Mark 10:45

Tag: Virtue

  • Sheep and Shepherd: St. Augustine of Canterbury

    Sheep and Shepherd: St. Augustine of Canterbury

    1 Thessalonians 2:2b-8; Matthew 9:35-38

    During a parish mission years ago the homilist asked the congregation, “Do we live the Christian life as sheep or shepherds?” At the risk of oversimplifying, his point was that being a true follower of Christ requires us to be both. Key moments from the life of St. Augustine of Canterbury beautifully illustrate that point.

    The first occurred on the French side of the English Channel in the late 6th century. Reality had taken hold; Augustine, the leader of a group of 40 Benedictines sent by Pope Gregory the Great to re-evangelize England, learned from the locals that across those choppy waters lived not only pagan but also hostile Germanic tribes. If they landed, they stood an excellent chance of being killed.

    So at that moment, was Augustine a sheep or shepherd? We might think “sheep” when we hear that he sent men back to the Pope to ask if the mission should be abandoned. Is he a coward? Shouldn’t he obey orders no matter what? Perhaps, but perhaps it’s prudent for a sheep to pause if he thinks he’s walking off a cliff. Better still, perhaps as the shepherd of 40 missionaries it would be foolhardy to blindly go forward if the pope did not know what Augustine now knew.

    Like the balance between sheep and shepherd, the virtues are also a balance, in this case a balance between extremes. For example, courage is the virtuous balance between cowardice on the one hand and foolhardiness on the other. Knowing the balance is one thing, finding it another. We need the grace of God to do this; to face down our fear of rejection, failure, inadequacy, or harm. St. Paul knew this; in the first reading he says, We drew courage through our God to speak to you the Gospel of God with much struggle (1 Thessalonians 2:2). Augustine was graced with courage in abundance, for when he received the reply that Gregory wished them to set sail, he immediately did so.

    His courage was rewarded. They landed in southeastern England, which was ruled by King Ethelbert, a pagan but married to a Catholic. After Augustine met with him, the king allowed them to preach the Gospel to his people. A year or so later, he himself was baptized and went on to become a saint in his own right. What’s more, when Ethelbert converted, thousands of his subjects came with him.

    But a second trial remained. Although England was largely pagan, small bastions of Catholicism remained in Wales and on the western shore. The ancient remnants of Irish missionaries, these Catholics were angry that the Roman Empire had left England and abandoned them. Although Gregory wanted them reunited, Augustine was unable to do so. Some accuse him of going against the Pope’s advice, or blame him for being tactless, arrogant, unwilling to compromise, and ignorant of their culture. Did he fail as both sheep and shepherd to them?

    I think it’s truer to say that like Christ, Augustine saw them as troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd (Matthew 9:36). When the Good Shepherd felt pity for such a flock, he ministered to them but did not change his teaching. Similarly, Augustine may have pitied or sympathized with the Celts, but in his role as shepherd he wasn’t going to give in on doctrinal points such as the date to celebrate Easter, which these groups demanded. No good shepherd can allow the flock to set the terms for following, even if it costs his reputation and means separation. In this, Augustine was ultimately vindicated; years after his death, the Celtic Catholics were united with Rome.

    The life of St. Augustine of Canterbury reminds us that the saints did not get where they are by being either a good sheep or a good shepherd; rather, they learned and they teach us how to be both.

    As sheep, we follow Christ wherever he leads and do whatever he asks. This tempts us to focus on the unknown: where is Christ leading us and what is he asking? But these are the wrong questions. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is our trust that the God who leads us won’t abandon us, and that we are praying for the grace to be faithful, to follow him no matter what, for he always leads the way to victory. Like the saints, we’re only human; as Augustine showed, even saints are sometimes afraid. But he also showed that he was a sheep who knew his Master’s voice, and when his vicar encouraged him to keep going, Augustine’s faithfulness emboldened him to follow Christ beyond his fear. His obedience was rewarded with many converts.

    Yet we are not only sheep, we are shepherds. This may sound odd because, as the Gospel acclamation reminds us, Christ is the Good Shepherd; what’s more, if he has vested anyone with a shepherd’s staff it is the Magisterium, the teaching authority of the Church he established. Nevertheless, by our baptism we are anointed to the prophetic role of teacher. At the end of Mass we hear “Go and announce the Gospel of the Lord;” whether by word or action, we are charged to preach the Gospel to the world. This is what Augustine did; to anyone who would listen, from kings to the lowliest peasant. No one is universally successful and Augustine lost some battles, but Christ won the war; eventually and in one of the great ironies that define the faith, England, saved by the continent, would in time send missionaries back to Europe to save it, like St. Boniface who became patron saint of Germany. None of this would have happened without the groundwork laid by St. Augustine of Canterbury, true sheep and true shepherd.

    St. Augustine of Canterbury, pray for us.

  • Happy Shall You Be, and Favored: Wednesday of the 21st Week in Ordinary Time

    Happy Shall You Be, and Favored: Wednesday of the 21st Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Thessalonians 3:6-10,16-18; Psalm 128:1-2; Matthew 23:27-32

    When I was a child, learning came quickly and easily to me. I was the type of student who excelled without much effort. I expected that to continue when I got to graduate school but it didn’t; I quickly found myself struggling. Although the other students seemed to have no trouble, the nebulous concepts and abstract theories baffled me. I was lost.

    All that changed one semester when I took a class from a professor who had turned to teaching after a long career in the business world. He taught concepts and theories too but not as vague abstractions; he applied them to real-life situations that he had actually experienced. Under that kind of teaching I again excelled and this taught me something about myself: I did much better when concepts were modeled for me than when I was left to figure them out on my own.

    Perhaps that’s why the first reading resonates with me. It is taken from St. Paul’s second letter to the Thessalonians. His first letter years earlier talked at some length about the end times and it may be that over time these people had focused on that and not on the gospel. In any event St. Paul and his companions visited them, as he says, to present ourselves as a model for you, so that you might imitate us (2 Thessalonians 3:9). In so doing, he must have thought that modeling would serve as a concrete, practical example of how to more fully live out the gospel as Christ intended.

    Of course, no matter how well the Thessalonians learned about the Christian life, their imitation of it had to come from a sincere and genuine faith. Otherwise it was merely an act, an outward show, and they were no more than hypocrites, the name Jesus called the scribes and Pharisees in the gospel. In those days the Greek word “hypocrite” referred to actors on stage who hid behind large masks and in exaggerated motions pretended to be who they were not.

    Although we have long since lost that particular meaning, we all know that hypocrisy is hardly limited to the ancient world and that the words of Christ indict us as well. In our own ways each of us knows what it means to hide behind a mask, pretend to be who we are not, and speaks from a divided heart. We may have many reasons – the pain of rejection, reluctance to stand out from the crowd, etc. – nevertheless we know deep down that these are rationalizations based on fear.

    But like the Thessalonians we have spent too much time on the wrong thing. We should not be focused on servile fear – a fear of punishment – but on holy fear, the fear of the Lord as in today’s psalm. Pope Francis has reminded us that holy fear is “the joyful awareness of God’s grandeur and a grateful realization that only in him do our hearts find true peace.”1

    That is the peace prayed for by St. Paul at all times and in every way (2 Thessalonians 3:16) who knew that true peace only comes when we have conquered our servile fear and live in imitation of Christ as the people we were created to be. We can only do this by the Spirit’s gift of holy fear which, again to quote Pope Francis, “allows us to imitate the Lord in humility and obedience, not with a resigned and passive attitude, but with courage and joy.”2

    Therefore, let us pray for the virtues that help us overcome hypocrisy: humility, obedience and fortitude, and especially for an outpouring of the Holy Spirit’s gift of fear of the Lord, that we may taste the wonderful fruits of his handiwork: Love, joy, and peace. As the psalmist has so beautifully sung, Happy shall you be, and favored (Psalm 128:2).

    1https://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/pope-fear-of-the-lord-an-alarm-reminding-us-of-whats-right-48609

    2 Ibid.

  • Walking on the Water: Monday of the 18th Week in Ordinary Time

    Walking on the Water: Monday of the 18th Week in Ordinary Time

    Jeremiah 28:1-17; Matthew 14:13-21

    Each evangelist has a particular view of the Apostles in his gospel. In Mark, the Apostles never seem to get it right; they constantly misunderstand or respond inappropriately. In Luke the Apostles also misunderstand and make mistakes but there is always an excuse; they were tired or stressed. Matthew is perhaps more realistic. He shows the Apostles struggling; there is tension between faith and doubt. This comes through in his telling of the storm at sea and I think it reflects things true not only of them but all of us.

    Let me point out two things about how Matthew sets the scene. First, Jesus sends the Apostles across the sea without him while he prays to his Father on the mountain. As he remains serenely at prayer a storm rages on the sea, tossing the Apostles’ boat in every direction. Second, Jesus does not come across the sea until the 4th watch of the night – some time between 3 and 6 am. In other words, he lets the Apostles get tossed around in the storm for several hours before going to them.

    We can all identify with this in our own way. Think of a time when you were under great stress, when life seemed to toss you about, when every minute seemed like an hour and the stress was more than you thought you could bear. You prayed and prayed for relief, and… nothing. How did you feel? As for myself, I would say that I felt alone; doubtful that God was ever going to help; vulnerable; tense; above all, afraid.

    Fear is perhaps what we have most in common with the Apostles. It can be paralyzing; we don’t know what to do, who to listen to, how to respond. We want to run away but we’re trapped; we can’t.

    At such times we are most susceptible to the kind of false prophet we hear about in the first reading, in our case someone who either tells us what we most want to hear or what confirms our worst suspicions and deepens our darkest fears: We’re alone; being punished; God has abandoned us, will not help us, or worst of all, is not there. It isn’t surprising that in fear the Apostles chose the worldly explanation on seeing Jesus: It is a ghost (Matthew 13:26).

    But God is truth and as Matthew has made clear from beginning to end in his gospel, Jesus is Emmanuel, God-With-Us (1:23), and will be with us always until the end of the age (28:20). So he comes, but notice how: From within the storm itself. In this we learn that God is with us not above and beyond the storms of life but deep in the midst of them. However we suffer, however we feel, we are not alone; Christ is compassion and speaks to us in that suffering. It may be the grace of long-suffering, patience, or fortitude; he does not tell us but as the Divine Physician he comes, gives us grace, and strengthens us for whatever journey he has in mind.

    Moreover, Christ does not simply appear in the storm – he calls from it:“Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid” (Matthew 14:27). He does this not to criticize or overpower but to give courage and to encourage; not necessarily to calm the storm raging around us but to bring calm and inner peace to the storm that rages within.

    Those who love Jesus as Peter did will do what true love does – cast aside fear and risk everything to be with the Beloved. This is one of Peter’s most endearing qualities – the recklessness of his love for Christ – and we do well to imitate it. Our Lord rewards such love; he bids Peter,“Come” (Matthew 14:29).

    Yet as St. Augustine said in his Confessions, “My weight is my love, and this it is that bears me in whatever direction I am borne” (Confessions XIII 9, 10). Although Peter did love our Lord, fear got the better of him: when he saw how strong the wind was he became frightened (Matthew 14:30) and began to sink. The question is, in what direction are we borne? Let us bring that to prayer today, asking for the grace that does not allow fear to bring us down amid the storms of our life but to keep our eyes fixed on Christ, our feet on firmly with his, facing those storms from the top of the water.

  • Out of Blindness: Feast of St. Maria Goretti

    Out of Blindness: Feast of St. Maria Goretti

    1 Corinthians 6:13c-15a, 17-20; John 12:24-26

    The priest, psychologist, and spiritual writer Henri Nouwen once said that there are two types of spiritual loneliness, each a kind of blindness. The first comes from being out of touch with God; this is the blindness of too little light. The second is just the opposite; it is the blindness of too much light, or an intimacy with God that exceeds our thoughts and feelings. Both kinds of loneliness, and their cures, are hinted at in our readings and in the lives of St. Maria Goretti and her neighbor, Alessandro Serenelli.

    Luigi Goretti and Giovanni Serenelli partnered as sharecroppers on an estate just south of Rome in the early 20th century. Their families occupied separate flats but shared a kitchen. They had little else in common. The Gorettis were pious and hard-working, their daughter Maria charming and of unwavering faith. The Serenellis were religiously indifferent and struggled with alcoholism, mental illness, and physical abuse. Their son Alessandro, 8 years Maria’s senior, was sullen, withdrawn, and mired in the pornography of the time.

    Fr. Nouwen wrote that the loneliness of being out of touch with God leaves us anxiously searching for something or someone to give us a sense of belonging and home. In his loneliness, Alessandro could have reached out in friendship to Maria but he preferred the darkness, blind to the truth spoken by St. Paul that as members of Christ and temples of the Holy Spirit, the body is not for immorality (1 Corinthians 6:13). To him, Maria was not a person to relate to but a thing to use. On a hot July afternoon in 1902 the 20 year-old finally cornered the girl and tried to force himself upon her. Repeatedly Maria cried, “No! It is a sin! It is not God’s will! You will go to hell!” Angered and frustrated by her resistance, Alessandro stabbed her 14 times with a metal file, then fled. For 20 hours Maria suffered from those wounds until she died, just three months before her 12th birthday.

    The second loneliness mentioned by Fr. Nouwen is the blindness of too much light; not a poverty of God’s presence but of our ability to relate to it. This requires love; as we fail to love we feel without God, though he is all around. In the gospel Jesus says, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain – or more literally – it remains alone (John 12:24). Christ doesn’t want us to remain alone; he wants us to remain in him (John 15:4) by loving one another as he has loved us (John 15:12), even to the death.

    Maria Goretti knew this. While she did not care for Alessandro the way he wanted, there is no greater love than to lay down your life for a friend (John 15:13) and she was his friend to the end. She resisted his advances not only for her own sake but also for his, keeping him from sinning against his own body as well as hers. She reminded him of the primacy of God’s will and warned him of the eternal consequences of his actions. Ultimately she showed him the importance of the virtue of chastity by martyring herself for it and, most Christ-like of all, she died forgiving him to the point of praying that one day he would be with her in Paradise. We should all have such a friend.

    This is the love that bears fruit and eventually did in the life of Alessandro Serenelli. Years into his incarceration, little Maria came to him in a dream and once again made clear that she forgave him and was his intercessor before our Heavenly Father. From that moment, the grace of conversion worked within him; he became a model prisoner, was released early, begged forgiveness of Maria’s mother (which was granted), and worked in a monastery for the rest of his life, devoted to the little-girl-now-Saint who he knew was waiting and praying for him.

    You and I know both kinds of blindness from our own experience. Perhaps we have at times allowed ourselves to drift away from God, to remain comfortable in the darkness of a particular sin or sinful way of life; to seek gratification in places and things that can never satisfy us. It is a true friend who has the courage and love to tell us, “No. It is a sin. It is against God’s will.” And what a great blessing to be that person for someone else; to help strengthen the graces of faith and hope within them, as Maria Goretti did. And maybe we have also suffered the blindness of too much light; times when we knew God was calling us deeper but we had grown comfortable where we were; times when when we took him and his merciful love for granted; times when we spoke of our great love for Christ but then ignored him, needy on the street. Again, it is a true friend like Maria Goretti who is willing to model for us the virtuous love that leads us out of that blindness, the love to which Christ calls us all – the love that glorifies God in our body (1 Corinthians 6:20) and preserves our life for all eternity.

    St. Maria Goretti, 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.