Franciscan at Home

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.

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

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.

What does it mean to receive the Eucharist, to enter into communion with Jesus?

Catholics in the United States have a long history of hosting both national and international Eucharistic congresses. The first of these was in Washington, DC, in 1895, and the last was in Philadelphia in 1976. If your ancestors were Catholic and lived in North America, they may have participated in one of these congresses—in St. Louis (1901), or New York (1904), or New Orleans (1938), or another of the 11 congresses to date. I’ve been thinking lately about the congress that took place in Cleveland in 1935. My grandparents were in the area at that time, and as believing Catholics it’s a good bet that they went to this congress and that it was a profound experience for them. These congresses—spanning across generations, and for many of us across our family histories—have been catalysts of faith and have played an important role in the Catholic history of the United States. 

In 1987, I was able to see both St. John Paul II and St. Teresa of Calcutta in person in Phoenix. I’ve also gone to two World Youth Days (in 1993 and 2000). I will never forget these large events and how they have shaped me. Of course, this is to be expected, since the visible gathering of many Catholics around Jesus in the Eucharist expresses in a unique way the Mystical Body of Christ and is truly a foretaste of heaven. On my two pilgrimages to World Youth Day, we had long bus rides after the closing Mass. Using the bus microphones, teenager after teenager gave powerful testimony to how they experienced the goodness and the love of God and how they wanted to live in a new way. 

While the United States has hosted Eucharistic congresses before, this is the first year that a walking Eucharistic procession across the country has been planned. And there are four of these—taking place right now! These walking pilgrimages are roughly forming a cross shape of blessing over our country. This is one way that we Catholics are asking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit to bless and transform our country. There is much national discussion these days about the diminishment of Catholic faith in our current cultural circumstances. The walking pilgrimages and the Eucharistic Congress are tangible ways we can step forward and publicly express our love for Jesus in the Eucharist and our love for the Catholic faith. And such a public profession will strengthen our faith—and the faith of others, too. If there is any possible way you can participate in the pilgrimages or the congress in Indianapolis from July 17–21, it is (perhaps) a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to bear witness to Jesus in a way that will have tremendous evangelistic power in our broader society. 

This is a paid advertisement. To order these books, visit https://ignatius.com/ or call 800-651-1531.

“Dad, why does God like it when I suffer? I don’t like it.” This was the question that my five-year-old, Anastasia, posed during a recent dinner at home. As the liturgical seasons ebb and flow and certain penitential days make their appearance (not to mention the year-round meatless Fridays), my wife and I frequently encourage our three little children to offer some small, age-appropriate sacrifices to God. These exhortations, however, gave my little Anastasia the idea that God takes delight in our suffering—a long-debated question spanning multiple creeds. But is it true? If I put up with cold, or heat, or hunger, or that annoying co-worker, does God really find joy in my discomfort? What about people with cancer or any other painful illness? Ultimately, does God take delight in my death?

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

The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary is a beautiful dogma of the Church that conveys to the faithful the importance of the Blessed Mother. In 1950, the apostolic constitution Munificentissimus Deus (The Most Bountiful God) was promulgated by Pope Pius XII. It declared that Mary was assumed into heaven—body and soul—at the end of her earthly life. Many traditions gathered from ancient sources tell us of Mary’s life after the scriptural conclusion of the apostolic age. The whole Church, in both in history and in contemporary times, has perceived the bookends of Mary’s life to be remarkable—a woman born without sin would also be free of the earthly demands of conventional human death. Supported by the patriarchs, the prophets, her Magnificat, the Marian visionaries, bishops, clergy, the lay faithful, and especially her relationship to her Son, Pius XII was moved to establish this dogma to help us know the fullness of Mary ever better.

But how can an artist depict something as mysterious and glorious as an event like this? As in images depicting many other glorious parts of the narrative of salvation, an artist is called to stretch the imagination, to conceive of a design that amplifies our meditation instead of bringing it “down to earth.” Certainly, composing a simple, factual scene of a woman flying into the sky would be insufficient. The Assumption by Masolino is an image that does more than show a literal historical event. It is painted in the International Gothic style—a post-Medieval, pre-Renaissance mix of realism and imaginative idealism. In art, realism depicts what the neutral eye naturally sees, whereas idealism is a vision of what the mind would like to see based on invisible ideas, usually something better than what we find when looking at the world. Realism and idealism are found throughout the history of art in both secular and religious images. Artists who create sacred art often use forms that are “more than real” in order to convey the mysteries of our faith. Masolino is one of those artists.

I come here often. Sometimes I come in gratitude. Other times I come here to beg. I come alone. I come with my wife and our kids.

Growing up, it took thirty minutes to get here. Back country roads. Flat. Everything level and straight. Fields speckled with the occasional woods, a barn, a farmhouse. It was practically in my backyard. But then I moved. Now, it takes about three hours. I drive up the long interstate to those familiar country roads that lead into the village.

The sleepy, two-stoplight town is something of a time warp. Life just moves slower in Carey, Ohio. The rural way of life is simpler than the suburban variety.

I stay for hours, or for twenty minutes. Being here is all that matters.

Yes, I come here often. It’s in my blood.

I am a pilgrim.

Basilica and National Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation

In June of 1873, Fr. Joseph Peter Gloden was entrusted with the mission in Carey, Ohio: thirteen families and an unfinished church building. The people were discouraged. But Fr. Gloden rallied the small band of Catholics, and the nascent congregation finished the construction of the church. It was given the title Our Lady of Consolation, for, as Gloden said, “We are not yet at the end of our difficulties and we need a good, loving and powerful comforter.”[1]

After the church was dedicated, Gloden, originally from Remerschen, Luxembourg, sought to obtain a copy of the statue of Luxembourg’s Our Lady of Consolation. The statue was made of oak and adorned with a fabric dress. The replica of the statue from the Cathedral of Luxembourg arrived in Carey in March 1875. To give Our Lady’s statue a most solemn entrance into her new home, Fr. Gloden and his parishioners decided on a seven-mile procession to the church in Carey from the nearby parish in Frenchtown, Ohio.

The big event was to take place on May 24, 1875. The day before, a heavy storm swept through the area. On the morning of the proposed procession, another storm threatened. Lightning could be seen across the horizon. Gloden urged the crowd not to scatter, calling out, “Let the procession proceed; there is no danger.”[2] And so they charged into a thunderstorm. The rest is history. Rain poured all around the procession, but nobody in the procession got wet. Once the statue reached the church and was safely inside, the rain pelted the earth.[3] From the beginning, the whole thing was viewed as a miraculous event—a light prelude to events that would happen in Fatima some decades later. On that day in rural Ohio, Mary protected her beloved little ones from the elements.

Many were the attempts made in Europe during the nineteenth century to redefine and refashion human existence. Significantly, over the same period there were three major apparitions in which Mary, Mother of the Redeemer, was present: Rue du Bac in Paris, France (1830); Lourdes, France (1858); and Knock, Ireland (1879). Taken together, these offer the answer to humanity’s searching. Let us look particularly at Mary’s eighteen apparitions to Bernadette Soubirous in Lourdes.

In February 1934, one year after Bernadette’s canonization, Msgr. Ronald Knox preached a sermon in which he compares the young girl’s experience with that of Moses, even suggesting we might see Lourdes as a modern-day Sinai.[1] We should note that the events on Sinai are at the heart of biblical revelation, whereas those in Lourdes were private revelations later acknowledged by the Church to be for our good; yet, Knox finds many similarities between the two. Both, for example, took place on the slopes of hills; Moses and Bernadette were shepherds at the time; for both, a solitary experience resulted in the gathering of great crowds. Moses took off his shoes out of reverence for holy ground; Bernadette removed hers to cross a mill stream. Each was made aware of a mysterious presence demanding their attention: for one, by a fire that burned but did not consume; for the other, at the sound of a strong wind that did not move trees and the sight of a bright light that did not dazzle.

Moses was to lead the people out of bondage, though the Hebrews fell back to the worship of a golden calf. Knox writes that Bernadette was also “sent to a world in bondage,” a bondage in which it rejoiced. He finds significance in the fact that her visions took place in the middle of the Victorian age, when material plenty had given rise to materialism, “a spirit which loves . . . and is content with the good things of this life, [which] does not know how to enlarge its horizons and think about eternity.” Bernadette “was sent to deliver us from that captivity of thought; to make us forget the idols of our prosperity, and learn afresh the meaning of suffering and the thirst for God.” “That,” Knox uncompromisingly affirms, “is what Lourdes is for; that is what Lourdes is about—the miracles are only a by-product.” The preacher has no doubt of our own need for this message: “We know that in this wilderness of drifting uncertainties, our modern world, we still cling to the old standard of values, still celebrate . . . the worship of the Golden Calf.”