Franciscan at Home

“Life is what happens when you are making other plans.” How often people have said this with a wry smile as they cope with an untimely interruption to their well-ordered (or not-so-ordered), scheduled events.

Once, now many years ago, I met the chalice. Of course, I had seen many, but I met one when I was at Beuron, when a friendly monk, who had charge of the sacred vessels, was showing me the treasures of the sacristy.

Every Ash Wednesday around the globe—in lavishly tiled basilicas, in wood planked chapels, in modest oratories with dirt floors, and in carpeted and cushioned suburban parishes—Catholics are called by Christ himself to reflect on the three great activities of Christian discipleship:

“When you pray…”

“When you give alms…”

“When you fast…”

For nearly two thousand years, Catholics have read, re-read, and reflected upon these three passages from the sixth chapter of Matthew. When the Ash Wednesday Mass concludes, the following forty days—all of Lent—is observed within this context.

How many Catholics understand that a normal living of the Christian life is to be composed of a healthy dose of all three? Sure, we’re supposed to pray. Everyone believes that. Giving alms (once we get past the archaic word) is also commonly accepted. In the United States and many other countries, giving to charities and doing service work is considered a normal part of our civic life. Nothing too unusual here.

But fasting? Who fasts? And if we do fast, isn’t it just obedience to some minimal Church norms during Lent? But where does Christ or the Church say that fasting is to be done exclusively during penitential seasons such as Lent? Where does Christ say that it should be so rare and so minimal? And where does he say that it is to be exclusively penitential? Nowhere. Yet for some reason these things are precisely what most of us think. Let’s take another look at what he and his disciples actually said and did when it comes to fasting.

When Jesus was preparing for his public ministry, where did he go and what did he do? He went out into the desert and spent forty days praying and fasting. Was Jesus doing penance? Of course not. He never sinned. He was preparing himself spiritually, seeking closeness to his Father in heaven. So, while doing penance is a very good reason for fasting, Jesus gives us other good reasons to fast.

How important was his fasting in this time of preparation? Consider Matthew 4:1-4: when the devil appeared to Jesus to try to thwart his mission, the very first thing he tried to do was to get Jesus to break his fast! Yes, fasting is that powerful and the devil understood this profoundly.

Later in his ministry, when Jesus’ disciples discovered that certain demons could resist their prayers of deliverance, Jesus informed them that some demons can only be cast out by prayer and fasting (cf. Mt 17:21). Obviously there is a power in fasting that goes beyond prayer alone.

To pray is good. To give alms is good. But fasting is the glue. In striving for holiness, prayer lifts us up. Almsgiving coupled with prayer is a selfless movement of love that powers us higher; but fasting allows us to soar to supernatural heights otherwise unimaginable! This is not because we ourselves are in control, but because fasting is an abandonment of control. It is a radical letting go that, coupled with sacramental confession, allows all barriers to our acceptance of God’s love to be broken.

Do You Believe in Me or Not?

When I was a student teacher of Grade 12 Philosophy Religion and Grade 11 World Religions classes, I felt inspired to have the students in both classes do an assignment that would involve them spending time before the Blessed Sacrament. The emphasis for the Philosophy class was more on whether or not they can know God exists, as we were covering St. Thomas Aquinas’ Five Proofs for the Existence of God at the time. For the World Religions class, the emphasis was more on communicating with God, as we were covering meditation. The students then had to journal everyday, indicating what they thought about the exercise and what their experiences were. I emphasized the fact that I wanted them to be honest with me and not just tell me what I wanted to hear.

I have to admit that I was reluctant at first to have the students do this assignment, because I was afraid that if nothing happened it would just confirm their doubts about God’s existence or that he is a personal God who cares about them. I suddenly felt God nudge me with this very gentle rebuke, “Do you really believe I am present in the Eucharist or not?”

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In my role as a director of religious education, I have listened to catechists make sweeping statements about their students, “These kids today don’t care about anything.” “Most of them don’t even want to be here.” Admittedly, such words are spoken in moments of frustration. I have also heard teachers make sentimental statements about their students, “They’re so sweet and innocent. What could they possibly have to confess?” Both expressions betray a lack of appreciation for the dignity of each child, a dignity which compels us to offer them a complete catechesis about who God is and who they are in relation to him.

It is one thing to assent to the truth that “children have a dignity of their own and that they are important not only for what they will do in the future, but for who they are now,”[1] and another to treat every child with the dignity they deserve. How can catechists honor the dignity of children?

Jesus gives us some clues where he becomes “indignant” when the disciples try to keep the children away and he rebukes them. “He called a child over, placed it in their midst, and said, ‘Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me. Amen, I say to you whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it.’ Then he embraced them and blessed them, placing his hands on them.”[2]

Humble Yourself
Jesus offers us a most practical way to grow in the virtue of humility when he admonishes us to turn and become like children. We cannot appreciate the dignity of another person when we are filled with our own ego, need for control, or pride. Children may not always be aware of their littleness, but when they come up against the reality that they need help, they soon become beggars, unashamed to ask for help. They unabashedly and often gratefully receive all as gift. If we are to turn and become like children, we have to give up the illusion that we can live the Christian life by ourselves. No matter our level of experience or education, each of us is radically dependent on God. “Put no trust in . . . mere mortals powerless to save. When they breathe their last, they return to the earth; that day all their planning comes to nothing.”[3] Our very life is dependent on God. If he were to cease loving us, we would cease to exist. Everything we have, including our education and experience, is gift. We have not earned and cannot deserve all we’ve been given. In addition, we are indebted to one another in ways we often take for granted. When we know how dependent we are on God and each other, we are free from the exhausting constraints of self-protection and self-promotion, free to give from the abundance of the gifts we’ve received, and free to follow the leading of the Holy Spirit in the moment.

Humility encourages a stance of awe and wonder in the presence of God’s children who are temporarily placed in our care. An active pursuit of humility safeguards all those in relationship with us too, because it ensures that we act from a place of love and gratitude toward God and others.

Amid the dark shadows that have at times been cast over the face of the Church, too often obscuring for our contemporaries the clear light of Christ shining from her (see Lumen Gentium n. 1), we need to focus anew on the universal call to holiness.

The fifth chapter of Lumen Gentium on “the universal call to holiness” reads very much like it could have been composed by St. Francis de Sales, as it echoes what he had written around 1609 in the first pages of his Introduction to the Devout Life. What St. Francis refers to repeatedly throughout his text as “devotion” could easily be rendered “holiness” or “sanctity.” This vocation is universal; that is, there is no member of the Church, configured to Christ dead-and-risen in the waters of baptism, who is not called to sanctity. However, what precisely this sanctity will look like will vary significantly depending upon one’s particular vocation within his Body and the details of one’s life.

Formed in Spousal Love
The diocesan priest is a man configured to Christ, Head of the Body, and espoused to Christ’s Bride, the Church. As the Church is formed from the love that pours forth from the side of Christ crucified, a man who is ordained a priest must find his identity in that wounded side of Christ. The beloved disciple in the Gospel is portrayed as resting in sinu Jesu, on the breast of Jesus (Jn 13:23). The Son, who dwells eternally in sinu Patris (Jn 1:18), by his incarnate existence extends his filial life to those who are reborn in baptism. They too, through him and with him and in him, dwell in sinu Patris. But since Jesus is revealed as the way to the Father (Jn 14:6), and as the one who makes the Father known (who has literally “exegeted” the Father, Jn 1:18), they must first dwell in sinu Jesu. The third century theologian, Origen, remarked that no one can understand the Gospel unless, like the beloved disciple, he learns to recline on the Lord’s breast. Intimacy with Christ is at the heart of the life of the baptized. At ordination, the faith and witness of the baptized man takes on (quite literally) a new character. The one who was configured to Christ in baptism and sealed with the Spirit in confirmation, receives a new configuration he is, by his ordination, configured to act in persona Christi capitis, in the person of Christ as head of the Body. He is conformed to Christ in act, so to speak, configured to Christ as he gives himself for his Bride, the Church. This is why the spousal love witnessed on the Cross is the font of the Church, the source of its sacramental life (the near unanimous view of the Fathers), and the very form of the priestly life. For the priest, the side of Christ in which he rests remains forever the pierced side, as Christ’s wounds do not disappear at the resurrection but remain the eternal sacrament of his love.

In much the same way that a married couple most perfectly embodies the self-gift that defines their identity in the act of conjugal love (such that they are considered as consummating what was ratified within the Rite of Marriage), so the priest, at the altar and in offering Christ’s sacrifice in the celebration of the Mass, most perfectly embodies the self-gift that defines his identity, his espousal to Christ’s Bride, now the priest’s as well. Christ’s words, made the priest’s own (or perhaps the priest’s words, in union with Christ’s), express the priest’s spousal love for the Church. Gazing at the chalice, lifted at the consecration, it is not unusual for the priest to see himself reflected in it. In some respects, this captures the essence of his vocation: priesthood is not merely or even primarily something he does, it’s who he is. The conflict between functional and ontological understandings of the priesthood can be resolved easily if the former is always related to the latter: what the priest does (celebration of sacraments primarily, but many other pastoral tasks as well) must be rooted in and flow from who he is. His identity is determined not by these acts themselves, but by these acts as expressive of who he is by virtue of his ordination.

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