Franciscan at Home

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.

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.

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.

The catechist’s chief task is to teach the true, good, and beautiful, focusing on illuminating the splendor of the deposit of faith. There are moments, however, when the topic that needs to be taught is a truth knowable for the most part by reason in addition to being knowable fully by faith. At this current moment in history, a primary truth at stake is the sexual difference of man and woman. The topic presses itself from all sides. Full-scale rejections of the reality of man and woman or distorted, reductive proposals abound. Yet, as in all eras of Church history, when a truth is being called into question, the Church responds by means of an even deeper contemplation and joyful proclamation of the unchanging truth, now fleshly enlightened.

The Church’s current response to confusion regarding man and woman is being fueled by positive developments in theological anthropology that have occurred during the past century. At their core is the articulation of the nature of man and woman via the notion of complementarity. This notion has emerged as the primary way of describing the reciprocal relationship between man and woman and the ordering of both to an interpersonal communion of love. Pope St. John Paul II is the most prominent contemporary promoter, with “reciprocal complementarity” being his preferred way of describing man and woman.[1] Given the necessity for catechetical initiatives to include the teaching of God’s plan for man and woman, it behooves one to ask the crucial question: What does it mean to say that man and woman are reciprocally complementary? With John Paul II as our guide, we will outline key principles of sexual complementarity that teachers of the faith must know in order to effectively catechize and evangelize our modern world. In short, man and woman, who are equal yet significantly different, are complementary because they are made for each other and for the fruitful expansion of love.[2] We will conclude by indicating a few points regarding man–woman complementarity and the new evangelization.

The Common Humanity and Equal Dignity of Man and Woman

The first and foundational principle of the complementarity of man and woman is their fundamental equality. Both are fully human persons; each one is an “I,” a someone not something, created in the image and likeness of God (Gn 1:26–27), willed for his or her own sake, created for eternal communion with God. Man and woman have the same rational human nature, involving an intellect and will, with all the concomitant essential properties that pertain to this nature (a soul as substantial form in hylomorphic unity with the material body). John Paul II affirms: “Woman complements man, just as man complements woman: men and women are complementary. Womanhood expresses the ‘human’ as much as manhood does, but in a different and complementary way.”[3]

Complementarity in general presupposes equality. For example, two nations’ economies can be complementary because both are nations, or two musical instruments can play together complementarily because both are musical instruments. This is even more true with human sexual complementarity: there can only be a mutual correspondence between man and woman if both are equally human persons. This is eloquently expressed in the biblical imagery of God forming Eve from the side of Adam—from his very substance—attesting to their primordial unity, equality, and intrinsic ordering to each other (see Gn 2:21–23).

“Is it time for Narnia yet?” The beseeching eyes of my seven and eight-year-old students implored me to say a definitive yes. Smiling, I set my teacher’s book aside and picked up my copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. In an instant, the children were sitting in front of me, eagerly awaiting the next installment of the seven-book fantasy series penned by C. S. Lewis.

It was 2022. I was on the cusp of leaving teaching to enter a monastery, and as a parting gift to my students, I had decided to read the Chronicles of Narnia aloud to them over the course of a few months. Why? I firmly believed that in years to come, their memories of this series could potentially ignite embers of faith in their hearts or even fan them vigorously into flame. Yes, the language can be old-fashioned in parts; yes, some may recoil at the traditional gender roles or turns of phrase; and yet, there is something so delightfully compelling about these stories. Fans can easily relate, for instance, to what Kurt Bruner and Jim Ware describe as a “delicious” combination of pleasure and nourishment: “Both the dreams of fairyland and the promise of heaven invade the imagination at the same time, baptizing it with wonderful and unexpected effects.”[1]

The Catechetical Power of Fairy Tales

Recognition of the power of quality literature and story in stirring or deepening faith is not a new phenomenon. C. S. Lewis, for instance, attributed one of the keystones of his eventual conversion to reading George MacDonald’s Phantastes. Steeped in rich spiritual overtones, this story features a young man named Anodos whose desire for “fairy country,” kindled upon reading a fairy tale, stirs him to embark on a perilous yet delightful journey through an enchanted wood.[2] Notably, as David Downing outlines, Anodos becomes more attuned to the natural world around him and discovers within himself a “capacity for simple happiness.”[3] From a catechetical point of view, there is an almost Edenlike quality to this. Thomas Howard, for instance, alludes to it when he describes Narnia as the “forgotten country” residing deep in the inner sanctum of our imagination. Similarly, Joseph Pearce highlights our inclination to forget the divine image in which we were made and, hence, the heavenly homeland to which we truly belong.[4] Our natural longing for God and heaven, planted in us at the dawn of our existence, can be easily buried by the clutter and chaos of life.

Fairy tales can awaken this longing within us and reconnect us, paradoxically, with what is truly real. For instance, Lewis found himself enchanted by what he describes as the “quality of the real universe” found in MacDonald’s fantasies.[5] They seemed to prompt an enhanced appreciation of the hidden, illustrious qualities of the world around him or, in his words, “the divine magical, terrifying and ecstatic reality in which we all live.”[6] This parallels Joseph Pearce’s claim that, far from one’s immersion in a good story constituting a diversion from reality, it is instead a delightful reversion to it.[7] The good “magic” of fairyland, he says, has a sacramental quality: the capacity to reflect heavenly realities to us and provide us with a lens through which we can perceive them.[8] Moreover, one can be both delighted and caught off guard by talking animals, fauns, centaurs, unicorns, and personified trees, and thus more receptive to the truths behind them. If, like Lucy, one of the major heroines of the series, we “see” with the humility and purity of a child, we may in fact be granted a “fleeting glimpse of Eden.”[9]

For adults, however, the many concerns and fast-paced nature of life can stifle our natural capacity for wonder and thus counteract this manner of “seeing.” When we consider, as the Directory for Catechesis outlines, that many sacramental recipients or aspirants have not actually experienced an explicit encounter with Christ and therefore are often unacquainted with the deep power and warmth of the faith, we can ponder the possibility of a disconnect between intellect and imagination.[10] As important as knowledge about Christ and the Church is, it is not enough to recall facts. We need to be immersed in the wonder of it all, to stand in awe of this divine spark within us, the luminous reality of which we are part, and the glorious destiny to which we are called. As such, before the work of catechesis can achieve its desired end of deeper and enduring intimacy with Christ, one of its preliminary tasks may be to unearth and kindle our capacity and natural longing for wonder. One possible avenue is the use of quality literature in catechesis, which opens up a whole world of possibility.

The Church recognizes that every parish community includes members with disabilities and earnestly desires their active participation. . . . Catholic adults and children with disabilities, and their families, earnestly desire full and meaningful participation in the sacramental life of the Church.[1]

The parish is where the local Church lives as family, called together by the Lord, amidst all the peace, goodness, beauty, joys, struggles, and sufferings of this world.[2] People with impairments belong in our families and parishes,[3] and the US bishops in their teaching about disciples with impairments and their families, highlight the essential role of the parish, the local and visible expression of the Eucharistic community.[4] This invitation to think not only about individuals but about the whole parish family is instructive and offers an opportunity to reimagine aspects of catechesis.

Turning to the Directory for Catechesis, we similarly find an exposition of multiple facets of the parish and sacramental life, including emphases on: staying close to families of people with impairments, solidarity, inclusion, shared ministry, and a recognition that people with impairments are not passive but active members of the parish.[5] I suggest that the Directory also encourages us to consider that the above characteristics are to be grounded in a fraternal and deeply personal love embodied in close Christian community—not just on Sundays but on each day of the week and not only in parish buildings but wherever Christians gather. We might consider what such love in the parish could look like through four interrelated perspectives on the ordinary, conversion, friendship, and new life.

The Ordinary

While it may sound odd to phrase it this way, the parish is to be for us an ordinary environment—that is, a normative expression of our shared life as Church.[6] And in that sense, to the degree that human impairment is part of this world, we lose out on some of the richness of this ordinary life when those with impairments and their families are separated physically or socially from the parish, perhaps in subtle or unrecognized ways[7] (such as not being made welcome at Mass or at parish events or being left out of parish planning), and pushed behind forbidding walls of strangeness, to adapt a phrase from Miguel Romero.[8] In contrast, a family unity among Catholics with and without impairments, lived out in the Church and the parish, should be a quite ordinary and usual exercise of faith that simultaneously provides a profoundly attractive witness to fellow Christians and to the world.[9]

Such unity is a striking illustration of Pope Leo XIV’s motto: “In the One, we are one.” Working together as a parish family to overcome some of the social barriers and negative stereotypes surrounding impairment and impaired people is a beautiful mission consistent with the Gospel and the witness of the apostolic Church. The communal tasks of discovering and embracing each other’s gifts no matter how out of sight, of listening closely for new voices of peace no matter how muted, and of dismantling social walls no matter how high can help a parish to flourish as a community of love (1 Cor 12:4–11).

Imagine a parish breakfast at which it goes without saying that some enjoying the food and company need help with eating or with having a conversation. Picture a gift bearer at Sunday Mass whose speech is to some extent inarticulate as a result of a traumatic brain injury, or an altar server or lector who is a regular at the Sunday Mass but sometimes takes him- or herself off the schedule due to the cyclical nature of a psychiatric disorder, or a faith formation team with a catechetical leader who uses a wheelchair.[10] All this and more should be ordinary for the parish.

In the summer of 2002, I had a health crisis, and left a community where I had been discerning a vocation to consecrated life. Feeling alone, and at a loss as to how to move forward, I went home to my parents to recover. About a year later, my mother developed ALS, and after eight months in hospice care, went home to Jesus. I was still in poor health, without work, and grieving. I could not foresee how the Lord would come to my aid. Then my sister invited me to come to Michigan to help her homeschool her seven children, to a town and parish where, she claimed, the Catholic community was amazing. I had been in many places where I’d experienced rich community and was a little skeptical. But I felt deep peace and even certainty that this was the right next step—at least for a little while.

Six months after I arrived in my sister’s town, some new friends asked me how I liked being there. I answered: “I’d like to be buried here.” I was not being morbid. Rather, after spending several years in Europe, Washington DC, and Canada, I’d at last found a place to settle, to rest in, to belong.

As I cared for and instructed my three very young nieces and nephew, my soul began to come to life again and let go of grief. Through my sister and her friends, I found myself adopted into a vibrant group of Catholic families, most of whom homeschooled. The parents were serious about living their faith and forming their children in it. I looked forward to the weekly mom’s coffee and play group, and soon I was “Aunt Liz” to a host of children.

One day not long after I’d arrived in Michigan, I stayed to pray after daily Mass at the parish, and the grief over my recent losses surfaced. Crying, I was surprised to see a woman I did not know tap me on the shoulder, asking if she could pray with me. I said yes, and that was the beginning of a beautiful Christian friendship. It was also my introduction to a community where praying with others was a normal occurrence. In those early days, I took advantage of all kinds of opportunities for healing prayer, basking in the love and consolation I received.

Because there was no space for me in my sister’s house, I was invited to live with a family from the parish who lived down the street. They became fast friends. The father of the family enlisted my service on the evangelization committee at the parish. We promoted and facilitated new small groups, and soon I was meeting folks of all ages from all walks of life and welcoming them into the community of which I was still a new member.

The more people I met, the more I was amazed by the witness of faith. Funerals at the parish were powerful experiences of hope, and I left them inspired and eager to run the race well. One image in particular remains emblazoned in my memory. It was the memorial Mass for the adult son of a couple who had already lost their other son. During the opening hymn, the father stood in the front row of the church with his hands raised, praising God with full voice. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and yet, his faith in God’s goodness and mercy impelled him to give thanks even in the midst of heartache.

“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]

Anyone paying attention to recent trends within catechetical programming is sure to have noticed that video-based resources are becoming more and more prevalent. This is true for both adult and youth catechesis. Video resources are now nearly as ubiquitous as textbooks. In many cases, textbooks even function as a supplement to videos, which constitute the greater part of the lesson. Now, more than ever, it is necessary to make a clear-eyed assessment of video presentations as a catechetical methodology.

Videos certainly have a number of advantages. The use of new media in catechesis runs lockstep with Pope John Paul II’s call for a new evangelization. Through digital media, students are able to learn from some of the greatest catechists and evangelists this new century has produced. Video-based programs are often more affordable than traditional textbook series—a major relief to a cash-strapped parish program. Furthermore, with the advent of streaming, catechesis is no longer confined to the traditional classroom. Students can now access catechetical materials from home and alongside their families. Finally, many of these programs are both thoroughly orthodox and incredibly well-produced. It is now possible to have a program that is on the “cutting edge” methodologically without being enslaved to passing fancies of theological speculation.

On the other hand, videos also have their drawbacks. Linda Stone, a former consultant for tech giants Apple and Microsoft, coined the phrase “continuous partial attention” to describe how many of us go about our day-to-day lives.[1] Our attention is constantly divided between many different, simultaneous objects: we watch the news while checking our email, making breakfast, and talking on the phone. Without a doubt, video media, especially with the rise of short-form content, has exacerbated this condition. Catechists should carefully consider whether it is wise to adopt a form of content that is nearly synonymous with distraction. Additionally, there is a temptation to let the personalities on screen replace the personality of the catechist. A catechist cannot be reduced to someone merely pressing play on a video; they must be an active agent and a witness to their students.

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.