Franciscan at Home

Last year was my first year as a high school campus minister. Part of my job was also teaching an “Approaches to Leadership in the Faith” class. Students had to apply and interview to be in this class, and they were then selected to be the retreat leaders, and leaders in our school community, for the year. I had a lot of freedom when it came to how I instructed the students and what I decided to teach them. I felt as though the most valuable thing I could do is take them to the chapel for the first 20 minutes of class each time I had them. To me, having them develop a personal relationship with Christ was the most important thing in which to invest.

While we were in the chapel, I would introduce the students to different forms of prayer. We would do lectio divina, intercessory prayer, praise and worship, reflections for the liturgical seasons, etc. I always ended our time in the chapel by lifting up our prayers and intentions to Jesus through Mary, and then we would pray a Hail Mary together. After a while of me leading the Hail Mary, I had one of my students, Gabriella, ask if she could do it. I was more than happy to allow her to take the lead on our closing prayer!

Who am I, really? What makes me who I am? And how much do other people affect who I become? These perennial questions reflect the fact that we are deeply affected by things around us, especially by other people. In some ways, our surroundings helped make us better people, and in other ways, worse. Whether for better or worse, we can wonder who we would be without these influences in our life. It seems hard to argue against how impactful our relationships are, and it raises the question of just how much our relationships define us.

Our Image and Likeness

The search for our own identity goes hand-in-hand with who God is. The Trinity is “the source of all other mysteries, the light that enlightens them,” which includes our own mystery (CCC 234). However, the Trinity is anything but easy to understand, and attempts to resolve the mystery neatly have resulted in numerous heresies in the Church’s history. How can a God whose identity is beyond human understanding or expression help us understand ourselves? How can the unfathomable essence of God help us fathom who we are?

As mysterious as the Trinity is, the Church’s dogma makes one thing clear: our triune God is a relational God. When two things are in relationship with each other, it means that their existence and identities are intertwined. In this sense, none of the persons of the Trinity can be separated from the others (see CCC 255). The Father cannot be apart from the Son, nor the Son apart from the Father, nor the Holy Spirit apart from either.[1] At the same time, a relationship implies distinguishability; it is not possible to say something is unique if there are no differences to tell it apart from something else. The persons of the Trinity are essentially united, but each is distinguished by their relation to each other (see CCC 254–55). The Father is who he is because of the Son, and vice versa. The Holy Spirit is who he is because he is the Spirit of the Father and the Son.[2] To put this more simply, the relationship each person of the Trinity has to the others is both unitive and distinctive: their relationships simultaneously describe their union and their distinction.

Created in God’s image and likeness, human persons bear a certain similarity to the relationality of the divine persons.[3] Being distinct persons, we are nonetheless made for unity. Pope St. John Paul II observes that all human reality can be understood through the lens of relationship. In fact, everything in our lives is composed of four fundamental relationships: with God, with oneself, with others, and with the rest of creation.[4] Sin is ruptured relationship, and reconciliation is its repair. The first sin in Eden is a loss of friendship, and it is echoed in all human strife and injustice.[5] Salvation history, on the other hand, “is the wonderful history of a reconciliation,” a restoration of friendship.[6] Notwithstanding the immense difference between the divine persons and us, we are also constituted by relationships.

For a long time now, there has a been a growing

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Last year was one of the most difficult years of my life. It was my first year as a theology teacher, and even though I had been well prepared through my secondary education program and ministry experience, I was not prepared for the constant criticism and judgment I would receive from my coworkers. These comments filled my mind with self-doubt, anxiety, and fear. 

One month into teaching, I decided to be honest with my students about how I was feeling. I was not at my best that day, and I told my class, “I’m sorry if I’m not giving you my full attention and energy today. I’ve been experiencing a lot of anxiety recently, and I think it might be getting the best of me today. It has nothing to do with you; it’s just internal.” Immediately after class, one of my students approached me with tears in her eyes. Let’s just call her “Christina.” She said, “Thank you for sharing your feelings with us. I have severe anxiety and depression, so hearing you talk about your struggles makes me feel like I’m not alone.” 

We talked about how she has been attending therapy and about her struggle with having a relationship with God. I learned that Christina grew up in a Christian home, but cried every time she attended a church service. From then on, I began praying for Christina daily. The following week, Christina asked if I could sit with her and her friends during break. This quickly led to me sitting with Christina at break and lunch regularly, where we’d have conversations about mental health, our love of Crumbl cookies, and what it looks like to know Jesus Christ. Those moments didn’t seem like much at the time, but I wholeheartedly believe that God was working in them. 

“Then every scribe who has been instructed for the kingdom of heaven is like the head of a household who brings from his storeroom both the new and the old” (Mt 13:52).

The scribes were the lay ecclesial ministers and catechists of their day. They safeguarded the Scriptures and written traditions of Israel so that they could be passed down and taught in every generation. Jesus reinterprets their role and elevates their purpose when he talks about scribes who have been “instructed for the kingdom of heaven.” The Church calls her catechists, today’s scribes for the kingdom, to utilize modern methods that embrace “new media” (a term that seems rather passé for a generation of people who only know these forms of media) without jettisoning older methods and media that still have value. We have to bring forth “both the new and the old.”

Innovation and Tradition

The faith itself is ever ancient and ever new, and our presentation of the Gospel must draw from the best of the past while exploring new ways forward. The new Directory for Catechesis calls for “widely differing methods.”[1] The National Directory for Catechesis gives similar guidance: “Catechesis has to investigate new possibilities offered by the existence of the new technologies and imagine whole new models and systems if the Gospel message is to penetrate the culture, make sense to the next generation of Catholics, and bring about a response of faith.”[2] The Church is calling us to an innovative spirit that, frankly, makes many of us uncomfortable. To be clear, we are not being asked to get creative with doctrine. But we are being tasked with being creative in the ways that we present it.

Innovation in how we present the Gospel also calls for innovation in where we present it, the media through which we propose the faith. Since catechesis is primarily intended for adults, and since study after study points to the importance of parents in handing on the faith to the next generation, we would do well to consider what media are most suitable for adult formation. The “Catholic Media Use, 2023” report from the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate shows a significant increase (27%) in the consumption of spiritual content, whether videos or podcasts, by adults since 2005.[3] If videos and podcasts are the media through which the adults in our communities and the parents in our programs are seeking spiritual content, then that is where we need to try to meet them. Considering the trends toward hyperlocal news sources, we need to be sure it is we who are meeting them there and not just a popular Catholic blogger or YouTube channel.

When I was a youth minister, I felt pretty comfortable discussing most topics with my students. I loved the long drives to camp when they’d share their playlists. I loved eating pizza and learning how to set up a MySpace account (I’m a dinosaur). I felt proud that I could even talk about some of the really tough stuff with ease, answering their questions about sex and dating without skipping a beat.

Over the years, however, I found myself feeling lost navigating the really hard stuff. Family violence, addiction, suicide, sexual abuse. I could listen, pray, and encourage students and their families to talk to those who were professionally trained to help, but as I learned how trauma affects the brain, body, and belief system, I knew my words were falling short. I felt I needed to learn what could be done better.

I remember telling my pastor how the overwhelming trauma in the lives of some of our students meant that sharing the Gospel felt like trying to lead a Bible study in a house that was burning down around us. I knew the hurt in their past and present was an obstacle that a well-planned lesson was not enough to overcome.

This led to further study, and eventually, I found myself as a counseling intern, serving survivors of childhood trauma—including physical abuse, substance abuse, and sexual abuse. Almost immediately, I realized that there were many things I wish I had known about talking to survivors of trauma—especially survivors of sexual abuse—when I was working in youth ministry.

Sexual Abuse Happens

The statistics will vary widely according to source, but the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report that 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 20 boys in the United States experience childhood sexual abuse.[1] Psychology Today suggests that only 16–25 percent of children who experience sexual abuse will report it to a trusted adult or law enforcement.[2]

When I would teach students about God’s plan for sex and marriage, I would sometimes remember to add some sort of line like, “and of course, sexual abuse isn’t the same as premarital sex.” If you had asked me what I thought the prevalence of sexual abuse was among students, I would have honestly had no idea, but I definitely didn’t think it was common, especially not in my own community.

The reality of the numbers cited previously means that our assumption shouldn’t be that there might be a survivor in our audience but that there are likely multiple survivors among both our students and their caregivers. Our listeners deserve a clear condemnation of immoral and illegal behavior. Sharing the statistics and stating something to the effect of, “it’s not okay that sexual abuse happens, and it is never the kid’s fault” is important clarity to give anytime the topic is raised.

At some point, students and parents will inevitably ask about the reality that abuse is sometimes perpetrated by those who are seen as leaders in the Church. This is when our clear condemnation of illegal and immoral behavior is especially important.

It’s no news to catechists that it is our witness, not our words, that will first connect us with those we teach. This is especially true when we are speaking about the hardest topics. Mindfulness—being aware of our own feelings and reactions—is a habit to cultivate at all times but especially when we are presenting content about subjects that may be hard for some of our audience to absorb because of their past or present trauma. We should be aware that the resistance we may see, like a student goofing off or a parent scrolling through their phone during a meeting, might be an attempt to avoid thinking about unthinkable trauma and not simply disrespect. Asking open-ended questions and not assuming we know what someone is actually thinking can go far to meet our audience wherever they are mentally and emotionally.

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Any first impression of The Procession to Calvary by Pieter Bruegel the Elder is telling. I can still remember my initial encounter with it. The scene came across as a chaotic, dizzying whirlwind of activity. Beyond the larger mourning figures in the foreground, I felt a deeper disturbance in the picture, the source of which remained unknown. It seemed to reverberate through the crowd that thronged the landscape, like ripples pushing through the water after a stone has been thrown in.

The sheer number of figures was overwhelming. I wasn’t sure where to look. What were they all doing? There were people milling around in a field, men on horseback, farmers hauling their goods toward the town. I saw a traveler resting with his giant pack, while nearby a man was being arrested. A woman tried to intervene as others scattered with their belongings. I observed the crowd staring at the commotion, the figures turning a blind eye, and still others completely oblivious, going about their daily business. In the background, children play. None of these vignettes, however, seemed to be what this painting was about.

Then it struck me: at the epicenter of the painting was the diminutive personage of Christ, hidden in plain sight, fallen under the weight of the collective sin of mankind. I could hear the crack as he hit the ground. Just behind him, the gaping jaws of the earth opened to swallow all things. This is The Procession to Calvary, the Via Crucis!

A sort of dispersing flow led my gaze to the distant hilltop where the men would be crucified. Encircling the site was a crowd. Among the bystanders, the first Christians gathered as a community around the sacrifice of our Lord. By an ingenious trick of pictorial composition (the similarity in shape), my eye was compelled to jump to the wagon wheel. Following the shaft downward, I arrived at a mound littered with bones: Golgotha.

Here Pieter Bruegel the Elder transports us in a vision to the remote foot of the Cross. We see women weep and pray as St. John consoles our Lady. A thistle, a symbol of original sin, grows in this darkened corner of the world. As viewers, we are both at the periphery and the center of this event—both/and. The name given to this place comes from the Hebrew noun גלגלת (gulgoleth, “skull” or “head”). A skull is prominently displayed; Christ is the head. It is also related to the verb גלל (galal, “to roll”). This rolling action is a key to unlocking the structures and patterns at work in this composition and, by extension, in this event.