Franciscan at Home

C. S. Lewis’s devil Screwtape advises junior tempter Wormwood, “The parochial organization should always be attacked, because, being a unity of place and not of likings, it brings people . . . together in the kind of unity the Enemy desires.”[1] Christian community makes tangibly present communion with Christ. It is often the first place people begin to encounter him and believe in the possibility of his love, which is manifested through the love of the Church’s members. Even in its veiled, earthly form, the Communion of Saints has the power to radiate Christ to the world. This article will briefly examine the nature of this communion and its power to bear witness to Christ, as well as offer some ideas for fostering a deeper and more intentional living of this communion within our communities.

The Communion of Saints

The Communion of Saints on earth is quite simple: Its source is Christ; its soul is charity. Christ himself, on the evening before his Passion, prayed, “that they may all be one, as you, Father, are in me and I in you, that they also may be in us, . . . that they may be brought to perfection as one, that the world may know that you sent me, and that you loved them even as you loved me” (Jn 17:21, 23). The members of the Church are “a holy people united with the unity of the Trinity.”[2] The Holy Spirit unites the Church in a single bond of love. Moreover, in the Eucharist, Christ binds each person together so that they are members of this same whole.

Being enriched by Christ’s gift and made one in him opens our horizons. In the midst of its treatment of the Our Father, the Catechism has this stunning line: “Finally, if we pray the Our Father sincerely, we leave individualism behind, because the love that we receive frees us from it” (2792). God’s love frees us. We no longer need to protect ourselves. Transformed by the renewal of our minds (Rom 12:2), grace allows us to see the love God has bestowed on us. It opens our eyes to the fact that my brother or sister in the Lord is in some way part of me.[3] And it moves us to “leave individualism behind,” embracing this communion. We are able to live heroic charity, loving as we have been loved.

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God” (1 Jn 4:7). God takes our ordinary nature and, through grace, elevates it to share in his life. This means that simple, everyday gestures of love and care take on extraordinary depth. They are the “stuff” sanctity is made of. I can remember gathering with a group to pray for a friend who was dying. I knew her as my mentor and a gifted catechetical leader, but as others shared how they knew her, I began to realize there was so much more to her life of sanctity than just what she did for the Church in her role as catechist. One friend shared how my mentor had helped her with laundry during her prolonged recovery from surgery. Another spoke of how she had come to understand authentic family life when my mentor had opened her home to her and helped her. These simple, human gestures of love and self-sacrifice provided the deepest and most authentic witness to Christ that my mentor offered in her very full life. This is the kind of love Tertullian said caused the pagans to exclaim, “See how these Christians love one another!”[4] Sometimes it is the humblest gestures that speak the most loudly of Christ’s presence and love.

This final article in this series presents three methods for making catechesis authentically organic. “The organic unity of the faith bears witness to its ultimate essence and allows it to be proclaimed and taught in its immediacy, without reductions or diminutions. The fact that the teaching may be gradual and adapted to persons and circumstances does not invalidate its organic unity.”[1]

Teaching the Unity of the Faith by Means of the Catholic Family Story

When a person receives the Sacraments of Initiation, God’s plan is being accomplished: he created each person in order to live together in his own Trinitarian life. The role of the catechist is to share with others an evangelizing narration of salvation history—the story of who God is and what his plan is for them. “We heard with our own ears, O God, our fathers have told us the story of the things you did in their days, you yourself, in days long ago” (Ps 44:1). Every teaching given to participants should flow from and be directed toward their participation in the Catholic “family story” as a venerable means to achieve a genuinely organic catechesis:

In his De catechizandis rudibus [The First Catechetical Instruction] Augustine makes explicit the theory of what must be the object and the manner of the catechesis of catechumens. . . . He begins with creation and briefly narrates the whole sacred history up to Christ and the Church, and then passes to the resurrection of the flesh and to the future life. Everything is centered on Christ. . . . Now it is possible to catch a glimpse of the marvelous unity which, in this conception, unites Bible, magisterial teaching, liturgy, tradition, theology, ordinary preaching to the faithful and catechesis of the catechumens. . . . The bond which unifies all these members is the primacy of emphasis given to the reality of salvation history that each is called upon to explain.[2]

This family story includes, with the telling of it, an invitation to join the family and make the story one’s own. It informs the structure of what a catechist hands on; it is a unifying force that gives participants a framework in which to place each new teaching. For this reason, the story should be told, in its entirety, near the very beginning of the catechumenal process, during the precatechumenate. This can be accomplished in 30 minutes. The catechist simply lays out the story element by element, beginning with God, continuing to the present day, and following through all the way to the last things: death, judgment, heaven and hell. The major points of the story could include the following:

1. God our uncreated Creator, who is utterly transcendent: God is a Trinity, a family of persons whose life is love; God has a plan of intimacy for his human creatures.
2. Creation: especially being created in the image of God, as well as the creation of angels.
3. The Fall: sin, death, and separation of the human family from God.
4. God’s plan to answer sin: a gradual reconciling of his prodigals through a fatherly gathering of a people to himself; the covenants with Noah, Abraham, Moses, and David.
5. The history of the prophets: God’s steadfast fidelity to his covenants, the stubbornness of the Chosen People; the prophets are entrusted with a message of rebuke, correction, loving reconciliation, and future promise.
6. The Incarnation (the pivotal point in the whole story): Jesus Christ, true God and true Man; Mary’s unique participation in God’s gift of himself, her “yes” to God; all promises are fulfilled in him who was sent by the Father.
7. The Paschal mystery: Jesus’ Passion, Death, Resurrection and Ascension—the redemption of all humanity.
8. The establishment of the Universal Church: the Father regathers his people as his adopted ones.
9. The descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost: the guarantor of the deposit of faith and the life of the deposit of grace.
10. The story since Pentecost: a new family identity, evangelization, the saints, and everyone here and now.
11. The Second Coming of Jesus and the reality of the promises of heaven.

By narrating our family story at the outset of the catechumenal process, the catechist can place each new teaching in the context of the Catholic family story. Each truth is like an episode in the continuing saga of God’s love for us. At some point in the catechumenate period, the catechist can and should go back and tell the story again, in greater detail and length, incorporating more personal reflection. This could take over an hour of time, but it is well worth it. A reminder of the history of God’s unique love for his human creation gives each catechetical session coherence by uniting it with everything else that has been unpacked previously.

This past semester, I had the joy of bringing my family to Franciscan University of Steubenville’s Austrian campus, where I taught for the spring.

This past semester, I had the joy of bringing my family to Franciscan University of Steubenville’s Austrian campus, where I taught for the spring. One of the most compelling facets of this experience was our immersion in the lives of many saints as they may be met in various places around the European continent. That, of course, is the extraordinary thing about the saints—they may be encountered in the most tangible of ways by visiting their cities, their graves, and even (in the case of Pope St. John Paul II) their favorite ice cream shops. Their homes are sometimes preserved, as are occasionally their actual bodies in a miraculous way. Over the course of this semester in Austria, I was deeply stirred in my own encounters with the Church Triumphant in these holy places. Allow me to offer three examples.

First, I had quite an astonishing run-in with divine providence in Rome. I had recently read about a remarkable recently beatified woman: Bl. Elisabetta Canori Mora. Born in the 18th century, Elisabetta had fallen in love with a young lawyer and joyfully married him. Then, almost immediately, her husband chose to be serially unfaithful to her. He soon gambled away the young family’s living in a life of self-absorbed debauchery. Hoping for a beautiful marriage and family life, Elisabetta instead found herself unloved and disrespected and very much alone. Her reaction to this terrible situation was profound. The book I had been reading described her response in this way:

Drawing strength from intense prayer and from the conviction that the sacrament of matrimony had truly bound them together in a precious and indissoluble way, Elisabetta resolved on total fidelity to her husband and their two daughters, whom she supported laboriously by her own work. She honored the sacrament she had received, although she was forced to do so alone, venturing onto a “mystical” terrain made of inexhaustible charity, aid for other families in difficulty, the attentive upbringing of her own daughters, and getting to know Jesus her Bridegroom, who assisted her with miracles of love.[1]

When I was walking the streets of Rome, I suddenly remembered her, wondering where in Italy she had lived. A moment’s research relayed to me the astonishing fact that she had actually lived in Rome and her body was buried not a mile away from where I stood. She was here! In amazement, I walked to her church and knelt at her grave, asking her intercession for my own marriage and those of my loved ones. Being in that church was a way to draw close to her. It was an experience both consoling and inspiring.

“I die, but God does not die! . . . Viva Cristo Rey!”

— Last words of Anacleto González Flores, 20th century martyr[1]

The accounts of the Christian martyrs never fail to captivate. Whatever our circumstances—young or old, believer or non-believer—we are attracted to stories of those who prefer death to renouncing their faith. We can be awed by the excitement of their adventure and their perseverance and determination in facing their heroic deaths at the hands of executioners or wild beasts. Yet, to equate martyrology to dramatic narrative misses the theological significance of Christian suffering and sacrifice.

The root of the word “martyr” comes from the ancient Greek legal term μάρτυς, “mártus,” meaning “witness” or “testimony.” In the early days of the Church, imprisonment and death remained a common fate for Christians who refused to recant their belief in the Gospel. But despite pagan and secular efforts to eradicate Christianity through the elimination of her stubbornly outspoken and often-prominent adherents, the Church continued to grow in numbers.

Tertullian, a second-century Father of the Church, offered an allegorical observation as he defended his fellow Christians against the sadistic oppression by the civil authorities in his Apologeticus:

Nor does your cruelty, however exquisite, avail you; it is rather a temptation to us. The oftener we are mown down by you, the more in number we grow; the blood of Christians is seed. Many of your writers exhort to the courageous bearing of pain and death . . . ; and yet their words do not find so many disciples as Christians do, teachers not by words, but by their deeds.[2]

It goes without saying that Christianity has faced various kinds and levels of hostility throughout history from governments and societies. Christians have often been forced to choose between moral or religious values and civic or cultural values. Material goods, reputations, jobs, freedom, and even lives have been at stake—and are today in many places. One major milestone in the conflict between Christianity and the state came in the year 249, when the Roman emperor Decius issued an empire-wide decree ordering all citizens to participate in pagan sacrifices. The exact nature of the sacrifice varied from place to place, but it typically involved an incense offering, a libation (or offering of wine), and eating some sacrificial meat. This is unique in the history of the Roman state religion to that point, as performance of actual religious rituals had almost never been prescribed by law for the average citizen.

The Decian Persecution

Though we do not have the text of Decius’ decree, we know quite a bit about its enforcement from several sources. Most notable among these are the writings of St. Cyprian, who was bishop of Carthage (in modern-day Tunisia) from 249 until his martyrdom during the persecution of Valerian in 258. As bishop of the second-most prominent city in the western half of the Roman empire, Cyprian was on the forefront of Christian reactions to the decree to sacrifice. It is largely through his letters and treatises, especially On the Lapsed, that we learn three things. First, we learn what was asked of Christians (and, in fact, all citizens) during the enforcement of Decius’ decree. Second, we learn how Carthaginian Christians reacted to the decree. Finally, we learn how the Church, especially the hierarchy, viewed the differing Christian responses. These facts can give modern-day Christians, who face all kinds of hostility and persecution, insight into how the early Church understood the Christian responsibility under duress and whether there was any flexibility in acceptable responses.

What we ultimately need to understand is how Christians, then and now, react to pressures from governments and societies. So I will focus first on Christian reactions to the decree and how these reactions were viewed by Church leaders. We can break down Christian reactions to the decree into two categories. First were those who were called on to sacrifice but completely and publicly resisted to the point of suffering. Some were put in jail, had their property confiscated, or underwent torture; some were ultimately put to death. In their suffering, they were called “confessors” (because they confessed, or proclaimed, Christ publicly) and in their deaths, “martyrs.”

The second category includes those who came to be known as the “lapsi”—the lapsed or fallen. In this category, there were two types: There were those who, when called upon to sacrifice, did just that. After the end of the persecution, St. Cyprian described these in On the Lapsed as, shall we say, eager. He wrote: “Without any compulsion they hastened to the forum, they hurried of themselves to their death, as if this was what they had long been waiting for, as if they were embracing the opportunity to realize the object of their desires.”[1] He is writing here, of course, not about the physical death of the martyrs but the spiritual death of those called the sacrificati, or the sacrificers.

However, there is another group that came to be called the libellatici, “those who have little books.” Because the Romans did not have a central database of those who had followed the edict, they tracked participation by issuing libelli, or little books, to those who had sacrificed. We still have today around 40 of these libelli, mostly from Egypt. These show that they functioned as certificates of sacrifice, signed not only by the sacrificer but by the local commission in charge of enforcing the decree, as well as, in some cases, a professional scribe or another person who held power of attorney for the sacrificer. Once you had sacrificed, if an official demanded to know whether you were in good legal standing, you could show your libellus to prove that you were. Evidence suggests that perhaps two copies were made of each libellus, one being kept by the petitioner and one deposited in the local archives.

Many catechists yearn for a specific, detailed order, or pre-set curriculum of OCIA teachings, but the universal Church is unlikely to ever mandate one beyond that which exists in a general form in the Creed itself.[1] While it is true that “authentic catechesis is always an orderly and systematic initiation into the revelation that God has given of himself in Christ Jesus,”[2] the General Directory for Catechesis (GDC) states:

Indeed, “it can happen that in the present situation of catechesis reasons of method or pedagogy may suggest that the communication of the riches of the content of catechesis should be organized in one way rather than another.”[3] It is possible to begin with God so as to arrive at Christ, and vice versa. Equally, it is possible to start with man and come to God, and conversely. The selection of a particular order for presenting the message is conditioned by circumstances, and by the faith level of those to be catechized. (GDC 118)

It cannot be emphasized too strongly that the means of determining the order of catechesis for a given set of participants must take into account liturgical, catechetical, and pastoral considerations at a given parish in a given year, as is laid out below. Taking all of the above into account, this article presents three methods that, when considered together, enable a catechist or OCIA director to order teachings in a way that serves the content of the faith.

I took my first steps as a catechist at 17, when I met the Missionaries of Charity on a service camp trip sponsored by my youth group. The sisters needed help with their summer camp for inner-city children, and I needed service hours for graduation. That summer changed my life. I discovered the joy of catechesis and ended up serving and teaching alongside the sisters for seven years until I entered my community, the Sister Servants of the Eternal Word.

These Missionary of Charity sisters, inspired by Mother Teresa’s witness and charism, mentored me in the art of Christocentric catechesis. The Missionaries of Charity incorporate evangelization and catechesis into everything they do, particularly in their work with children. The children’s time of catechesis was not called religion class; it was “Getting to Know Jesus.” In its striking simplicity, this title captures the essence of catechesis: “to put people not only in touch but in communion, in intimacy, with Jesus Christ.”[1]

The sisters didn’t have textbooks, slideshows, or videos; the Scriptures, the liturgy, and the Church’s teaching were their only sources. They taught from their own experience of intimacy with Jesus, lived in the daily rhythm of their communal prayer life as religious sisters. This prayer life permeated their entire catechetical process, beginning with a time of prayer in chapel asking God to bless our work and open the hearts of the children. For the sisters, catechesis was not just about communicating truths of the faith—it was about sharing the joy of a life lived in union with Jesus and inviting the children to experience this same joy. This catechesis was effective, too. Several children converted to the Catholic faith over the years and continue to live committed Christian lives to this day.

My community’s sisters often witness similar transformations in those we encounter in our apostolate of evangelization through catechesis and retreats. Following our patrons, Sts. Francis and Dominic, we teach spiritual things spiritually (see 1 Cor 2:13), inviting our students and retreatants to experience the riches of a Catholic life. Although we are an active community, we spend about five hours a day in prayer so that the Church’s liturgical life shapes both our communal and apostolic undertakings.

In these short reflections, we will consider how various elements of the spiritual life lived by a religious community might also inspire a life of prayer in any person—priest, religious, or lay person—who is called to the sacred work of forming others in the Catholic life.

From the earliest years of Christian history, the Church referred to the Blessed Virgin Mary as the New Eve. For example, in about 180 A.D., St. Irenaeus wrote that “The knot of Eve’s disobedience was loosed by the obedience of Mary.”[1] Many of the Early Church Fathers who came after him continued this tradition of beginning in the Old Testament with Eve to teach about Mary. Why did they start there instead of the New Testament? Why must we, too, start there?

Starting in the Right Place

I spent many years as an evangelical Protestant before I became a Catholic. Even though I had a great love of Scripture and taught many Bible studies, I never really “saw” Mary in the New Testament. I knew she was an important part of Jesus’ story, of course, but because of her few recorded words and appearances, I simply never gave her much thought. To me, it seemed impossible to arrive at Catholic teaching about Mary from the scant references we find about her in the New Testament. I chalked up her exalted role in Catholic teaching to sentimentality. All of us love our mothers. Catholics love the mother of Jesus. I left it at that.

When I had cause to think about the claims of the Catholic Church, I noticed right away that the Church has always begun in the Old Testament to explain Mary. The early chapters of Genesis tell us that “In the beginning,” God created male and female to be the flesh and blood fullness of his image and likeness on earth (see Gn 1:1; 1:26–27). When they fell, God’s response to their disobedience was to curse his enemy, the serpent, who was the real culprit in that drama. He vowed to send another man and woman, a mother and her Son, to victoriously finish the battle begun in Eden (see Gn 3:15). This makes perfect sense! If, from the beginning, God intended the masculine and the feminine, together, to be the icons of his image and likeness in creation, then we should expect to find both a man and a woman to herald the start of his re-creation after the Fall. Mary’s role in the Church’s teaching is theological, not sentimental. I finally had eyes to see this, and it changed everything for me.

The year 2025 will mark the occasion of an ordinary Jubilee. Pope Francis announced the Jubilee Year on May 9, 2024 with the Apostolic Letter Spes non Confundit (SC), "Hope Does Not Disappoint", and it officially began on December 24, 2024, with the opening of the Holy Door of St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. But, what is the Jubilee? Where does it come from, and why does the Church continue to celebrate it? How will it be celebrated in 2025?

Encountering Hope

“May the Jubilee be a moment of genuine, personal encounter with the Lord Jesus” (SC, 1). This is the hope that moves the pope in declaring the Holy Year of 2025. This is the center of the Holy Year: a genuine encounter. The encounter is with the Crucified and Risen One, the Son of the Father, Jesus of Nazareth. He is the Living One. It is a personal encounter because it is shaped by the reality in which we live—the specific time that the People of the Lord and the human community are living through, their culture, their characteristics, their gifts, their specific dramas, etc.

This encounter is marked by a very particular tone: we are to meet the Lord in the environment of hope. In fact, this encounter is a source of hope. The encounter with the Crucified and Risen Lord guarantees that hope will “not disappoint” (Rom 5:5). In Spanish, this phrase is la esperanza no defrauda—hope does not deceive you, does not fool you, does not mislead you. The Greek verb used by Paul (καταισχύνει) also carries the connotation of shame: hope will not leave you ashamed. It is not something to be embarrassed about. In summary, you can trust it. It is solid ground. But, what kind of certainty is this?

It is not the certainty of someone who already knows everything in advance, consumed by the anxiety of control. It is the agile confidence of one who knows they are supported by what is necessary and sufficient—the announcement of the Gospel—to cross any kind of terrain, even one made of tribulations and sufferings.

The Cries of the Oppressed

“What is our sin that God punishes us with such a trial? Where is the just God? Does he not see the injustices inflicted upon us? What fault have these children committed to be left without a roof to shelter them as they sleep? What is the fate of our children, who have been deprived of everything, even their schools?”

These were the desperate cries of families who sought refuge at St. Joseph Cathedral on the night of August 7, 2014. They were fleeing the brutal attacks of ISIS, faced with an impossible choice: renounce their faith in Jesus Christ, pay a tax of servitude, or face certain death. Leaving everything behind, they clung only to their faith in Jesus Christ as their Savior.

Our response was clear and unwavering: “Our God has not abandoned you. He has accompanied you, ensuring your safe arrival here with us. Our faith and hope remain steadfast that He will return with you to your homes in victory. Many have wielded the sword against faith in Jesus Christ, but they have been defeated by the steadfastness of believers in him.” We reassured them with the words of Jesus: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (Jn 16:33).