Franciscan at Home

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. 

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“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.”

In Evangelii Nuntiandi (EN), Pope Paul VI, of sainted memory, said something that has become almost a banner that we fly above our apostolic work today, both in our evangelization and our catechesis. “Modern man listens more willingly to witnesses than to teachers, and if he does listen to teachers, it is because they are witnesses.”[1] This is often taken to mean that teaching, both the act and its content, are somehow to be considered a second-rate concern for our mission today.

The almost ubiquitous line is, “Well, doctrine is important, but . . ..” In statements of this kind, the implication is that what follows the ellipsis—whether it be encounter, the heart, the personal dimension, or, as in Pope Paul’s statement, Christian witness—is primary, and that doctrine is secondary. Unfortunately, in some cases these statements are really intended to communicate that content isn’t very important at all. 

As Christians, we are called to affirm the dignity of each human being. This dignity has its beginning from our first moment of existence, when each of us receives the gift of life itself. The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that “Human life must be respected and protected absolutely from the moment of conception. From the first moment of his existence, a human being must be recognized as having the rights of a person—among which is the inviolable right of every innocent being to life” (2270).

Made in God’s image, each human being possesses an intellect and will, along with the capacity to love and be loved.[1] When we live in accordance with our dignity, what we were truly made for, it causes deep happiness and fulfillment. When we witness to a culture of life, we help uphold the dignity of everyone around us.

Notes

This article is part of a 3-year series dedicated to promoting the efforts of the National Eucharistic Revival in the United States.

“The Body of Christ.” “Amen.” Each time we participate in Mass, we have the opportunity to encounter the Lord Jesus in the most intimate way through the reception of Holy Communion. This moment is the most practical and profound way we can live Jesus’ invitation to “abide in my love” (Jn 15:10) this side of heaven. Yet, this moment of communion is not solely about a personal bond with Jesus. The relationship with him—strengthened and nourished by the Eucharist—impels us to charity for our brothers and sisters, especially the most vulnerable.

In this article, I want to reflect with you on two of the Beatitudes, allowing the witness and words of St. Francis of Assisi to help us understand how our inner life is transformed by the reception of Holy Communion. Flowing from that transformation, as “other Christs,” we are fortified to live lives of charity in action.