Franciscan at Home

Rose’s Gift

My first year teaching kindergarten, I gained a whole new level of respect for Catholic parents of young children. The term “herding cats” could certainly have been applied to my first few attempts at taking my energetic class to Mass and adoration. Leading my 21 students up to the steps of the sanctuary each week for adoration was an act of radical trust every time. When I didn’t have a child trying to push over his friend while he was kneeling, I usually had at least one who was dangerously close to giving himself a “second baptism” in the parish’s large (and, to be fair, rather inviting) baptismal font.

What made this group particularly challenging catechetically was the fact that about half the class was not Catholic and many of them were not baptized. Everything was new to them, and I didn’t know where to even begin when it came to teaching them the faith. The textbook I had been given was sound, but it presumed that the children already had an impressive theological foundation for five- and six-year-olds. Taking my worries with me into the chapel at the end of that first week, I surrendered my plan for the year and asked the Holy Spirit for clarity in how to proceed.

His answer was clear: Bring them to me.

Returning the textbook to the shelf, the initial proclamation of the Gospel became the order of the day for that day and every day that followed. Every topic we explored in God’s lesson circled back to the person of Jesus and the goodness of God as a loving Father. This time together quickly became their favorite lesson of the day, only to be topped by our visits to Jesus. Knowing how important it was for my students to have this special time with our Eucharistic Lord, I was committed to making the regular “field trips” to the parish church, but I didn’t know how much of what I taught them was sinking in.

In our specific quest for understanding the priesthood of the faithful, we must recognize that the theology of the Church is echoed in her liturgical rituals. The Catechism says, “By Baptism [the faithful] share in the priesthood of Christ, in his prophetic and royal mission” (1268). The Order of Baptism of Children gives us a significant catechesis in the oration for the post-baptismal anointing with sacred chrism: “Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, has freed you from sin, given you new birth by water and the Holy Spirit, and joined you to his people. He now anoints you with the Chrism of salvation, so that you may remain members of Christ, Priest, Prophet and King, unto eternal life.”[1] Let us not gloss over these words: “Priest, Prophet, and King.”

Seen as a unit, echoes of these three munera (“offices” or “responsibilities”) of Christ are manifest in the life of every Christian. Notice that these munera are given to us during the celebration of the sacrament while we are being anointed with the sacred chrism.

The Baptismal Rite Reminds Us We Are Anointed

We might recall that rituals of anointing come to us from the Old Testament, so if we are going to understand what they mean today, we must consider how they were presented when originally introduced. We must read and reread 1 Samuel 10. We must consider priestly anointing in Exodus 29 and Leviticus 8. We must reflect on what Jacob’s anointing in Genesis 28 contributes to our appreciation of altars.[2]

Prophets of the Most High God
Like John the Baptist, every baptized person shares in the prophetic office of Christ (see Lk 1:76–77). But what does it mean to be a prophet? We exercise the prophetic role when we teach or seek the truth. Parents and catechists operate out of this prophetic charism when they pass the faith on to children, when they teach values that are consistent with the Gospel of Christ, and when they stand up for what is true.

Kings and Queens for the Kingdom of God
Likewise, the Book of Revelation testifies that we have been made into a “kingdom” for God our Father (Rv 1:6). Again, we must ask, what does it mean to participate in the royal aspect of Christ’s ministry? We must not be misled by the aberration of kings who have abused their power. Rather, we can look to the charitable works of Christian royalty throughout history: from Constantine the Great (d. 337) and his protection of the poor and vulnerable, his promulgation of laws reflecting Gospel values, and his construction of churches to the well-known works of the Saints Elizabeth: St. Elizabeth of Hungary (1207–1231) and St. Elizabeth of Portugal (1271–1336), who established hospitals and cared for the sick and hungry in the 13th and 14th centuries. We can think of St. Louis IX (1214–1270), whose daily works of charity in the Middle Ages supported those in need. Even in our own century we might point to the philanthropic work of Queen Elizabeth II (1926–2022). And before all of these, of course, the biblical kingship of David set the standard for “shepherding” God’s people—providing for their needs and protecting the poor and vulnerable.

We act from this royal role when we offer comfort and care to others. Parents providing food, shelter, and clothing for their children; volunteers delivering meals to the elderly; medical professionals caring for the injured, sick, and weak—they each participate in the ministry of Christ the King.

You Are a Royal Priesthood[3]
The Catechism tells us that “Baptism gives a share in the common priesthood of all believers” (1268). But what does this mean exactly? When it comes to the priestly role, we must initially note that priesthood is not unique to Christianity, and in the history of world religions there are two main functions of a priest: First, a priest intercedes for others; second, a priest offers sacrifice.

Christianity expands membership in the priestly office precisely because every baptized person is conformed to Christ, the Great High Priest. If Christians are to be “other Christs,” they must be enabled to fulfill the mission entrusted to Christ by the Father and which Jesus has shared with his disciples. It is precisely this priestly connection with Christ that enables the baptized to pray. In other words, whenever we pray, it is the sacerdotal feature of our baptism that is being engaged. Likewise, whenever we sacrifice—whether in offering ourselves or giving up something for the sake of a greater good, we are operating out of the priestly role entrusted to us and inaugurated at our baptism.

In the Sacrament of Baptism, something extraordinary happens that many Catholics, including children, don’t fully understand. When the baptized are anointed with sacred chrism, they share in Christ’s work as priest, prophet, and king. This participation in Christ’s priestly mission, often called the “priesthood of the baptized” or the “common priesthood of the faithful,” is not merely theological terminology. It is a fundamental identity that should shape how children understand their role in God’s family and in the world.

Yet, in many catechetical settings, we rush past this profound truth, focusing instead on preparing children for the next sacrament or teaching them about the ministerial priesthood without helping them understand their own priestly calling. In doing so, we miss the opportunity to help young people discover their dignity as baptized Catholics and their mission to serve God and neighbor.

Starting with the Kerygma

Before we can help children understand their priestly identity, we must first ensure they have encountered Jesus Christ personally through the kerygma. As Pope Francis reminds us in Christus Vivit (“Christ Is Alive”), the fundamental message is simple yet transformative: “God loves you”; “Christ, out of love, sacrificed himself completely in order to save you”; and “Christ is alive!”[1] When children understand this core message—that they are beloved by God and called into relationship with him—everything else, including their baptismal priesthood, finds its proper context.

The priesthood of the baptized isn’t about what children will do when they grow up; it’s about who they are right now as beloved sons and daughters of God. This identity shapes how they relate to God, to others, and to the world around them. When we begin with the kerygma, children understand that their priestly calling flows from love—God’s love for them and their response of love to God and neighbor.

Art: Christ and His Mother Studying the Scriptures; 
Henry Ossawa Tanner, American, 1859 - 1937; 
Dallas Museum of Art, Deaccession Funds.

To view a full resolution of this artwork on a smartboard, click here.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of all men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” —(John 1:1–5)

The first words of the Gospel of John prompt readers to shift their approach from following a narrative to entering a mystery that requires meditation. With this framing, the words transcend a literal meaning to suggest a poetic reality that can only be discerned through the heart. Inspired by Sacred Scripture, Henry Ossawa Tanner’s religious paintings reveal a heart enriched through poetic meditation. An American living in France and devout Methodist, Tanner was encouraged by France’s culturally Catholic environment to explore Sacred Scripture in his work. This can be seen in his Christ and His Mother Studying the Scriptures (1908), in which Tanner uses composition and technique to enliven a simple domestic scene and suggest a spiritual significance. Painting with a teacher’s heart, he offers a meditation on education and the mystery of the Incarnation.

The scene is deceptively simple: A mother supports her son as he follows the words on the scroll with his finger to aid his reading. It is a quiet scene as the mother listens attentively to her son, giving voice to the words. The pyramidal structure of the composition—with the heads of the figures at the apex and the horizontal base emphasized by the striped carpet—communicates stability, instilling this home with a sense of peace.

Yet, the stability of the scene does not make it feel static. Rather, the painting breathes with life through design and technique. The scroll unravels as a ribbon, offering a calligraphic quality to a scene dominated by more angular shapes. Tanner’s hand is shown through the lively brushwork, offering texture and energy while remaining well ordered through his attention to the direction of each mark. The vivid color stays within the realm of representation while going beyond what the eye directly observes in nature. It is as if the artist turned every painting dial up one notch. It is a painting of a mother simply helping her son learn how to read. But this ordinary experience is shown as extraordinary on Tanner’s canvas.

"When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Behold, your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his home” (Jn 19:26–27). In this passage from John’s Gospel, Jesus extends Mary’s motherhood not only to John but symbolically to the whole Church. She is both Mother of our Redeemer and Mother of the Church. This dual role provides an example for mothers to live out the maternal vocation of women with Christian joy. In the domestic church, as a mirror of the activity of the universal Church, Christian parents extend the family’s life of prayer from the Mass and propel it toward the Mass. The role of the mother as source of nurture and nourishment is particularly important in the life of a child. Her maternal vocation also carries a spiritual significance rooted in the priesthood of the baptized; motherhood is understood in relation to the sacrifice of the Mass. What can we learn from Mary as Mother of God and Mother of the Church? What does the Catholic liturgical imagination offer us to inspire us to pursue a deeper relationship with Christ in our life and baptismal call?

God’s Maternal Characteristics

In a collection of essays on the nature and vocation of women, St. Edith Stein writes on the vocation of woman as mother. She understands that the whole of a woman’s existence is, in its entirety, motherly—regardless of whether a woman has borne children in the natural sense. This motherliness extends to everyone a woman encounters. The archetype for this vocation is found in Mary, she writes, and “every woman who wants to fulfill her destiny must look to Mary as ideal.”[1] This maternal calling takes on spiritual and supernatural significance especially in the context of the Sacred Liturgy and the domestic liturgy, as we seek in our family life to “enkindle the sparks of love for God, or once enkindled, to fan them into greater brightness.”[2]

What are these maternal characteristics of woman? These qualities of motherhood—whether one is a mother by birth, adoption, or spiritual motherhood—find their source in God. The image of the maternal characteristics of God is not new; we find examples of it throughout salvation history, from the time of the Old Testament all the way through to the writings of the early Church and medieval saints.[3] The purpose here is not to propose a feminization of God the Father, nor to diminish the significance of the role of the human father in the liturgical life of the family. Rather, God is the source of all goodness, including the goodness of motherhood, and woman is in some manner a reflection, an image, of these nurturing, protecting, and loving maternal qualities.

Sacred Scripture offers numerous representations of motherhood focused on the nurturing care of children, particularly in the book of Isaiah. “Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb?” (Is 49:15). We also hear of the comfort that God will provide in Jerusalem: “As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you; in Jerusalem you shall find your comfort” (Is 66:13). Perhaps even more striking is the comparison of the Lord crying out like a woman in labor (Is 42:14). The Psalms, too, employ this image of a nursing mother: “For you drew me forth from the womb, made me safe at my mother’s breasts” (Ps 22:10), and “Like a weaned child to its mother, weaned is my soul” (Ps 131:2). Another frequent theme is the analogy of the animal mother protecting her young: the mother bird that gathers her young, providing shelter under her wings: “He will shelter you with his pinions, and under his wings you may take refuge” (Ps 91:4).

St. John Paul II wrote on the masculine and feminine qualities of God in his apostolic letter Mulieris Dignitatem: “In various passages the love of God who cares for his people is shown to be like that of a mother: thus, like a mother God ‘has carried’ humanity, and in particular, his Chosen People, within his own womb; he has given birth to it in travail, has nourished and comforted it (cf. Is 42:14; 46:3–4). In many passages God’s love is presented as the ‘masculine’ love of the bridegroom and father (cf. Hosea 11:1–4; Jer 3:4–19), but also sometimes as the ‘feminine’ love of a mother.”[4]

Liturgically, this image is expressed in the entrance antiphon for Divine Mercy Sunday, Quasi Modo Geniti Infantes: “Like newborn infants, you must long for the pure, spiritual milk, that in him you may grow to salvation, alleluia.”[5] St. Augustine presents maternal love in the tenderness and care with which a mother feeds her child, describing this life-giving spiritual food: “For this name, according to Thy mercy, O Lord, this name of my Saviour Thy Son, had my tender heart, even with my mother's milk, devoutly drunk in and deeply treasured.”[6] At the same time, Augustine also describes a mother’s milk as the food of the infant, that preparatory spiritual food until solid food can be eaten.[7] Referencing Paul’s letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor 3:1–2), Augustine sees this change in nourishment as a sign of spiritual maturity. From a mother, this is the early nourishment in faith; from God, this is the food of creation, the food that sustains man in existence; and from the Church, this is the spiritual milk of the sacraments.

As the “hero” of the Book of Job illustrates, the life of the believer is often beset with difficulty—even, and perhaps often, great difficulty. This is the way of human life in a fallen world, and as Job and many others illustrate, a living faith provides no immunity from undergoing such difficulties. Though God has promised “that in everything [he] works for good with those who love him” (Rom 8:28) so that we can ultimately rest secure in him (see Rom 8:18–21), he does not guarantee freedom from bodily pain and spiritual sorrow. This problem, the problem of suffering, is the knife’s edge of the problem of evil, for it is evil, both natural and moral, that brings suffering upon us. But how do we bear such suffering and its source in the evil we find both in ourselves and in one another? And how do we learn to live a good life in the face of evil and suffering—a life filled with hope and love, a life oriented toward God?

Faith Secured

Of course, the answer is to be found in the Catholic faith—that is, in our faith in Jesus Christ and his Mystical Body, the Church. In the practice of our faith, we learn—sometimes slowly, sometimes swiftly—to cling to Christ in his Church and thereby to receive his gift of redemption. This gift can then become increasingly effectual as we deal with life’s inevitable vagaries, and we can even begin to participate in Christ’s holiness and live a life of friendship with God. But, as Jesus counsels us, in order to enter into his salvific company we must daily deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and follow him (see Mt 16:24). Just so, we learn to humbly surrender to his love and begin to experience the intimacy of his presence. This is the way of Christian life, a way St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein) calls “the science of the cross.”[1] It is an unusual science inasmuch as it is never learned in a general and theoretical way but only ever in a singular and existential way—it is a science learned only by the individual, and only individually. And it is precisely by remaining close to Christ in this way, by clinging to him in the difficulties of life, that we begin to learn how to suffer well in the face of evil.

Yet, every believer worth his salt knows this already, for every Christian knows that God loves him and that he must unite his particular cross to Christ’s. But a difficulty presents itself here. When we experience the suffering that follows upon natural and moral evil, when we are in pain and are sorrowful, we can begin to waver in our practice of the faith. Though we may perhaps think we are secure from such problems, that these difficulties are only for the weak of faith, none of us are really so secure that we are exempt from this temptation—which we ask the Father to “lead us not into” (see Mt 6:13). It is generally true that when we are hurt by evil and suffer its cost, we can often get annoyed and cover over our hurt with defensive anger; with anger comes the possibility of growing frustrated with life and its difficulties; if the frustrated anger is chronic, we can become entrenched in resentment and bitterness; and finally, we may begin to struggle to believe in a truly good God and may even doubt his existence.

Now, it is right here, at this point of struggle, that we find a most biting existential question. When we face evil and are filled with its suffering, we are questioned, so to speak, by its presence. It says to us, “Is God still good? Even now, while I suffer?” And again: “Does a good God even exist? If he is good, how could he let this awfulness happen to me?” But how are we to handle this difficulty, a difficulty we all face, or at least will face? When our faith is tested and evil begins to rattle its very foundations, perhaps tempting us toward disbelief, how do we withstand this trial and bolster ourselves against such a temptation? In a way, the answer is simple: Christ has suffered for me and with me; Christ has conquered evil and borne the weight of my suffering. Or, in the words the beautiful paschal troparion of the Byzantines, “By death he conquered death, and to those in the grave, he granted life.”[2]

Yet, when we suffer, since we can also evidently stumble, we would be wise to secure our faith and that of others against this patent threat to the life of faith—which, ultimately considered, is the only real threat. There are numerous ways within the practice of the faith itself to fortify the individual against evil and suffering, but there is also something external to faith strictly considered that supports its integrity: its foundation in natural knowledge of (not belief in) the existence of the good God.

Properly speaking, assent to the truth of the existence of God and his goodness are not articles of faith. Though the individual believer can rely on faith to accept these truths, they are actually knowable in a purely natural way, through reflecting on the nature of the world and its creatures. Indeed, this possibility is itself something revealed, for example, when St. Paul says, “What can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. Ever since the creation of the world his invisible nature, namely, his eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made” (Rom 1:19–20; see also Ps 19:1–6). This scaffolding of natural knowledge of God supports the supernatural act of faith so that the believer’s faith is rightly substantiated and appropriately coordinated (a particular application of the dictum “grace perfects nature”[3]).

In light of this possibility, we could reflect on the Western tradition’s numerous philosophical demonstrations of the existence of God, those of Sts. Thomas, Bonaventure, and Anselm, together with many others. But for this article, allow me to take all these proofs for granted in order to look a little closer at the reality of creation itself—that is, the startling fact of being a creature created by the Creator. This is an awesome reality, and one well worth pondering at length.

Orphaned at five and trying to make sense of the world as a teenager, Charles de Foucauld lost his faith at the age of 15. Reflecting on this period of his life, he wrote, “I lived twelve years denying nothing and believing nothing, despairing of truth and not believing in God. No proof seemed evident enough.”[1] The further away he drifted from God, the more the young Charles, not yet a saint, resembled the prodigal son of Luke’s Gospel (see Lk 15:13–16).

Naturally contemplative, Charles appreciated solitude, but his conception of natural solitude uniquely “included the quiet presence of those he loved.”[2] He desired a well-ordered life, but in reality, the further away he drifted from God, the further he drifted from his family and friends. In his alienation, he experienced a profound sorrow and loneliness: “A painful emptiness, a sadness that I had never experienced before would return to me every night when I was alone in my apartment . . . I would be overcome by silence, disgust, and infinite boredom.”[3] As a young soldier and explorer, he spent several years living in Algeria and Morocco before returning to Paris in 1886 at the age of 28. Moved by Christian charity, his family welcomed him back with open arms and hearts, treating him as if he had never left for Africa or fallen into sin.

His family’s response shocked him—the witness of his family’s love toward him inspired him to live more virtuously: “I drew closer and closer to this beloved family. I lived in such an atmosphere of virtue that life returned to me, visibly.”[4] In particular, God drew Charles back to the Church through his older cousin, Marie de Bondy. Eight years older than Charles, Marie had first accompanied and formed him in the faith when he was preparing to receive his first Communion. Knowing her as an adult, Charles witnessed an intelligent, virtuous woman who loved God with all her heart. Suddenly Catholicism no longer seemed absurd and foolish to him.

Writing to Marie after his conversion, Charles remarked, “God has made you the first instrument of his mercies towards me, from you everything else began. Had you not converted me, brought me to Jesus and taught me little by little, letter by letter all that is holy and good, where would I be today?”[5] In this, Marie was a model catechist: She did not teach Charles with words but rather “by her silence, her gentleness, her goodness, her perfection.”[6] She taught him from her lived intimacy with Jesus, leading him into an equally intimate friendship with the Lord that inspired him to give his life as a religious priest and, ultimately, as a martyr in Algeria.

When we consider the Mass as a place of encounter with the Lord, we frequently jump right to receiving Communion as the most important catechetical point to highlight. Of course, our joy at receiving the Lord is always called for, but we cannot neglect the rich and valuable moments that precede this summit. Every action of the liturgy is a place of incarnate encounter with the Lord, who first entered into our world of time and material; and in a special way, we should take notice of the beginning of the Liturgy of the Eucharist, which is marked by the presentation of the gifts.

It is easy to gloss over the importance of this rite. Far too often we can find ourselves considering the preparation of the altar and the presentation of the gifts as a type of intermission in the drama of the liturgy. Yet, this rite, too, has rich and beautiful meaning and symbolism, and we would do well to approach this moment of Mass with gratitude for the gift of the Word and joyful anticipation for what has yet to happen within the liturgy.

To truly understand the offertory procession, we must consider what it is that we do during this time. It is crucial that we view the offertory as more than a material procession of goods for a utilitarian purpose. When we bring to the altar the bread and the wine, it is not merely a material gift; indeed, symbolized by this gift is the Bride of Christ, the whole People of God which is the Church. Symbolically, we give bread—made from pure wheat flour and water—and wine—made from grapes, yeast, and water—to represent all we have. The bread, made from two elements, calls us to acknowledge Christ, fully God and fully man. And the wine calls us to acknowledge the three divine persons of God. These truths, themselves a gift to man, are all we have to offer.

None of us wants to suffer. We don’t want to be diagnosed with a disease. We don’t want to experience loss.But suffering is inevitable. When it comes, what are we to do? Is it merely to be endured? What, if anything, can we learn from Jesus and his experience of suffering? What does his response to suffering mean for us, who are joined to him in baptism?

The Priesthood of Jesus

Jesus is the eternal Son of the Father. He is the divine Teacher and our model of holiness. The Letter to the Hebrews tells us that he is also a priest, our great High Priest, making of his entire life—but especially his Paschal Mystery—a sacrifice to the Father (see CCC 662; Heb 7; 9:11–15). If we are baptized into Christ and joined into union with him, then the fact that he has a priestly identity and mission means something significant for us.

In the baptismal liturgy, these words are spoken over the newly baptized person: “He [God] now anoints you with the Chrism of salvation, so that you may remain as a member of Christ, Priest, Prophet, and King, unto eternal life.”[1] The ritual text indicates that every baptized person possesses a priestly identity and mission, which centers around the offering of sacrifice. From this point on, our lives are meant to be sacrificial. At Mass, those who are priests by baptism gather around the one who is a priest by ordination, who stands in the person of Jesus, and we all as the assembled body of Christ offer the sacrifice of Jesus to the Father.

Yet, there is another offering that we priests (by baptism) make in the liturgy. While every facet of the life of the baptized person is capable of being offered to God as a gift, our suffering can also be offered to God. Let’s consider here what would be required for suffering to be experienced and turned over to the Father as a priestly offering.

I’d like to suggest that there are three steps to suffering in a way aligned with our missionary identity. Each of these movements is needed if our sufferings are to be experienced as truly ours and if we are to be conscious and present to them so that they might be given to the Father as a gift.

It was my freshman year of high school, and I was attending a youth retreat focused on the Theology of the Body. My 15-year-old self had no idea what the Theology of the Body really meant, but I had heard someone throw around the words “sex and dating,” so it intrigued me enough to attend. I was raised in the Catholic faith; my parents took us to Mass each Sunday and even taught our religious education classes. At this point in my life, I knew the faith was a priority for my family, and I believed in God, but I also had my own priorities in high school, like being popular and well-liked. But what I thought would be a fun weekend with friends to giggle about the word “sex” turned out to be a life-changing weekend.

My youth minister had invited two theology graduate students, Amber and Chris, to give the talks on the retreat. When Amber and Chris spoke about God’s plan for relationships and his desire for an intimate relationship with each of us, my heart was drawn into this beautiful concept of a personal relationship with the Lord. As they spoke about this personal God who desired an intimate relationship with us, it was as if my heart began to burn within me. I began to realize a deep desire for an intimate relationship with God. It was from this place of intimacy with the Lord that they taught us about God’s plan for intimacy in marriage and the sexual act. Chris and Amber gave examples of how God had brought real freedom into their own lives through his grace. When they spoke about these topics of sex and dating, it was not as if I was hearing an empty theological lecture. It was clear that they were speaking from a place of living this intimate relationship with the Lord.