Franciscan at Home

“I die, but God does not die! . . . Viva Cristo Rey!”

— Last words of Anacleto González Flores, 20th century martyr[1]

The accounts of the Christian martyrs never fail to captivate. Whatever our circumstances—young or old, believer or non-believer—we are attracted to stories of those who prefer death to renouncing their faith. We can be awed by the excitement of their adventure and their perseverance and determination in facing their heroic deaths at the hands of executioners or wild beasts. Yet, to equate martyrology to dramatic narrative misses the theological significance of Christian suffering and sacrifice.

The root of the word “martyr” comes from the ancient Greek legal term μάρτυς, “mártus,” meaning “witness” or “testimony.” In the early days of the Church, imprisonment and death remained a common fate for Christians who refused to recant their belief in the Gospel. But despite pagan and secular efforts to eradicate Christianity through the elimination of her stubbornly outspoken and often-prominent adherents, the Church continued to grow in numbers.

Tertullian, a second-century Father of the Church, offered an allegorical observation as he defended his fellow Christians against the sadistic oppression by the civil authorities in his Apologeticus:

Nor does your cruelty, however exquisite, avail you; it is rather a temptation to us. The oftener we are mown down by you, the more in number we grow; the blood of Christians is seed. Many of your writers exhort to the courageous bearing of pain and death . . . ; and yet their words do not find so many disciples as Christians do, teachers not by words, but by their deeds.[2]

It goes without saying that Christianity has faced various kinds and levels of hostility throughout history from governments and societies. Christians have often been forced to choose between moral or religious values and civic or cultural values. Material goods, reputations, jobs, freedom, and even lives have been at stake—and are today in many places. One major milestone in the conflict between Christianity and the state came in the year 249, when the Roman emperor Decius issued an empire-wide decree ordering all citizens to participate in pagan sacrifices. The exact nature of the sacrifice varied from place to place, but it typically involved an incense offering, a libation (or offering of wine), and eating some sacrificial meat. This is unique in the history of the Roman state religion to that point, as performance of actual religious rituals had almost never been prescribed by law for the average citizen.

The Decian Persecution

Though we do not have the text of Decius’ decree, we know quite a bit about its enforcement from several sources. Most notable among these are the writings of St. Cyprian, who was bishop of Carthage (in modern-day Tunisia) from 249 until his martyrdom during the persecution of Valerian in 258. As bishop of the second-most prominent city in the western half of the Roman empire, Cyprian was on the forefront of Christian reactions to the decree to sacrifice. It is largely through his letters and treatises, especially On the Lapsed, that we learn three things. First, we learn what was asked of Christians (and, in fact, all citizens) during the enforcement of Decius’ decree. Second, we learn how Carthaginian Christians reacted to the decree. Finally, we learn how the Church, especially the hierarchy, viewed the differing Christian responses. These facts can give modern-day Christians, who face all kinds of hostility and persecution, insight into how the early Church understood the Christian responsibility under duress and whether there was any flexibility in acceptable responses.

What we ultimately need to understand is how Christians, then and now, react to pressures from governments and societies. So I will focus first on Christian reactions to the decree and how these reactions were viewed by Church leaders. We can break down Christian reactions to the decree into two categories. First were those who were called on to sacrifice but completely and publicly resisted to the point of suffering. Some were put in jail, had their property confiscated, or underwent torture; some were ultimately put to death. In their suffering, they were called “confessors” (because they confessed, or proclaimed, Christ publicly) and in their deaths, “martyrs.”

The second category includes those who came to be known as the “lapsi”—the lapsed or fallen. In this category, there were two types: There were those who, when called upon to sacrifice, did just that. After the end of the persecution, St. Cyprian described these in On the Lapsed as, shall we say, eager. He wrote: “Without any compulsion they hastened to the forum, they hurried of themselves to their death, as if this was what they had long been waiting for, as if they were embracing the opportunity to realize the object of their desires.”[1] He is writing here, of course, not about the physical death of the martyrs but the spiritual death of those called the sacrificati, or the sacrificers.

However, there is another group that came to be called the libellatici, “those who have little books.” Because the Romans did not have a central database of those who had followed the edict, they tracked participation by issuing libelli, or little books, to those who had sacrificed. We still have today around 40 of these libelli, mostly from Egypt. These show that they functioned as certificates of sacrifice, signed not only by the sacrificer but by the local commission in charge of enforcing the decree, as well as, in some cases, a professional scribe or another person who held power of attorney for the sacrificer. Once you had sacrificed, if an official demanded to know whether you were in good legal standing, you could show your libellus to prove that you were. Evidence suggests that perhaps two copies were made of each libellus, one being kept by the petitioner and one deposited in the local archives.

Many catechists yearn for a specific, detailed order, or pre-set curriculum of OCIA teachings, but the universal Church is unlikely to ever mandate one beyond that which exists in a general form in the Creed itself.[1] While it is true that “authentic catechesis is always an orderly and systematic initiation into the revelation that God has given of himself in Christ Jesus,”[2] the General Directory for Catechesis (GDC) states:

Indeed, “it can happen that in the present situation of catechesis reasons of method or pedagogy may suggest that the communication of the riches of the content of catechesis should be organized in one way rather than another.”[3] It is possible to begin with God so as to arrive at Christ, and vice versa. Equally, it is possible to start with man and come to God, and conversely. The selection of a particular order for presenting the message is conditioned by circumstances, and by the faith level of those to be catechized. (GDC 118)

It cannot be emphasized too strongly that the means of determining the order of catechesis for a given set of participants must take into account liturgical, catechetical, and pastoral considerations at a given parish in a given year, as is laid out below. Taking all of the above into account, this article presents three methods that, when considered together, enable a catechist or OCIA director to order teachings in a way that serves the content of the faith.

I took my first steps as a catechist at 17, when I met the Missionaries of Charity on a service camp trip sponsored by my youth group. The sisters needed help with their summer camp for inner-city children, and I needed service hours for graduation. That summer changed my life. I discovered the joy of catechesis and ended up serving and teaching alongside the sisters for seven years until I entered my community, the Sister Servants of the Eternal Word.

These Missionary of Charity sisters, inspired by Mother Teresa’s witness and charism, mentored me in the art of Christocentric catechesis. The Missionaries of Charity incorporate evangelization and catechesis into everything they do, particularly in their work with children. The children’s time of catechesis was not called religion class; it was “Getting to Know Jesus.” In its striking simplicity, this title captures the essence of catechesis: “to put people not only in touch but in communion, in intimacy, with Jesus Christ.”[1]

The sisters didn’t have textbooks, slideshows, or videos; the Scriptures, the liturgy, and the Church’s teaching were their only sources. They taught from their own experience of intimacy with Jesus, lived in the daily rhythm of their communal prayer life as religious sisters. This prayer life permeated their entire catechetical process, beginning with a time of prayer in chapel asking God to bless our work and open the hearts of the children. For the sisters, catechesis was not just about communicating truths of the faith—it was about sharing the joy of a life lived in union with Jesus and inviting the children to experience this same joy. This catechesis was effective, too. Several children converted to the Catholic faith over the years and continue to live committed Christian lives to this day.

My community’s sisters often witness similar transformations in those we encounter in our apostolate of evangelization through catechesis and retreats. Following our patrons, Sts. Francis and Dominic, we teach spiritual things spiritually (see 1 Cor 2:13), inviting our students and retreatants to experience the riches of a Catholic life. Although we are an active community, we spend about five hours a day in prayer so that the Church’s liturgical life shapes both our communal and apostolic undertakings.

In these short reflections, we will consider how various elements of the spiritual life lived by a religious community might also inspire a life of prayer in any person—priest, religious, or lay person—who is called to the sacred work of forming others in the Catholic life.

From the earliest years of Christian history, the Church referred to the Blessed Virgin Mary as the New Eve. For example, in about 180 A.D., St. Irenaeus wrote that “The knot of Eve’s disobedience was loosed by the obedience of Mary.”[1] Many of the Early Church Fathers who came after him continued this tradition of beginning in the Old Testament with Eve to teach about Mary. Why did they start there instead of the New Testament? Why must we, too, start there?

Starting in the Right Place

I spent many years as an evangelical Protestant before I became a Catholic. Even though I had a great love of Scripture and taught many Bible studies, I never really “saw” Mary in the New Testament. I knew she was an important part of Jesus’ story, of course, but because of her few recorded words and appearances, I simply never gave her much thought. To me, it seemed impossible to arrive at Catholic teaching about Mary from the scant references we find about her in the New Testament. I chalked up her exalted role in Catholic teaching to sentimentality. All of us love our mothers. Catholics love the mother of Jesus. I left it at that.

When I had cause to think about the claims of the Catholic Church, I noticed right away that the Church has always begun in the Old Testament to explain Mary. The early chapters of Genesis tell us that “In the beginning,” God created male and female to be the flesh and blood fullness of his image and likeness on earth (see Gn 1:1; 1:26–27). When they fell, God’s response to their disobedience was to curse his enemy, the serpent, who was the real culprit in that drama. He vowed to send another man and woman, a mother and her Son, to victoriously finish the battle begun in Eden (see Gn 3:15). This makes perfect sense! If, from the beginning, God intended the masculine and the feminine, together, to be the icons of his image and likeness in creation, then we should expect to find both a man and a woman to herald the start of his re-creation after the Fall. Mary’s role in the Church’s teaching is theological, not sentimental. I finally had eyes to see this, and it changed everything for me.

The year 2025 will mark the occasion of an ordinary Jubilee. Pope Francis announced the Jubilee Year on May 9, 2024 with the Apostolic Letter Spes non Confundit (SC), "Hope Does Not Disappoint", and it officially began on December 24, 2024, with the opening of the Holy Door of St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. But, what is the Jubilee? Where does it come from, and why does the Church continue to celebrate it? How will it be celebrated in 2025?

Encountering Hope

“May the Jubilee be a moment of genuine, personal encounter with the Lord Jesus” (SC, 1). This is the hope that moves the pope in declaring the Holy Year of 2025. This is the center of the Holy Year: a genuine encounter. The encounter is with the Crucified and Risen One, the Son of the Father, Jesus of Nazareth. He is the Living One. It is a personal encounter because it is shaped by the reality in which we live—the specific time that the People of the Lord and the human community are living through, their culture, their characteristics, their gifts, their specific dramas, etc.

This encounter is marked by a very particular tone: we are to meet the Lord in the environment of hope. In fact, this encounter is a source of hope. The encounter with the Crucified and Risen Lord guarantees that hope will “not disappoint” (Rom 5:5). In Spanish, this phrase is la esperanza no defrauda—hope does not deceive you, does not fool you, does not mislead you. The Greek verb used by Paul (καταισχύνει) also carries the connotation of shame: hope will not leave you ashamed. It is not something to be embarrassed about. In summary, you can trust it. It is solid ground. But, what kind of certainty is this?

It is not the certainty of someone who already knows everything in advance, consumed by the anxiety of control. It is the agile confidence of one who knows they are supported by what is necessary and sufficient—the announcement of the Gospel—to cross any kind of terrain, even one made of tribulations and sufferings.

The Cries of the Oppressed

“What is our sin that God punishes us with such a trial? Where is the just God? Does he not see the injustices inflicted upon us? What fault have these children committed to be left without a roof to shelter them as they sleep? What is the fate of our children, who have been deprived of everything, even their schools?”

These were the desperate cries of families who sought refuge at St. Joseph Cathedral on the night of August 7, 2014. They were fleeing the brutal attacks of ISIS, faced with an impossible choice: renounce their faith in Jesus Christ, pay a tax of servitude, or face certain death. Leaving everything behind, they clung only to their faith in Jesus Christ as their Savior.

Our response was clear and unwavering: “Our God has not abandoned you. He has accompanied you, ensuring your safe arrival here with us. Our faith and hope remain steadfast that He will return with you to your homes in victory. Many have wielded the sword against faith in Jesus Christ, but they have been defeated by the steadfastness of believers in him.” We reassured them with the words of Jesus: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (Jn 16:33).

I am reading a remarkable book. It’s called How Saints Die: 100 Stories of Hope by the Italian Carmelite Antonio Maria Sicari. The book reveals just how much can be learned about the saints by how they face their own death. The saints, of course, are ordinary human beings—not a one born with a halo—who have persevered in their Christian life. Each has grown in heroic virtue by God’s grace.

Frequently in the pages of this book the reader is confronted by human beings demonstrating a shocking serenity and trust in God amidst dire circumstances at the end of life. Whether dying of disease or advanced years, or often violently through the malice of others, each of these women and men has been deeply conformed to the self-giving love of Christ. In facing death, each could truly say “The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD” (Job 1:21) or “I live, no longer I, but Christ lives in me” (Gal 2:20)!

When I was much younger, as I was coming to the faith in the 1980s, I loved reading the lives of the saints. I also naively believed that Christian persecution was mostly a thing of the past. In fact, the 20th century witnessed the murder of millions of Christians. And the 21st century, when considering the serious adversities facing Christians, especially in parts of the Middle East and Africa, remains deeply troubling. In our time, no matter where we live in the world, the more the Catholic worldview is rejected the more we can expect that greater persecution is coming.

Of course, such persecution shouldn’t surprise us. We follow the One who died nailed to the Cross. And Jesus himself said, “Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you [falsely] because of me” (Mt 5:11). These words show us that it’s truly not a matter of “if” Christians are persecuted; our Lord said, “when . . . they persecute you.” We can, in fact, presume that such persecution will happen to us in one form or another. This has been the normative reality for Christians from the earliest centuries of Christianity.

What are we to do when faced with present or future Christian persecution? It seems to me two things are necessary.

Last week, I changed the lives of 36 engaged couples (most of whom are already sexually active) in seven hours. More accurately, God and I changed their lives through Pope St. John Paul II’s theology of the body (TOB).[1]

What is it about TOB that reaches others, whether young or old, parent or student, married or single? I’d like to unpack that for those of you whose mission is “boots-on-the-ground”: parents, catechists, classroom teachers, diocesan officials, and anyone else who may need it. As a former Confirmation leader, RCIA director, and educator for over 25 years—and as a single woman with no children—I approach the theology of the body very differently from others. With this background and over 27 years of studying TOB, allow me to outline three very concrete, practical phrases that can help us teach the truth of the body in a pastorally loving way.

The Body Matters

Start teaching everybody by using this phrase: “the body matters.” For instance, let’s say you are teaching children in a catechetical setting, and they ask, “Why do we have to go to Mass?” or “Why do I have to eat well?” or “Why did God become human?” The answer: because the body matters!

• Mass is important because the body matters—your body, everybody’s body, and most importantly, Jesus’ Body matters! If we want to be close to God spiritually, we can start by being close to God physically. Jesus’ Eucharistic Body is received into your body; that’s why it is called Holy Communion: you are now intimately connected with God in Christ.
• Eating well is important since the body matters. Without healthy food, it is harder to function in life, and so it is harder to love others.
• The Son of God became human because the body matters. He knew humans are embodied persons, and since he wanted to save us, he too became embodied.

As St. John Paul II says, “Through the fact that the Word of God became flesh, the body entered theology . . . through the main door” (TOB 23:4). In other words, the body matters.

Christian writings between the apostolic age and the third century are extremely rare. At the turn of the first century AD, both Pope Clement of Rome and St. Ignatius of Antioch underscore the jurisdiction possessed by bishops over the forgiveness of sins. For most in those early years of Christianity, sin and repentance were simply accepted as a normal part of the average life of every Christian and needed no formulas or procedures to deal with it.

However, in the third and fourth centuries, the rise of certain heresies provoked a greater development and precision on doctrinal matters and practice. This certainly was the case in relation to sin and forgiveness. Approaching Confession became a definitively rigorous and public act. Led by the bishop, the entire Christian community would be involved as all prayed for the penitent.[1]

In the early Middle Ages, Irish missionary monks who came to the mainland brought with them a different form of the sacrament: private confession—that is, confession strictly between the penitent and God’s representative, the priest. Although the monks were certainly not lenient in the handing out of severe penances, they did effectively mollify the more terrifying features connected with public confessions.[2] In short, confessions were beginning to be practiced in generally the same way as they are today. However, though they had undergone significant changes in attitude and procedure, in essence the official canonical features of Confession remained: the honest recounting of one’s sins, the Church sitting in judgment in the person of the priest, the penalty administered, and final reconciliation.

This is not to be marveled at since the Church is as living and dynamic as is Christ himself. She is, after all, the extension of the risen, glorified Christ in space and time. Consequently, the Church has always been able to adapt herself to the special needs of the people of God at a particular time and circumstance. She has therefore periodically changed her approach to Confession—and can possibly change it again in the future.