Franciscan at Home

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.

Editor’s Note: The Jubilee year of hope comes to an end on January 6, 2026. In September 2025, the Church celebrated the Jubilee of Catechists, asking God’s grace upon all those who teach the faith. We are happy to republish below the homily of Pope Leo XIV given on this important occasion in the life of the Church and in the lives of each of us who have been invited by God to form others in the Christian life.

The words of Jesus convey to us how God sees the world, at every moment and in every place. We heard in the Gospel (Lk 16:19–31) that his eyes observe a poor man and a rich man: seeing one dying of hunger and the other gorging himself in front of him, the elegant clothes of one and the sores of the other licked by dogs (cf. Lk 16:19–21). But the Lord looks into the hearts of people, and through his eyes, we can also recognize one who is in need and one who is indifferent. Lazarus is forgotten by the one right there before him, just beyond the doorway of his house, and yet God is close to him and remembers his name. On the other hand, the man who lives in abundance is nameless, because he has lost himself by forgetting his neighbor. He is lost in the thoughts of his heart: full of things and empty of love. His possessions do not make him a good person.

The story that Christ tells us is, unfortunately, very relevant today. At the doorstep of today’s opulence stands the misery of entire peoples, ravaged by war and exploitation. Through the centuries, nothing seems to have changed: How many Lazaruses die before the greed that forgets justice, before profits that trample on charity, and before riches that are blind to the pain of the poor! Yet the Gospel assures us that Lazarus’ sufferings will come to an end. His pains end just as the rich man’s revelry ends, and God does justice to both: “The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s side. The rich man also died and was buried” (v. 22). The Church tirelessly proclaims this word of the Lord, so that it may convert our hearts.

Dear friends, by a remarkable coincidence, this same Gospel passage was also proclaimed during the Jubilee of Catechists in the Holy Year of Mercy. Addressing pilgrims who had come to Rome for the occasion, Pope Francis emphasized that God redeems the world from all evil by giving his life for our salvation. God’s saving work is the beginning of our mission because it invites us to give of ourselves for the good of all. The Pope said to the catechists: This is the center by “which everything revolves, this beating heart which gives life to everything is the Paschal proclamation, the first proclamation: The Lord Jesus is risen, the Lord Jesus loves you, and he has given his life for you; risen and alive, he is close to you and waits for you every day” (Homily, 25 September 2016). These words help us to reflect on the dialogue in the Gospel between the rich man and Abraham. The rich man’s plea to save his brothers becomes a call to action for us.

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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.

A strong community life within a parish does not just happen overnight. It is not the result of one specific curriculum or event but is woven together over time, creating a vibrant tapestry of unification in vision and way of life. When you enter a strong parish community for Sunday Mass, you feel alive, welcomed, and called to more. People of every age attend, the young and the old in necessary relationship, as a vibrant parish community is often multigenerational and a place people want to “come home” to and be part of. Together, they can weather the storms of staff and pastor changes or turbulent events. A strong community takes its strength from its intricate weave centered on Christ and his teachings and his sacraments, allowing for frays to be mended and the tapestry to grow.

After nearly 20 years of serving parishes, we have found that helping build strong community is our passion. We have seen real fruit not only for those immediately in front of us but for multiple generations. In the January 2022 issue of The Catechetical Review, we wrote an article titled “No Family Is an Island: The Necessity of Community Living,” in which we focused on our personal experience of building a large young family community within our parish. What began as our deep desire to grow in our faith life through a strong community like we had in college became with God’s grace a thriving, faithful community that included nearly all of the young families in the parish. Once you experience the tremendous blessings of full Catholic community, it is hard to imagine life without it.

In this article we wish to engage the question of how to build parish community from the perspective of parish planning. We have been asked by many people in ministry, “What is your secret to building parish community?” And though it would be easier if there was just one great program to follow, book to read, curriculum to buy, or priest to beg to be assigned to your parish, we have found the answer to be intentional work and a slow and steady weaving of the parish tapestry.

“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.

“Enabling families to take up their role as active agents of the family apostolate calls for ‘an effort at evangelization and catechesis inside the family.’” The greatest challenge in this situation is for couples, mothers and fathers, active participants in catechesis, to overcome the mentality of delegation that is so common, according to which that faith is set aside for specialists in religious education. This mentality is, at times, fostered by communities that struggle to organize family centered catechesis which starts from the families themselves.

—Directory for Catechesis, no. 124[1]

Parents. We rely on them to register their kids in our programs, to attend mandatory meetings, and to complete everything needed for sacramental prep. But fundamentally, we don’t trust them. Oh, we trust some of them. For the most part, though, we assume they aren’t reinforcing the faith at home—and have no interest in doing so. After all, they don’t even bring their kids to Mass most of the time. But what if the way we structure our programs encourages the very behaviors we don’t like?

Our policies and procedures, our attitudes and approaches reveal that we don’t really believe parents can be the primary educators of their own children. Regardless of what the Church actually teaches about parents and the domestic church, we pastors, directors of religious education, and catechists all fail to trust. If we even allow at-home formation, frequently we don’t allow it in a sacrament year. When it really matters, we don’t have faith that parents can do it right.

The Roots of Distrust and the Desire for Control

The reasons for our distrust of parents are many. How do we know that they covered everything they were supposed to cover? How do we know that they taught doctrine clearly and accurately? How do we know that the child received authentic faith from their parents, who aren’t well formed?

It comes down to control, but we often forget how little control we have over what happens in the classrooms on our campus. Even a well-formed catechist with an excellent lesson plan and exciting manipulatives can fail to pass along the faith to every child in the room. How do we ever know everything was covered in a meaningful way for every child? The truth is, we don’t. If that’s the case on our campuses, then why are we so suspect of it happening in our families’ homes? If we ultimately rely on grace to operate in one place, why not in the other as well?

Youth Ministry begins with ministering to young people. Though this statement appears self-evident from the title, it can be easy to forget this simple truth. As youth ministers, our time is often divided between writing lesson plans, answering emails from parents, developing programs and Bible studies, ordering pizza, and a host of other logistical and administrative tasks. But youth ministry is first and foremost about discipling young people—accompanying them on their journey toward Christ. In order to do this, we need to minister to their needs.

There is an old adage that goes, “teens don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” If we want to lead young people closer to Jesus, we need to begin by being attentive to their corporal and spiritual needs and ministering in those areas. In this article we’ll be focusing specifically on young people’s need for community, including practical steps we can take as youth ministers in ministering to this need.

Why Young People Need Community

In 2023, The US Surgeon General’s office released a public advisory titled Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation. This eye-opening report documented some concerning trends in our country. As a whole, we are spending far less time socially connected to others in a meaningful way. Participation in community organizations has gone down drastically, with many young people opting for gathering virtually rather than in person. Unfortunately, these lower-quality interactions simply cannot meet young people’s need for meaningful connections with others. Social media, despite its name, can negatively impact young people socially and lead to greater feelings of isolation.[1]

Social media isn’t the only factor contributing to this; overscheduling extracurricular activities, smaller families, the pandemic, and a host of other sociological factors certainly play a role. As people who minister to young people, the question we have to ask ourselves is: what are we doing about this problem? The reality is that we are one of the first lines of defense against the loneliness epidemic. As Catholics, we believe that the human person was made for community with God and with other people. We know we cannot do it alone. Our youth groups and parishes can be a place where young people can experience authentic community, a taste of heaven on earth.

At a regional bishop’s meeting that i recently attended, an animated dialogue took place regarding different catechetical approaches currently employed in our Catholic schools. The discussion was wide ranging, but several bishops lamented the all-too-common absence of any treatment of the “fear of the Lord.” It appears that many texts avoid all but a passing reference to it. What also became apparent is that, in numerous cases, the reason for its exclusion is that many teachers and catechists simply don’t understand it themselves! Many intentionally omit it in order to protect people, especially children, from what they judge to be a punitive focus that is out of keeping with modern religious sensibilities. The teaching is thought to be inherently Jansenist, and they fear its effect on children and catechumens. This is a tragedy, as nothing could be further from the truth.

Fear of the Lord is a critically important disposition of a person toward God. It acknowledges the infinite glory and majesty of the Supreme Being, the One Creator God who effortlessly sustains all that he has created in being. He is mysterious beyond comprehension, an all-consuming fire, at once terrible in power and fascinating beyond imagination. As the Catechism affirms, “we firmly believe and confess without reservation that there is only one true God, eternal infinite (immensus) and unchangeable, incomprehensible, almighty and ineffable, the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit; three persons indeed, but one essence, substance or nature entirely simple” (202) and one “infinitely above everything that we can understand or say” (206).

To truly grasp the immense mystery of God’s infinite splendor and grandeur is to be amazed. It is to be filled with deep religious awe. God is discovered as the numinous, omnipresent presence to which every creature owes its existence and to whom they must answer. The Catechism affirms that, when faced with God’s presence, humans discover their own insignificance and recognize God’s holiness (see 208). This is, of course, absolutely true and profoundly important. But it is also where the confusion begins.

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.