Franciscan at Home

My beautiful mother, Kathleen Pauley, died on June 4, 2025 at the age of 83. She is an extraordinary person and an intimate friend of Jesus. She lived with suffering from a very early age and was well acquainted with the Cross. In the weeks of serious illness that led up to her death, I learned many things from her about our life in Christ, lessons which have helped me see suffering and death in a way more aligned with our Christian hope.

First, some background: Kathy was a woman after the Lord’s heart. Around four decades ago, she told me of being asked by our Lord in prayer if she would suffer for souls. She gave her assent to this seemingly strange request. Days later, she slipped on a puddle of water in the produce department of the grocery store and severely injured her back. And from that day on, she experienced a series of serious physical setbacks that lasted the rest of her life. Although her suffering had begun much earlier through a very difficult and painful childhood, this choice she was given by our Lord was a pivotal moment in her life where he made a proposal of love and she freely accepted it. After decades of intentionally sharing in his Cross, the final stage of her earthly pilgrimage took place over two months as she battled a very serious blood infection in her heart. This infection caused a heart attack and several strokes, which impaired her vision by about 80%. In being a member of her family who sought to accompany her through this experience, she taught me much from her school of suffering. Here are seven lessons I learned from her.

Lesson One: Suffering That Stays

My mother understood something remarkable about God: out of love, he only infrequently chooses to take away suffering. This is counterintuitive, of course, for us humans, who see suffering as the greatest of evils—as something from which we want God to rescue us. Instead, he chooses to enter deeply and intimately into our experience of suffering, accompanying us in radical, divine solidarity. Kathy experienced the presence of God in her suffering quite profoundly; she spoke sometimes of her experience of being deeply loved by Jesus as she suffered. It seems that this confidence in his closeness allowed her to embrace reality as it confronted her. Often, of course, she didn’t feel close to him; yet, she persevered in those periods of dryness and spiritual darkness. But always he provided for her, usually in unexpected ways.

Here’s a compelling example I witnessed: In her last days, I found myself marveling at how the Lord had drawn close and was uniquely providing for the needs of his beloved daughter as she suffered. Because of the strokes she had had, she often hallucinated. Yet, most of her hallucinations were of the loveliest type. For a span of about a week, she frequently believed she was not in a hospital bed facing a dire prognosis but rather at an enormous party with all of her family and friends around her. As I sat by her bedside, she asked me time and again if people were having a good time. And at one point, she brought a rush of tears to my eyes when she told me she was so excited because my daughters and nieces were going to “put on a show” for everyone, drawing on memories of a dozen years ago when the then-toddling Pauley girls loved to put on shows for Nana and Papa with play acting and singing.

Through these experiences with her, I found myself marveling at how the Lord was taking good care of his beloved and giving her joy. For much of my time with her, she was, as they say, happy as a clam. I know this isn’t the experience of most who suffer—and it certainly wasn’t her experience through most of her own life as she struggled to embrace some difficult realities. But, for a few days during her final weeks, her experience of joy showed me God’s great tenderness and closeness to her. I was so grateful to him for this. While he rarely took away her suffering, it did bring about opportunities for intimacy and union with Jesus that were just breathtaking to behold.

Last spring, most of my family spent a semester at Franciscan University of Steubenville’s beautiful campus in Gaming, Austria. As an introvert, one of my worries going into the semester was getting to know a whole new group of coworkers and joining their community as an outsider. Never have I been more delighted to discover my worries were unwarranted.We were picked up at the airport by a beautiful and generous family. When we arrived to Gaming late at night, a benevolent philosophy professor insisted on bringing in our bags. There was warm pumpkin soup and tea waiting for us at the dinner table. And with a burst of joy and energy, four amazing Franciscan TOR sisters rushed into the house with hugs and words of welcome. Over the course of the next four months, the faculty and staff there became the dearest of friends. Never have I experienced friendship and community in such a concentrated way.

For most of us, our current cultural climate is one of stark isolation. With families spread out geographically more than ever, and with screens drawing us away from real human interaction, it is easy to live significantly withdrawn from good relationships. Without the cultural supports for community that previous generations enjoyed, unless we take intentional steps toward others, it’s very easy to lead a solitary and lonely life.

And yet, we human beings were made for communion with others. We know theologically that we were made for union with God (who is a communion of Trinitarian persons) and with all the baptized who are joined to him. And on a natural human level, we know that good relationships are critical to the flourishing of every human being—even if finding such authentic community can be a bewildering quest today.

In the first paragraph of the first document of the Second Vatican Council we find a summary of the Council Fathers’ goals for their work: “This sacred Council has several aims in view: it desires to impart an ever increasing vigor to the Christian life of the faithful; to adapt more suitably to the needs of our own times those institutions which are subject to change; to foster whatever can promote union among all who believe in Christ; to strengthen whatever can help to call the whole of mankind into the household of the Church. The Council therefore sees particularly cogent reasons for undertaking the reform and promotion of the liturgy.”[1]

As many have noted, these aims have as their clear goal the renewal of the Church and its human structures for the sake of evangelization, both for those already in the family of God and for those not yet part of that family. In keeping with the remarks by which Pope St. John XXIII opened the Council, its goal and purpose was to make the Gospel of Jesus Christ more readily knowable and known by and to the men and women of our age.[2] One might fairly describe the intent of the Council as catechetical and evangelical. That is, it sought to do what it could to enliven the efforts of Catholics to deepen their own faith in the Triune God and to draw others to the same God.

Unfortunately, that intention did not bear its hoped-for fruit, at least initially. As many have also noted, in the initial postconciliar years and decades, the intended fruition of the Council Fathers’ desires not only did not come to pass, but just the opposite occurred, such that, some 20 years after the close of the Council, then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger remarked that “the catastrophic failure of modern catechesis is all too obvious.”[3]

Why and how did this failure in catechetical and evangelical renewal occur immediately following the Council? Many have offered answers to this question from numerous perspectives. A recent and compelling answer is found in Brad Bursa’s Because He Has Spoken to Us: Structures of Proclamation from Rahner to Ratzinger. Bursa not only traces the theological origins and development of the postconciliar catechetical collapse to the attempted catechetical implementation of the theology of Karl Rahner, but he also proposes a way forward by pointing to the Trinitarian Christology of Joseph Ratzinger/Pope Benedict XVI.

At the end of his public life, Jesus sent his apostles into the world to preach, teach, baptize, and share the life he had given them (see Mt 28:16–20).

At the end of his public life, Jesus sent his apostles into the world to preach, teach, baptize, and share the life he had given them (see Mt 28:16–20). This is the divine model: people are called to God to be formed by him and then sent to bring others to share in that joyful life. Teachers of the faith in particular enjoy both the joys and the responsibilities of living and sharing that life.

The Church in the United States finds herself in a similar position as those first disciples in this, the final year of the Eucharistic Revival: it is the Year of Mission. After some time of diocesan and parish renewal, each of us is being charged to go forth into the world to bring Christ to others. Having been formed in these last years by our Eucharistic prayer and study, we are now commissioned as missionaries, sent to invite others to experience the great joy of knowing and serving Christ in the Blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist.

In the case of those already engaged in catechetical ministry, this call will also take the form of renewing and deepening our own understanding, methods, and engagement with those whom we teach. To such an end, there are four main “pillars” proposed to us to guide our way and to help keep us stable in our pursuits of drawing people to Christ.

Pillar I: Eucharistic Encounter

The first of these pillars is Eucharistic Encounter. This pillar is meant to encourage and continue what we have been stressing this entire revival: we need to encounter Christ in the Eucharist—we need to meet him in his presence and spend time with him. This is the start and end of all our endeavors, for the Eucharist is the “source and summit of the Christian life.”[1] As the old saying goes, nemo dat quod non habet; nobody gives what he doesn’t have. In other words, we cannot expect to lead people to Christ if we are not spending time with him ourselves.

Catechists can help their students to grow in this area by helping them to participate worthily and well at Holy Mass, attending daily if possible; by going to adoration and benediction of the Blessed Sacrament; and by making short visits to the tabernacle, even spiritually if you cannot do so physically. Frequent confession is a must in this area as well. Good and helpful explanations of what participating in these sacramental realities mean will of course be necessary and will go a long way.

At the origin of human history lies a pivotal moment—the fateful bite from the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. However, this profound narrative doesn’t conclude with the original sin; it finds its ultimate fulfillment in the taste of the Eucharist. Through the sense of taste, which once led to humanity’s fall, we now receive spiritual nourishment and the grace of eternal life, all made possible through the loving sacrifice of Christ.

In the Garden of Eden, God placed two trees—the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. While Adam and Eve were commanded not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, they were free to partake of the Tree of Life, which held the gift of immortality and eternal communion with God.

Tragically, temptation lured Eve into believing the serpent’s deceitful words—that eating the fruit from the forbidden tree would make her wise like God. She tasted the fruit and shared it with Adam, thus disobeying God’s command.

As a consequence of their disobedience, sin entered human nature, and God, in his mercy, expelled them from the Garden of Eden. This act of divine love spared them from eternal separation from God in their fallen state. Eating from the Tree of Life while in a state of sinfulness would have meant an eternity estranged from him. God had angels guard the Tree of Life in his infinite wisdom, ensuring that Adam and Eve would not eat from it on their way out. “He expelled the man, stationing the cherubim and the fiery revolving sword east of the garden of Eden, to guard the way to the tree of life” (Gn 3:24).

This denial of access to the Tree of Life foreshadowed the need for a Savior to redeem the human race from sin and open up access to eternal life through faith and grace. That Savior is Jesus Christ, whom the New Testament calls the “last Adam” (1 Cor 15:45). Just as Adam’s sin brought death into the world, Christ’s sacrificial death on the Cross brings redemption and the promise of eternal life. Thus, the image of the Tree of Life profoundly connects to the Cross on which Jesus was crucified—a Cross made of a tree, symbolizing the tree of the Fall being redeemed by the tree of the Cross.

I suspect that most Catholics who have some familiarity with the Bible and the Eucharist could tell you that the Eucharistic celebration, rooted in the Last Supper, has connections with the Passover of Exodus and Jewish practice. We know that Jesus celebrated the Last Supper in the context of the Passover Feast and that he and his apostles used some of the same foods used at Passover, such as unleavened bread and wine. I’m not sure that most of us, however, appreciate the depth of the connections. They are not just historical or biblical trivia, either—they reveal the profundity of God’s plans for us in the Eucharist. This is especially true of the korban pesach, the sacrifice of the lamb. Most of the time, we overlook the fact that the lamb was offered as a redemptive sacrifice. It was offered in place of the Israelites, who deserved death just as the Egyptians did. When we understand this, we can begin to truly appreciate the depth of God’s mercy in giving his people the perfect sacrifice after centuries of imperfect ones.

Setup for Passover: The Plagues

To begin, we need to understand the background for the Passover in the ten plagues, which are recounted in chapters 7–11 of the Book of Exodus. After the encounter with the Burning Bush in Exodus 3, Moses and his brother Aaron tell Pharoah to let the Chosen People leave Egypt. Pharoah refuses. In response, God begins to send plagues, wonders intended to display his power. Pharoah’s heart is so hard, however, that God continues to display greater and greater power until we come to the eve of the tenth and final plague: the death of the firstborn. This is a plague that we regularly misunderstand, but it is impossible to grasp the whole meaning of the Passover without an accurate understanding of this plague.

Our main problem is that we look at the death of the firstborn, and the plagues in general, as punishments intended to hurt the evil Egyptians. There certainly is an element of punishment here, but the primary function of the plagues is to display the power and rights that the God of Israel has not only over his own people but over all of nature and, ultimately, over human life. In Exodus 7:4, when God foretells the plagues to Moses, he does call them “great acts of judgment.” However, he goes on to state the purpose of these acts: “The Egyptians shall know that I am the LORD” (7:5). The plagues then build upon each other, successively showing Pharaoh God’s power over the Nile, over crops, over livestock, over the human body, and over the sun, which the Egyptians considered a god. Ultimately, Pharaoh only realizes that the God of Israel has power over life itself when the tenth plague takes the lives of Egypt’s firstborn. Remember this as we discuss the Passover meal.

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

There is an interesting phenomenon that occurs in nearly every culture across history: man ritualizes worship. All over the world the similarities are astounding—animal sacrifices, burnt offerings, gifts of grain, the joy of ecstatic praise. It points to a universal sense within man that not only recognizes that there is a God but also knows that man is called to represent the created order before the Creator. This universal orientation toward the divine can help us recognize what it means to become Eucharistic missionaries.

A Little World

Man is similar to the dust of the earth, the plants that grow, and the animals that move and feel. Yet, he isn’t confined to a “fixed pattern” like the plants and animals; rather, he has been given “the privilege of freedom” like the angels.[1] He is a “little world” arranged in harmonious order in which matter is given voice, elevated, and ennobled by its participation in man’s freely offered “spiritual worship” (Rom 12:1).[2] He has a deep capacity to entrust himself. Standing at the summit and center of creation, he is capable of free obedience to God, which allows for the transformation of his life into a living liturgy of praise.

As matter and spirit, man is also capable of seeing beyond. In the novella A River Runs Through It, an expert fisherman shares his thought process for recognizing a good fishing hole: “All there is to thinking is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren’t noticing which makes you see something that isn’t even visible.”[3] Looking again and again until one sees the “something that isn’t even visible” is a recognition that the world is sacramental, a world of signs, permeated and ordered by Wisdom. Man comes to see that this world is a gift “destined for and addressed to man” (CCC 299). As anyone knows, the reception of a gift elicits first wonder and delight and then gratitude and praise as we lift our eyes from the gift to the giver. A sacramental view of the world moves man to lift his eyes to the Giver and, on behalf of the entire cosmos, to “offer all creation back to him” in a sacrifice of thanksgiving (CCC 358).[4]

Watered Garden

In the biblical account it is this worship that brings order; or rather, worship is the locus of right order. As a little world, man sums up all things, so when he entrusts himself into the hands of God, he gives everything. This gives his worship an inherently outward dimension—it includes more than himself. When man worships, everything worships, and so everything is consecrated. In the garden, rivers ran through it and out to the whole earth (Gn 2:10–14), making it a paradise in which the first Adam “played with childlike freedom.”[5] One can see here a created echo, a sort of natural catechesis, of Eternal Wisdom playing before the Father like a little child, “rejoicing before him always, rejoicing in his inhabited world” (Prv 8:30–31).

Back in 1989, when I first began working as a parish catechetical leader, I remember becoming alert to a pattern that unfolded regularly in our church parking lot. Two nights a week, our empty parking lot would become quite busy for two short periods of time. A line of cars would begin to form at 6:45 p.m. that would slowly inch along as parents dropped their children and teens off for parish catechesis. Then the lot emptied except for the dozen or so cars of the catechists. And then, an hour and a half later, the methodical line would predictably form again and creep along as parents retrieved their kids.

I had never been particularly attentive to this until that night. My alertness came about because of a contrasting pattern I had noticed for the first time in a church down the street. The previous week, I had noticed just how different the experience was in the evangelical Christian church parking lot. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, that church also had many cars entering the lot. But these cars were parked and remained for several hours until their drivers exited together at around 9 p.m. In that community, the adult drivers got out of their cars and entered, and then, surprisingly, remained in the building. As their kids went to Bible studies, so did their parents and other adults; whereas in our Catholic parish, the adult-chauffeurs immediately departed as their kids were catechized. In one church, the idea of studying and growing in an understanding of God’s Word was normative adult Christian life. Yet in the other—in ours—catechesis was an activity meant for the kids.

When it comes to the Catholic parishes with which each of us might be most familiar, what age level receives the most focused catechetical attention?