. The Kingdom of God is here and now; the ground is fertile and plentiful. All our actions, for good and bad, fall like seeds into that ground. May we always remember what Saint Angela already knew, as given by the spiritual writer James Allen: “The law of the harvest is to reap more than you sow. Sow an act, and you reap a habit. Sow a habit and you reap a character. Sow a character and you reap a destiny.”

    Saint Angela Merici, pray for us.

  • Heart Speaks to Heart: Sts. Basil the Great and Gregory Nazianzen

    1 John 2:22-28; John 1:19-28

    The first reading begins, Beloved: Who is the liar? Whoever denies that Jesus is the Christ. John seems to be thinking of someone in particular who had strayed from the truth about Christ. This was not uncommon; the early Church was plagued with heretics whose theories about Jesus ran the gamut, from the Ebionites who believed that Jesus was not divine at all, to the Docetists who believed that Jesus was only divine and merely pretended to be human for our sake.

    In the 4th century, one particular heresy took center stage. It was popularized by a priest named Arius, who used Scripture to teach that Jesus, although as close to divine as a human being could be, wasn’t actually divine; he was a creature and therefore less than God. The heresy was appealing; it made sense to people who couldn’t understand how God could die on a cross. Throughout the Christian world, Arianism spread like wildfire.

    At the same time, God was raising up a river to put that fire out. It came in the form of the two men we remember today, Basil and Gregory. Basil was born in what is now central Turkey in the year 330 AD; Gregory was born in the same area nine years later. Both left their native land to go to Athens where, as Gregory would later write,

    We had come, like streams of a river, from the same source in our native land… and were now united… as if by plan, for God so arranged it.

    Indeed, God arranged not just friendship; Basil and Gregory became soulmates. Blessed John Henry Newman used the phrase, cor ad cor loquitur – heart speaks to heart – and that describes these two men. Gregory further wrote

    When, in the course of time, we acknowledged our friendship and recognized that our ambition was a life of true wisdom, we became everything to each other: we shared the same lodging, the same table, the same desires, the same goal. Our love for each other grew daily warmer and deeper… We seemed to be two bodies with a single spirit.

    What united them was their common love of Christ. In the gospel the priests, Levites, and Pharisees also had ambitions; ironically, although Wisdom Himself had dawned upon the world and was so near them, they lived in the darkness of self-absorption and wished only to see that He satisfied their requirements. Unlike them, Basil and Gregory took to heart John’s words when he said, let what you heard from the beginning remain in you. From childhood they were taught the truth about Christ and sought to ensure that they satisfied His requirements. They asked questions of the faith only to see where their own understanding was darkened and prayed that Christ would shed His light upon them.

    United in this purpose, both men poured themselves into their studies and infused their knowledge with the grace of ordination. Gifted by God as powerful writers, orators, theologians, and shepherds, they fearlessly and eloquently defended the Church against Arius and all who opposed the truth that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are a perfect Unity. As Patriarch of Constantinople, Gregory presided over the Council of Constantinople in 381, which completed the Nicene creed that we recite every Sunday. Not only that, both men wrote masterpieces of theology that are studied and used to this day.

    statue-2171097_640Saints Basil and Gregory can teach us many things, but today we focus on two. First, they teach us that faith in God requires true humility. Heresies are born from the pride that sees ourselves as the measure of all things; that interprets our failure to understand the truths of the faith to mean that the truths are wrong. True humility is as John admonished us, to remain in him; to see that God is the measure of all things and that our inability to understand means that we still have work to do. Second, in these days when the word “love” is so easily limited to physical expressions of self-gratification, the love of Basil and Gregory is a shining example of the most uplifting, life-giving love possible between people. This is the love that is modeled on God; that seeks only the good of the other; that finds its union with others in the heart and soul because that is where God dwells, and God is love. This is the love where heart speaks to heart and says, “I want for you what God wants for you.” My prayer is that all of us come to have that love for one another. What a world this would be.

    Saints Basil and Gregory, pray for us.

  • The Song of the Dove: Feast of Saint Stephen

    Acts 6:8-10; 7:54-59; Matthew 10:17-22

    Of all the customs that have ever arisen during the celebration of the Twelve Days of Christmas, perhaps the strangest occurred in the 18th and 19th centuries. Beginning on the Feast of Stephen, young boys in Southern France, Great Britain, and Ireland would hunt and kill a bird; specifically a wren, then display it and parade it around town asking for money.

    It’s hard to understand how this bizarre ritual started or why it was done, let alone how it could continue for two hundred years, but a good dose of superstition was probably involved. In certain places the wren was considered symbolic of priesthood or prophecy. An old Irish word for wren meant “bird of prophecy,” and some Irishmen associated it with a type of pagan priest who foretold the future. Although we have no idea what the poor little bird was supposedly prophesying, one thing is known: The wrens’ song is very loud; allegedly ten times louder than other birds their size. Who knows; perhaps the boys thought they were doing their town a favor.

    In the reading from Acts, the members of the local synagogue may have thought that they were doing their town a favor when they silenced Stephen. But his was the song of the Dove, not the wren. Luke says that Stephen was filled with the Holy Spirit; as Jesus made clear in the gospel, His wisdom cannot be overcome. Like Jesus, the only way to try and silence Stephen was to kill him; it is no coincidence that Luke patterns Stephen’s passion and death after that of Christ. For example, in Luke Jesus tells the Sanhedrin before he dies that from this time on the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of the power of God (Luke 2:69); here, Luke has Stephen say Behold, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God (Acts 7:56).

    snow wrenLike the mysterious sacrifice of the wren, this may leave us curious. Why does the Church take the first day after Christmas to remember the first martyr? The answer lies precisely in the similarity of Stephen’s passion and death to Christ’s. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus; the same Jesus who came not to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many (Mark 10:45). It was in the giving of his life that Christ most profoundly served, for only by the perfect sacrifice of himself could his disciples have hope of being born into eternal life. Thus with Stephen; he could most greatly honor his Savior by imitating him in life even if that meant dying, that he might be born into eternal life with Christ.

    It might seem odd for the Church to see death as the way to honor life; after all, if Church members die, how can the Church survive? That brings up another fact about the wren. Although winter can devastate its population, the bird is extremely hardy; it always finds a way to survive. What is true for the wren is doubly true of the Dove; those who have been graced to speak with the power of the Holy Spirit have been hunted, killed, and displayed for over two thousand years; still, the Church continues to find ways not only to survive but to thrive. In fact, it is the irony of man and the glory of the Holy Spirit that the martyrdom of Stephen gave rise to the greatest come back in Church history. Notice near the end of the first reading, Luke tells us that the witnesses laid down their cloaks at the feet of a young man named Saul (Acts 7:58). Saul, the same man who stood silently by at the death of the first martyr, in time became Paul, the loudest and hardiest wren of all.

    St. Stephen, pray for us.

  • The Three Consolations: Thursday of the 3rd Week of Advent

    Judges 13:2-7, 24-25a; Luke 1:5-25

    I remember once years ago sitting with my mother, watching TV. The shows were full of young people and I jokingly remarked, “I guess no one over 40 can be on TV.” Mom saw no humor in it; she replied, “Our society has no use for us older people, especially women. In their eyes, once we’re past childbearing age we’ve outlived our usefulness.”

    That got me thinking about the Hebrew world of today’s readings. Elizabeth and the mother of Sampson could probably identify with my mother’s feelings. They lived in a culture where barrenness was seen by many as a punishment from God (Genesis 16:2, 20:18). For such women the future was bleak; nothing but loneliness and insecurity to look forward to. No wonder some of them were prompted to despair (Genesis 30:1).

    Especially during seasons such as Advent and Christmas when we exalt the virtue of hope, people still fall prey to the loneliness, depression, and anxiety that lead to despair. Rather than consolation they are in desolation, the sense that God sees our hopelessness yet has abandoned us, left us in the dark, and is never coming back. We cannot see that it is only an inner sense and not the outward reality; the voice of the Prince of Lies telling us we are worthless, that God doesn’t love us and is far, far away. The truth is that God is as near as our next breath and loves us so much that we are worth dying for.

    It is the wait that fools us. If God loves us so much, why do we seem to wait forever for him to answer? The women in the readings must have wondered the same thing. Day after day, week after week, year after year they waited; still no answer. It would have been easy to give up. Yet what does Scripture say? Elizabeth, like her husband, was “righteous in the eyes of God, observing all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blamelessly” (Luke 1:6).

    In other words Elizabeth persevered, and it was this that kept her from falling into despair. This is a lesson for us. We too must not only endure times of desolation but use them to strengthen our spiritual gifts. We cannot learn prudence when the way is always clear, justice when all is fair, fortitude when times are easy, or temperance when we get everything in just the right amount. We cannot strengthen our faith when all is seen, or charity when all is given. In the same way, the virtue of hope grows stronger as we persevere in waiting and through that perseverance appreciate ever more deeply the coming of that which we most long for: Unity with God, the object of our hope. Desolation is not the time to turn away from God but toward him; to reinvigorate our hope in the everlasting joy of heaven. The time is now, for Advent is the definitive season of waiting, when hope longs to be rekindled.

    stained-glass-4522405_640The great gift of fertility given to Samson’s mother and to Elizabeth are confirmation that perseverance is rewarded. God sees all of us who endure desolation and, in his own time and manner, provides from the storehouse of his infinite mercy the life-giving consolation of his Spirit. When we find ourselves in times of desolation remember to ask the intercession of St. Elizabeth; she understands very well not only the pain of endless waiting but also the indescribable joy of the Holy Spirit’s three priceless consolations: The new life of St. John within her womb; the love and help of Mary, the Mother of Hope; and most of all the fulfillment of Hope itself: Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

    St. Elizabeth, pray for us.