Beauty Archives - Page 2 of 14 Held By His Pierced Hands

O Radiant Dawn

O Radiant Dawn, splendor of eternal light, sun of justice: come, shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

I knew a girl once who had been raised Catholic but had rejected the faith. At 20, she was pretty militantly anti-religion, although I don’t think I realized it until our small talk one day turned into something more.

She was asking me about my work, so I explained her that I was a high school religion teacher.

“Wait, so do you teach them all religions? Or do you just teach them yours?”

“Well, it’s a Catholic school,” I replied affably, “so I teach Catholicism.”

The look on her face was like I had told her that I drop kick babies for sport. “How can you do that? How can you force onto young minds the idea that your beliefs are right and everybody else’s are wrong?”

I was rather taken aback by this reaction–she really thought I was doing something evil when I tried to draw young hearts to Christ. I’ve had plenty of people think my attempts to evangelize were dumb or naïve but never cruel. So I didn’t have a pat answer at hand as I do with most of the challenges I get from non-Christians or non-Catholics. Fortunately, the Holy Spirit is always on his game.

“What if you had a friend who didn’t like music?” I asked this music major.

“What do you mean ‘didn’t like music’? Who doesn’t like music?”

“This guy. He’s a friend of yours–a good friend–but he just doesn’t care for music. Any music at all.”

“That’s ridiculous! I mean, has he listened to Rachmaninov? Or the Beatles? Everybody likes some kind of music.”

There was a time when the foul, flat, nasal, tinny music from this book was the only thing that would get my nephew to stop screaming. We called it "Awful Book." Eventually we decided that the screaming was preferable. — There was a time when the foul, flat, nasal, tinny music from this book was the only thing that would get my nephew to stop screaming. We called it “Awful Book.” Eventually we decided that the screaming was preferable.

At this point, I’m wondering how on earth she hadn’t picked up on where I was going with this. But I kid you not–I might be fudging some details, but the trajectory of the conversation is 100% accurate.

“Actually,” I put forward, “he’s never really listened to any music. Or maybe he has, but it was all electronic stuff out of awful plastic toys. But he’s never experienced anything real, anything beautiful or moving or even catchy and pleasant. Could you be friends with him?”

“I guess I could,” she said, embracing the hypothetical. “But–I’d make him listen to music! I mean, how can he live without it? I can’t imagine life without music–it would be…worthless.”

“Because you love music that much? And it brings you that much joy, right? Not because he’s a stupid jerk for not loving music?”

“Of course not,” she said. “It’s not about being right. It’s about wanting to share something that makes me happy with someone I love.”

“Exactly.” I swear to you, she didn’t see where I was going until that moment. She started to object, but then stopped to think. I gave her a minute before continuing. “I don’t evangelize because I want to tell everybody they’re wrong and fix them so they can be like me. It’s about love. I’ve found something–someone–so beautiful that brings me so much joy. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t want to share it? I teach people about Christ and his Church because I love them and I want them to be happy.”

My music analogy didn’t convert her–as far as I know, she’s still not a Christian–but it got her thinking. And tonight, it’s got me thinking, too.

Why do I evangelize? Why do I live this crazy life? Because I know him in whom I have believed. But more than that–because once I didn’t.

Tie-dyed shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans with a watch looped around my belt loop while hanging on some boy and desperate for attention? Definitely a recipe for popularity. — Tie-dyed shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans with a watch threaded through my belt loop while hanging on some boy and desperate for attention? Definitely a recipe for popularity.

I was raised with Jesus, but I rejected him early on. I didn’t know him until I was 13. And I was miserable. Cry-my-eyes-out, wish-I-was-dead miserable. The only meaning I could find in life was getting other people to like me and I wasn’t very good at that. And so, from at least 3rd grade, I spent most of my life feeling sorry for myself and wondering why I bothered to get up in the morning.

But then–oh, friends–light. I had walked so long in darkness and when I found Christ, I found meaning and joy and purpose and hope and the world was new. I had to give up all of my favorite vices. I made myself a target for the people whose approval still meant so much to me. But, incredibly, I was happy. Today, I’m a homeless, unemployed nomad. I have no husband or children. I have nothing that this world says will make me happy, but I am. Deeply, irrevocably so. Despite my tendency to freak out and my propensity for making myself miserable, my life is built on Christ and his comfort gladdens my soul.

I’m going to speak for a moment to those of you who may be reading my blog, for whatever reason, who haven’t experienced this Radiant Dawn I’m so in love with. I get it. It’s hard to believe, hard to accept what you think you can’t see. Maybe Christianity is too demanding. Maybe you enjoy your life just as it is.

The Nativity, by Gustav Dore. In modern images, the light in the stable tends to come from the star. Traditionally, the light came from Christ, the true Light of the world.

But for many of you, I think there’s a darkness. There’s an emptiness, a longing that you can’t quite seem to satisfy. Oh, maybe you’re okay right now–maybe your love for your family or your service to your community or your success or whatever has taken the edge off your hunger. But I think it will be fleeting. I think you know, like I did, that something’s missing.

Forgive me for being so forward, but I can’t help it. Whether I know you or not, I love you. I really do, and I want you to be happy. I want you to be at peace. Forget the fact that I’ve been intellectually convinced of the truth of the faith–I’ve found joy and love and hope and beauty and I can’t keep that to myself. I need you to know that he loves you and longs to draw you gently into the light of a life lived in joy and peace and love. I’ve been where you are. I wouldn’t go back. Not for anything.

For the rest of you, thank God that he has brought you out of darkness into his marvelous light. If you’re like me, consider who you were and praise the Lord that he’s brought you so far. If you’ve never felt that deep, terrible darkness of the shadow of death, praise the Lord for having claimed you even in your youth. Wherever you were, recognize that you’re not there yet.

This is what Advent is about–reflecting on the darkness dispelled by Christ and the darkness that remains. There are still many dark places in my life, deep crevices that I keep hidden from the light of Christ. But daily he pushes me, stretches me, and brings joy and peace even there.

If you don’t know him yet, maybe now’s the time to try.

Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Here’s an early Christmas present for you:

Same outfit the next day only I swapped out my mom’s really old sweatpants for the jeans and tied an oh-so-chic sweatshirt (with a large teal sparkly spot made from puffy paint on the sleeve) around my waist. This left me with no belt loops from which to hang my watch.¹ No problem! Just hang it from a chain around my neck and off I go with my mismatched socks to pose very awkwardly by a tractor. This was a day when I was hoping to make new friends.

If only there were some way to attach one’s wristwatch to one’s wrist…. Seriously, what was wrong with me?? [↩]

O Key of David

O Key of David, O royal Power of Israel controlling at your will the gate of Heaven: Come, break down the prison walls of death for those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death; and lead your captive people into freedom.

If Christ’s coming were merely an event in history, even with the ramifications it has on our collective salvation, we would celebrate it with relatively little fanfare. It might get an octave,¹ but it wouldn’t merit an entire season of preparation and then a season of celebration.

Now, it was an event in history–God was made man out of love for us. This is no myth. But our celebration of the Nativity is so much more than a celebration of a historical event. It’s also a celebration of Christ’s advent into the life of each believer. When we pray for the walls of death to be broken down, it’s not some fanciful reflection on something that happened 2000 years ago, it’s a real and serious plea for freedom for you and me and everyone right now.

Hence Advent, a season of darkness that reminds us that we dwell in the shadow of death. We traipse through Ordinary Time blithely unaware of our sin, but this season that places before us a filthy stable awaiting the immaculate king makes us pause. “For me,” we think. “That I might have life.”

Because we’ve forgotten that we’re dead. We’ve painted the walls of our prison cell and turned up our music and gorged ourselves on the good food provided to placate our rebellious desire for virtue and we’ve forgotten that we were made for sunshine and joy and freedom and so much more than the prison we’ve made for ourselves by our sin. “I’m a good person,” I tell myself and ignore my temper or my laziness or my refusal to give God even ten minutes a day in prayer. And we might be good people by the world’s standards but Christ says, “Be perfect.”

It starts with a feeling. Unchecked, the feeling becomes an attitude. The attitude becomes an action and the action becomes a habit and the habit becomes a way of life and that innocuous little feeling has suddenly become a wall of vice and I didn’t even notice it! It might not be mortal sin but even venial sin, washed away by communion or contrition or even holy water, leaves a residue that only confession can remove. That residue builds and builds until we don’t recognize who we’ve become. And we who were freed from the prison of Original Sin by the blood of the spotless Lamb have built a new one of envy and lust and sloth.

So here we are, this fallen world bound by sin and walled in to a prison we entered freely. But Christ has come. He has taken on our flesh that he might bear our punishment and has won our freedom. He stands now and knocks at the door of your prison cell, keys in hand, longing to enter and break down those walls. He comes to wake you up to the misery of your captivity to sin and to lead you into the freedom of life in him.

God is a gentleman, though, and will not enter, will not save and heal and sanctify without permission. He stands and knocks and waits for you to invite him in, waits for you simply to speak the word so that he can set you free. This is his advent in your life right now: the restoration of a broken heart to a state of grace. The key to heaven rests in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, God’s gift to the fallen.

In this Sacrament, terrible sinners are justified, yes. But we who try so hard and generally do so well–we too are given grace to persevere. We too are bound by sin and freed by his mercy. We too are transformed and drawn from darkness into light. Don’t think that because you’re a “good person” you aren’t imprisoned. The Key of David has come to set you free. You have only to ask.

If you haven’t been to confession yet this Advent season,² do it. Whether it’s been a month or 30 years, the time is now. Prepare your heart for the pure infant Jesus and receive the gift of new life.

Oh, come, O Key of David, come,
And open wide our heav’nly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

It certainly would have in the old calendar. [↩]
Not to beat a dead horse, but this is really important. [↩]

O Flower of Jesse’s Stem

O Flower of Jesse’s stem, you have been raised up as a sign for all peoples; kings stand silent in your presence; the nations bow down in worship before you. Come, let nothing keep you from coming to our aid.

In this prayer, we begin with the right words, the words of adoration that seem to fit the occasion. We speak lovely, fitting, shallow, empty words when we approach the Lord. “Heavenly Father,” we say to a God who is our dictator or our servant, but never our Father. “Thank you, Lord,” we say, however bitter we may be at what the Lord has withheld. We’ve become so accustomed to lying to God–“Thy will be done”? Who really means that?

But then we stumble. It’s as though we are praying as we “ought” when our desperation breaks through with something real. We catch our breaths and repeat in earnest, “let nothing keep you from coming to our aid.”

There’s a longing in that stutter that expresses so perfectly what Advent is intended to be. We are overwhelmed by God’s majesty and goodness at condescending to be with us. We know all the right words about his glory and all that–but, oh! We just want him–we need him!

As Christmas draws near, the Church invites us to ache for Christ. She reminds us of the darkness of life before the Savior came near and asks us to allow all our brokenness and emptiness and need to well up in our hearts and to cry out, “Come, Lord. Oh, please, please come!”

I’m not sure I can make sense of the longing and tenderness and desperation and awe and sorrow that I feel except to say that it’s quite the same way I feel about Aslan. When I read the Chronicles of Narnia,¹ I need him. And when he comes I’m thrilled and I want to run to him and bury my hands in his mane but I know I have to hold back, because while he is entrancing, he’s also terrifying. And his voice thrills and comforts and challenges. I’m afraid to look into his eyes because I know I’ll see myself as I truly am, not as I pretend to be; but I know that while I’ll see myself I’ll also see how deeply he loves me and I’ll be able to bear it. Truly, I love Jesus so much the more because I loved Aslan first.

When I think of the coming Christ this way, I begin to believe that, like Hwin, I’d suffer anything for him.¹ Like Eustace, I’d submit to any pain at his hands. Like Reepicheep, I’d go to the ends of the earth for the glory of his name. It’s just that–when I’m in Narnia–oh, I ache for him!

This is what Advent is supposed to do–just exactly what Lewis does when he tells us “Aslan’s on the move.” When you read that line–if you love these books as I do–you almost feel for your sword before you remember that you haven’t got one and you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you did. You’re thrilled and terrified and ready and the only thing that matters is his coming.

I suppose it comes down to this–I would give everything to be breathed on by Aslan, to have him whisper in my ear and call me “Dear heart” as he does Lucy. Do I give everything to come near to Christ? When I let myself long for Aslan and then direct that longing to Christ, suddenly it’s all so real. Suddenly I’m past the nonsense of fancy ideas and just filled with a longing to be his. Suddenly I cry out, “Come–let nothing keep you from coming to my aid!”

You know what? Never mind. Just go read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and try to feel about Jesus the way you feel about Aslan. That’s why Lewis wrote them, after all.

Oh, come O Rod of Jesse’s stem,
From ev’ry foe deliver them
That trust your mighty pow’r to save;
And give them vict’ry o’er the grave.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

“Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else.” [↩]

O Sacred Lord of Ancient Israel

O sacred Lord of ancient Israel, who showed yourself to Moses in the burning bush, who gave him the holy law on Sinai mountain: come, stretch out your mighty hand to set us free.

These last days before Christmas, I’m just ready to hold sweet baby Jesus in my arms. I’ve longed and ached for him all of Advent and I want to hold his tiny baby body and kiss his soft baby head. And just as the baby-lover in me threatens to take over, leaving me with images of snuggling a baby that have little to do with the majesty of the Incarnation, this antiphon drops by to remind me that he is so much more than just a sweet baby, that this is so much more than just a birth.

There is in Christmas the somber promise of Good Friday. There is in the joy of the Nativity the suffering foretold by the myrrh of the Magi, the anguish of the Innocents slaughtered as the Christ child is spirited away. The wood of the manger is the wood of the Cross, and this child raised by a carpenter will hear daily the echo of the nails that will bind him to his death. The freedom we are promised by the Lord of Israel is given us by the blood of the Lamb.

There’s a reason Christ was born in the dead of night, a reason we celebrate his birth in a time of barren coldness.¹ Certainly, we see that his coming brings us into greater light. But I think we also need his coming to be surrounded by quiet and darkness and just a little bit of fear. It would feel wrong to celebrate in July, remembering with cookouts and fireworks our king born to die. In winter, our joy is tempered by the chill. We sing “Joy to the World,” indeed, but also weep for the day, coming too soon, when the world will mourn. The best Christmas carols remind us of the purpose of the Christ child:

Why lies He in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear: for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce him through,
The Cross be borne for me, for you;
Hail, hail the Word Made Flesh,
The babe, the son of Mary!

Today’s appeal to the God of Exodus carries the weight of wonder, the awe and fear that surrounded any encounter with this Lord of plagues and sacrifices and walls of water. It is this Christ whom we worship, sweet and silent in his mother’s arms. The God made man to save us is the God before whom Moses cowered in fear. The freedom he wins for us is bought at a terrible price.

Do we greet this child with smiles and stockings and move on, pleased to have celebrated family and love? Or do we fall on our knees before the God born to die? Advent calls us not only to prepare for the joy of the incarnation but to repent, to recognize the gravity, the horror of a God who offers himself as a sacrifice in our stead.

In his infancy, he was given myrrh to anoint his beaten body when at last his life came to fruition. Offer him, friends, the myrrh of repentance. Anoint his tiny body, formed so perfectly to suffer so terribly, with the balm of your prayers, your acts of charity, but most especially your sins offered at the foot of his cradle, the foot of his cross. If you haven’t yet been to confession this Advent, humble yourself before the God of Israel who merits all honor yet stoops to kiss your feet. Give him the gift of your wretched, sinful heart and let him return it to you whole and new.

Oh, come, oh, come, great Lord of might,
Who to your tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law,
In cloud and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Unless you’re south of the equator, in which case, hi!! [↩]

O Wisdom

From December 17-23, Christians are in a time of eager anticipation. The intentional expectancy becomes intense as we enter the octave before the birth of our Lord. We throw aside the normal prayers for particular prayers that show our hope, our trust, our longing for the Christ child. Each evening, the antiphon preceding the Magnificat in Evening Prayer proclaims one of the ancient titles of the Messiah, giving us the text of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and excellent fodder for meditation. This week I’ll be sharing a meditation on each day’s antiphon to help us all enter more deeply into this last week of Advent.

O Wisdom, O holy Word of God, you govern all creation with your strong yet tender care. Come and show your people the way to salvation.

The God who is coming into our midst is the God of all creation, the wisdom of the Father by whom and through whom and for whom all things were made. And yet, with all his power, he chooses weakness for love of us. The God who could announce his presence with thunder and trumpets and booming words from heaven speaks instead in shepherds’ voices. This God who could force us to love him invites instead. He speaks tenderly to our hearts, beckoning, begging, but never compelling.

This is wisdom: the God of power and might becomes an infant. Because he couldn’t forbid suffering without impairing our freedom, he chose to suffer with us. St. Augustine reminds us, “God had one son on earth without sin but never one without suffering.” Too strong to be defeated by death, he was yet tender enough to die. Too strong to abandon us in our sin, he was yet tender enough to allow us to reject him. God in his wisdom is everything we need–just enough and never too much. He woos us as far as we will come and then mourns as we choose ourselves over him. In his wisdom he leaves us free, though we might prefer to be enslaved but happy rather than free in the misery of sin.

And when he shows us the way to salvation, he doesn’t call from afar or point the way through peril and misery. He walks with us, shoring us up by his strength and tenderly wiping away our weary tears. He asks of us nothing that he hasn’t himself done or suffered or been subjected to. When we are hurt, we find his pierced hands lifting us up. When we are rejected, his pierced brow speaks of his betrayal. When we are lonely, we hear the echo of “My God, my God.”

This is the wisdom of the incarnation: the foolishness of the Cross. This is what we long for in Advent: not merely the coming of the Christ child in the liturgy but the coming into our hearts of him who breaks down the walls we’ve built and gently smooths our rough edges.

What tender strength. What wisdom. Come, Lord Jesus.

O, come, O Wisdom from on high,
Who orders all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Our Lady of Victims and Survivors

I never understood that line you hear so often from Catholics trying to defend their relationship with Mary, that matter-of-fact way they would say, “You go to Mary when you can’t go to Jesus.”

Why on earth could you not go to Jesus? I wondered, baffled by a theology that seemed to make Mary the gatekeeper to Jesus, himself the one mediator between God and man. Surely there was something wrong with a faith that made God-made-man seem inaccessible, something wrong with a Christian who viewed Jesus as someone too far away to approach. I never understood.

I understand it now.

I understand that a man who has been raped by a priest might not be able to seek intimacy with Jesus, the Great High Priest. I understand that thousands of children have grown into adults who are desperately grasping at the faith of their youth but cringe when they hear the word, “Father.” I understand that they might not be able to approach the throne of the Father, to climb up into his lap and be anything other than terrified there.

So Jesus gave us his mother. For such a time as this and for every other need in every other era, he gave us his mother. Because he knew, as he hung on the Cross pouring out his blood for our salvation, that men who bore his name would terrorize the flock for which he laid down his life. He knew that his broken children would be too afraid of them to come to him. He knew about PTSD. He knew that millions of fathers down through the years—spiritual fathers and physical fathers—would be so unworthy of the name that they would build walls between their children and the Father, walls built with mortar mixed of blood and tears.

So he gave us his mother. Not because we would be unworthy to approach him but because so many of us would be afraid and broken. He sent his sorrowing mother, her eyes streaming with tears for the sins of the shepherds, to hold and comfort her children and slowly—slowly—lead them back to him.

He gave us his mother as model and intercessor and mother and queen, to rejoice with us and pray for us and show us how to love. But he also gave her so that when Holy Mother Church seems to be more akin to the wicked stepmother of stories unfit for children, we would have a mother’s arms to return to. Mary, Mother of the Church, sees the Church’s flaws, horrific as some of them are. And as the Church’s mother, Mary rebukes her. As the mother of sinners, she rebukes them. As the mother of priests, she rebukes them.

But she also comforts. She comforts the Church, the sinners, the priests. She comforts survivors. She comforts good priests striving to remain faithful. She comforts the millions who are shaken by the newest wave of revelations about wolves in shepherds’ clothing, whispering tenderly, fiercely, “Your priest betrayed you. Your bishop betrayed you. But your God did not betray you. In all your suffering, he was suffering alongside. He weeps for you as I weep for you. You are not alone. You are loved.”

She speaks now as she did to St. Juan Diego on Tepeyac: “Listen and let it penetrate your heart, my dear little son. Do not be troubled or weighed down with grief. Do not fear any illness or vexation, anxiety or pain. Am I not here who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not your fountain of life? Are you not in the folds of my mantle? In the crossing of my arms? Is there anything else you need?”

Jesus is your Savior, the Bridegroom who laid down his life for you. He wants nothing more than for you to know him in a personal, intimate way and to spend eternity with him. But he understands that right now you might not be ready for intimacy. You might not be ready for a bridegroom. You might not be ready for a man at all. So he sent his mother.

Mary always leads us back to Jesus. If you’re too angry or wounded to turn to Jesus right now, he understands. He gave you his mother to speak his love for as long as you need until you’re ready to let him back in. If you can’t go to Jesus, go to Mary. She’ll lead you home.

Jacopo di Cione, Mystic Marriage of St Catherine, with St Louis of Toulouse and a female donor

Please Don’t Leave Jesus: A Homily for this Sunday

Dear Fathers,

Some of you have already preached on the current crisis in the Church. Thank you for that. This Sunday at least, please speak about it again. The readings are tailor-made for it.

Some of you haven’t, because you don’t know what to say or because you don’t want to offend anybody or because you’ve been waiting from some direction from a bishop who is more CEO than shepherd. I offer you this piece as a gift in thanksgiving for your priesthood. Recite the whole thing verbatim, steal sections, or just let it inspire your own writing. No attribution needed. But please, please don’t let your sons and daughters reeling in the face of betrayal by their Church sit through one more homily filled with irrelevant platitudes. We understand that you’re suffering, too, but you are a father. Your children need you to console us and to promise to protect us. Please.

The readings for this Sunday can be found here, or you can open your Bible and read them at: Joshua 24:1-2A, 15-17, 18B; Psalm 34:2-3, 16-21; Ephesians 5:21-32; John 6:60-69.

I’ve got to say, I don’t know if I could have done it—stood up with the other Israelites and promised to serve the Lord. This excerpt from Joshua makes it sound so easy: “Far be it from us to forsake the Lord for the service of other gods.” But following the Lord had never been easy for them. They had wandered through the desert, the older ones, for forty years. They had fought their way through the Promised Land. Their leaders had rebelled again and again and they had reaped the consequences.

They hadn’t been there when God worked wonders in Egypt. They hadn’t seen the Red Sea part. Oh, the older ones had eaten miraculous bread from heaven and walked through the Jordan dry-shod, but most of the Israelites still living had never seen anything miraculous. They’d heard stories; that was it.

But somehow, when given the choice, they chose God.

Maybe they were in the same boat as Peter in our Gospel today. Peter had just heard Jesus say some pretty outlandish stuff—going on and on about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. The crowds had looked at him like he was insane, talking about cannibalism like this, and he had just doubled down. He hadn’t stopped to explain the real presence in the Blessed Sacrament or pulled out Aristotle to define transubstantiation. He certainly hadn’t interrupted himself to assure them that he only wanted them to eat bread and think about him. He just said it again and again, nine times: eat my flesh and drink my blood.

So they walked away. Because this guy was nuts! How could he possibly give them his flesh to eat? Why on earth would he advocate cannibalism??

And Jesus just let them go. Because they were free to choose. But he turned to his disciples and asked them wearily, “Are you leaving, too?”

Peter always had the right answer—at least, so he thought. But this time he didn’t respond with some assurance that he totally got what Jesus was going for, that he was all about the Eucharist. He was confused and a bit disturbed. He didn’t understand it at all. But he knew Jesus. And he knew that he was nothing apart from Jesus. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew Jesus and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Some of you may be feeling confused and weary the way Peter and the Israelites did. You’ve defended the Church, made sacrifices for her, proclaimed your faith at great cost, and found yourself betrayed by men who claimed the name of Jesus but were working at the command of the Enemy. Wouldn’t it be easier just to leave?

Dear ones, I am so sorry. My heart breaks with yours for the victims of these depraved men.

And I understand.

I understand if it was hard for you to come here today. I understand if you’re wondering how you could possibly remain in a Church that has so horrifically failed its most vulnerable members. I understand the fear and suspicion and anger.

So does Jesus.

He understands how hollow the Psalm may have felt to you today, proclaiming that God is close to the brokenhearted when every one of us knows that thousands of hearts were broken by men claiming God’s name. He understands that you heard it proclaimed that he confronts evildoers and wanted to cry out in pain that he doesn’t seem to be doing it now.

I’m with you. We need accountability. We need transparency. There are people who need jail time. But in all the mess and rot in this Church, God is still God. He is still good. He is the same God who sent his Son to die for you, the same God who poured out his life on the Cross, the same God who comes down to us in the Blessed Sacrament. He is close to the brokenhearted, and he does confront evildoers, whether we realize it or not. He loves you fiercely, deeply, unceasingly.

Do you want to know why I don’t leave? Because of the Eucharist. I stand with Simon Peter, confused and disturbed amid all this turmoil, and I say to the Lord, “But where else would I go? You’re here. And I want you.”

My brothers and my sisters, I am begging you: please don’t leave. Not for my sake or even for the Church’s sake. Please don’t leave Jesus. I know how hard it is for some of you to walk through those doors, knowing what you know about the sins of your leaders. I know that for some of you, just coming to Mass today was a heroic act. But I beg you to keep coming back, for the sake of the suffering heart of Jesus who is miserable enough without having to miss you on top of it.

You don’t come here for me, or for our bishop, or for the Pope. You come here for Jesus Christ who lived and died for you. You come here to be fed with the bread that gives eternal life. You come here because as bad as things can be in the Catholic Church, there’s nowhere else to go: if you’re looking for Jesus Christ present, body, blood, soul, and divinity, you don’t have a lot of options.

When Jesus offers himself in the Eucharist, he offers himself as our bridegroom. He gives us his body to cleanse us, to make us holy and without blemish, as St. Paul said. Our God doesn’t come to us as a demanding overlord or as a kindly grandfather, he comes as lover. He hands himself over for you at every Mass because he loves you too much to leave you.

Please don’t leave him.

There are two more verses in this chapter, verses that we won’t hear read at Mass. Just after Peter’s proclamation, Jesus looked at his disciples, at the ones who had distributed the loaves and fishes, the ones who had cast out demons and anointed the sick, and he said, “Did I not choose you twelve? Yet is not one of you a devil?”

He was speaking of Judas, of course. He knew what Judas would do. He knew that there would be Judases down through the ages, mixed in among his priests.

Don’t leave Jesus because of Judas. Then evil wins. Stay with us and fight. Fight for holiness, fight for justice, fight for the protection of the innocent. And pray. Pray for the survivors. Pray for those whose faith is shaken. Pray for the purification of our Church.

Joshua chose the Lord. The Israelites chose the Lord. Peter and the Apostles chose the Lord. Some with confidence, some with weak and shaking voices. You don’t have to be head cheerleader for Team Catholic right now. Just please don’t leave Jesus.

A Novena of Saints for a Church in Crisis

With all the news out of Washington and Pennsylvania, with the continued revelations of unimaginable horrors perpetrated by priests and bishops, we the laity have work to do. We must demand accountability and transparency. We must work for reform. We must speak out against the evils wrought in our name. But above all, we must pray. We must fast and pray for the healing of the victims, the protection of the innocent, the conversion of abusers, the restoration of the Church.

Today is the Solemnity of the Assumption, a holy day of obligation in this country. Ten days from now is the Feast of St. Bartholomew, a holy bishop who was flayed alive rather than betray his sacred office. I invite you to join me in praying a novena of Saints in the nine days leading up to St. Bartholomew’s feast day, for all those impacted by this new wave of scandals. Lord, have mercy on us.

Day 1: Mary, Mother of Priests, Mother of Sinners, Mother of All Believers

On the Solemnity of the Assumption, we ask the intercession of Mary, Mother of the Church, who weeps for those who suffer and for those who sin.

Father, we come before you afraid and broken. We have sinned, our leaders have sinned, and so many have suffered. Forgive us, Lord. Heal those who have been abused. Bring conversion to the hearts of sinners. Comfort those who can see no truth, goodness, or beauty in a Church that harbors such predators. Give us the grace to become Saints in and through this crisis.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Mary, Mother of the Church, pray for us.

Mary, Mother of Priests, pray for us.

Mary, Mother of Sinners, pray for us.

Mary, Mother of All Believers, pray for us.

Day 2: Bl. Laura Vicuña

Bl. Laura Vicuña suffered abuse at the hands of her mother’s lover for years. From her childhood, he pawed at her and tried to force drunken kisses on her. When she was uncomfortable spending the night under the same roof as him, knowing what he would try to do to her, she ran away. He beat her so badly that she died a week later of her wounds, forgiving both him and her mother.

Father, we pray for all victims of sexual abuse, especially those wounded by priests, bishops, and other representatives of your Church. Bring them healing, Lord, in mind, body, soul, emotions, and memories. Give them the grace to forgive and to be made new. Send your Spirit of peace on all who wrestle with guilt over abuse suffered by those in their care. May all who suffer surrender fear and shame and find rest in you.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Bl. Laura Vicuña, pray for us.

Day 3: St. John of the Cross

St. John of the Cross was, along with St. Teresa of Avila, the great reformer of the Carmelites in the 17th century, but his work made him enemies. A group of Carmelites who did not want to be reformed locked him in a tiny cell, nearly starved him to death, and beat him so brutally that he was scarred for life. Still he saw Christ as his bridegroom and wrote some of the most beautiful spiritual poetry ever written.

Lord, there are so many in your Church who have been terribly wounded by those who claim to speak in your name. Bring comfort to their hearts and healing, Lord Jesus. Help them to know your love and to find safety in your arms once more.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

St. John of the Cross, pray for us.

Day 4: St. Mary of Egypt and Bl. Anthony Neyrot

St. Mary of Egypt was a nymphomaniac and a rapist, herself likely a survivor of sexual abuse. She ran away from home at 12 and took up residence in the home of one of her father’s friends, where she was instructed in the art she would practice on young men, willing and unwilling, for the next 17 years. She was converted at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and retreated to the desert to do penance for the rest of her life.

Bl. Anthony Neyrot was an arrogant Dominican priest who became no more humble when sold into slavery to Islamic captors. When he was put in prison and made to fast on bread and water, though, he denied the faith, became a Muslim, married a Muslim woman, and began to translate the Quran into Latin. After an apparition from his mentor St. Antoninus, he repented, did public penance, and was martyred for leaving Islam.

Jesus, we beg for the conversion of all wolves in shepherds’ clothing. Put the fear of hell into the hearts of every deacon, priest, bishop, and lay minister who has harmed any of your people. Bring them to true repentance, Lord. Save their souls. We ask your mercy also, Lord, for all we have done to enable this sin, for our silence and complicity. Lord, have mercy.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

St. Mary of Egypt, pray for us. Bl. Anthony Neyrot, pray for us.

Day 5: St. Raphael Kalinowski

St. Raphael Kalinowski was a brilliant young Pole who was disillusioned by the Church of his parents and fell away from the faith in his youth. After years of study, work as a railway engineer, and a career as a revolutionary, he eventually returned to the Church and became a Carmelite priest and a personal hero of St. John Paul II.

Lord, as this scandal rocks our Church we know that many thousands will turn away from your Body here on Earth. Give them, Father, the grace to return. Divine Physician, heal their broken hearts and restore their faith in your Church.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

St. Raphael Kalinowski, pray for us.

Day 6: St. Catherine of Siena, St. Catherine of Genoa, and St. Charles Lwanga

St. Catherine of Siena was an uneducated laywoman who followed the call of the Holy Spirit to challenge the Pope himself. He had left Rome for Avignon and St. Catherine rebuked him with respect and fearlessness, demanding that he sacrifice his comfort to obey the Lord.

St. Catherine of Genoa lived a few centuries later, during a time of profound corruption in the Church. Weak bishops had refused to make the necessary sacrifices to implement the reforms of the Fourth Lateran Council, but this St. Catherine brought about reform through calling individuals to holiness rather than appealing to the hierarchy. A married woman whose husband was violent and unfaithful, Catherine had spent some years pursuing the things of the world before being converted and bringing her husband (and many, many others) to Christ. The Oratory of Divine Love movement, which spread throughout Italy and involves small groups of the faithful seeking personal holiness through prayer, study, and service, can be traced to her.

St. Charles Lwanga was a Ugandan layman who risked his life to protect teenage boys from the sexual predation of the king. His resistance to the king’s depravity and refusal to allow him to abuse other young men led to his martyrdom alongside many other chaste Christians.

Heavenly Father, we thank you for the countless laypeople who quietly pursue you in their daily lives. We pray that you would fill them with your Spirit to call your Church to greater holiness. Help us to fight for the protection of the innocent, whatever the cost. Give us the courage, wisdom, and humility to speak truth, demanding holiness from those who lead us while becoming saints ourselves.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

St. Catherine of Siena, pray for us. St. Catherine of Genoa, pray for us. St. Charles Lwanga, pray for us.

Day 7: Bl. Thaddeus McCarthy and St. Francis de Sales

Blessed Thaddeus McCarthy was appointed bishop of an Irish diocese but discovered that his see had been usurped. In an attempt to serve his people he went from village to village and was rejected everywhere. He dressed as a peasant to avoid being captured by his enemies, never once giving up on his call to shepherd his people, even though it was so exhausting that it soon cost him his life.

St. Francis de Sales was a wise and kind bishop who knew how to discipline his clergy when necessary. Once, having thrown a priest in jail, he appeared before the offending cleric in tears and spoke thus: “I conjure you, by the love and mercy of God, in which we all hope, to have pity on me, on the diocese, on the Church, and on the whole Order so much dishonored by the scandalous life you have hitherto led, which gives matter to our adversaries to blaspheme our holy Faith. I pray you to have pity on yourself, on your own soul, which you are sending to perdition for eternity; I exhort you in the name of Jesus Christ, on which you trample; by the goodness of the Saviour, Whom you crucify anew; and by that spirit of grace, whom you outrage!”

Lord, we are in desperate need of holy bishops. We beg you to convict the hearts of bishops who ought to resign and to raise up men who are unconcerned with status and advancement but long only to serve the kingdom. We pray for the purification of all clergy, that they would become men who seek you above all else.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Bl. Thaddeus McCarthy, pray for us. St. Francis de Sales, pray for us.

Day 8: St. Gerard Majella and St. Vitalis of Gaza

St. Gerard Majella was a lay Redemptorist brother when he was falsely accused of impregnating a woman. He refused to defend himself, preferring to suffer in silence as Christ had, but was ultimately vindicated.

St. Vitalis of Gaza was a hermit who returned to the city after decades in the desert and began visiting a different prostitute each night. The faithful were scandalized until he was killed in the street and hundreds of reformed prostitutes came to his funeral. He had given his reputation and ultimately his life for their salvation, for the souls of victimized women.

We pray, Lord, for all decent priests. Lord Jesus, you have called men to ordained ministry to be priest and victim; give those men who suffer unjustly the grace to unite their sacrifice to yours and to offer their pain in reparation for the sins of their brother priests. May they weep for the survivors of these crimes and not for their own suffering. Strengthen them to remain faithful, however heavy the Cross.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

St. Gerard Majella, pray for us. St. Vitalis of Gaza, pray for us.

Day 9: Bl. Oscar Romero and St. Bartholomew the Apostle

Blessed Oscar Romero was a peaceful, bookish man, happy to fly under the radar in his native El Salvador, where the government was oppressing and murdering his people. He spent years as a bishop who refused to make waves until a priest friend of his was murdered. Looking on the corpse of this priest, he was changed. He began to fight injustice and to speak out against the abuse of the innocent. He knew that he was making enemies but refused to be silenced and was ultimately assassinated while celebrating Mass.

St. Bartholomew was one of the first bishops, ordained by Jesus Christ himself. He was flayed alive rather than deny Jesus Christ.

Father, we pray for our bishops, that they would be given wisdom and courage to speak and act against the evil within their ranks. Send your Spirit upon them, Lord, and empower them to root out this sin, to punish predators, and to repent for their own complicity, whatever the cost. Make decent men Saints, Lord, and pastors in your image.

Lord, heal the survivors and protect the innocent.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Bl. Oscar Romero, pray for us. St. Bartholomew, pray for us.

The Daughters of St. Paul have put together a beautiful holy hour for reparation, which can be found here.

How Jesus Looks at You

Like much of the world, I was rather entranced by the idea of the Royal Wedding yesterday, by which I mean I watched a few very short clips of it. The sermon was striking, the music beautiful, and the fascinators left me wishing I had my own milliner.

But the most beautiful moment I saw was one I’ve seen at a hundred other weddings.¹ A man looked at his bride as if to say, “How is it possible that the most incredible woman in the world chose me?”

I’ve seen a hundred men surreptitiously (or not-so-surreptitiously) wiping tears from their eyes as they gaze upon the most beautiful woman they’d ever seen. There was nothing remarkable about Prince Harry’s reaction.

Except that he, of all men, could have had any of a million other beautiful women. He’s a literal prince. He’s handsome. He wears a uniform. His mom was Princess Di! He is a catch.

But he looked at an American divorcée from a broken home and said, “I’m so lucky.”

Now Harry has his issues and Meghan is an incredible woman. He really did luck out with her. But watching him gaze at her, all I could think of was one of my favorite passages in all of Scripture: Isaiah 62:4-5. There, God says to Jerusalem–God says to you–“No more shall men call you forsaken or your land desolate, but you shall be called ‘my delight’ and your land espoused, for the Lord delights in you, and makes your land his spouse. As a young man marries a virgin, your builder shall marry you. And as a bridegroom rejoices in his bride, so shall your God rejoice in you.”

The way that Harry looked at Meghan? That has nothing on how God looks at you. And every time you go to Mass, your God stretches out his body on the marriage bed of the Cross and hands himself over in the Eucharist. He says “This is my body, given up for you,” as Harry and Meghan did in their vows, and you walk down the aisle to receive your bridegroom. When you say “Amen,” you make the same marriage vow: “This is my body, given up for you.”

And whatever your family background or dating history, whatever your race or income level, whether your ancestors were royals or slaves or both, he looks at you, this Prince who is making you a princess, and says, “I’m so lucky.”

The reason we love these royal weddings is because they remind us of what we’re called to be: daughters of the King married to the Prince of Peace who looks past all our flaws and sees only radiant beauty. The next time you go to Mass, imagine Jesus looking at you, with your bald spot and your stretch marks and your temper and your shame, and saying, “You look amazing. I’m so lucky.” Because he does. He delights in you. More than any mere man has ever loved a woman, he loves you.

What a God we serve, who would come to be beaten and suffocated to death so that he might stand at the end of the aisle and watch us walk to him, stunned by his good fortune in winning us at last. We are immeasurably blessed.

Always the bridesmaid (or, in my case, cantor)…. [↩]

An Extra Hard Mother’s Day with an Extra Bit of Grace

I thought I was ready for Mother’s Day. I spent the week meditating on what a gift mothers are and on how spiritual motherhood is real motherhood. I read a few old messages from former students thanking me for being their mom. I woke up today to a dozen people wishing me a happy Mother’s Day–the mothers of my godchildren, a friend from high school (who offered her Mass for me today and not for her mother), one from college, a former student, a new friend, my own mom. Most of them are moms themselves, but they reached out because they see me as a mother, to them, to their children, to other spiritual children the Lord has given me.

I went to a different church today because yesterday’s had been rather more focused on motherhood than on Jesus, and the music at today’s church was powerful. I praised God and thanked him and surrendered my heart to him for the thousandth time. It was beautiful.

And then they asked all the mothers to stand. And as much as I try to believe that spiritual motherhood is really motherhood, I knew they didn’t mean me. So I sat. And they handed flowers to every woman I could see. They asked me to pass flowers to the women who had earned them. And I trust God so much and I love him so much and I’m so content to be in his will, I really am, but I sat there and sobbed.

Not just for me, for the thousands of devastated women in pews around the country. Women who have lost children or aborted children or placed children for adoption, women who long for motherhood or resent their motherhood, women for whom today is already painful. And then they’re asked to watch every other woman stand and be recognized, not knowing if they should stand too, or certain that they shouldn’t. I thought of the hearts being broken by well-meaning people in churches across the country, and I wept.

This is why we ask you, Fathers, not to do this. It’s not because people get offended, it’s because people’s deepest pain is laid bare in a place that ought to be safe.

I didn’t sing the closing hymn–I couldn’t sing without starting to ugly cry. And the moment the song was over, I knelt, hoping that the people around me wouldn’t turn to tell me what a nice voice I have or ask if I was visiting. I didn’t want to deal with it.

But a young woman came over, a student at Texas A&M, and told me she recognized me from St. Mary’s. She thanked me for the work I do and told me how much it matters. And she prayed over me, a little balm for my soul.

Another lady came over afterward and asked how I was doing. The body of Christ, my friends.

And when I finally got myself together and finished talking to Jesus, I turned around to grab my things and saw that someone had given me a flower. Had given me *her* flower, most likely. Had seen me in my pain and reached out to tell me that I count, too.

So I cried some more and took the flower over to Mary, who had asked her Son to send those women to love on me. And I didn’t really feel any better, but at least I felt seen.

If you’re struggling today, I see you. I’m sorry it’s hard and I’m sorry we’ve made it harder. If you’re missing your mother or wishing your relationship with her was different, I offer you the Mother of God to take her place. If you’re feeling your empty womb or empty arms or empty home, I promise you this: spiritual motherhood is not a consolation prize. It’s not the same as physical motherhood, but it’s real and it’s essential for the salvation of souls. You matter. Your motherhood matters.

If you’ve got someone in your life who might be struggling, take a page out of the book of the many people who love me far better than I deserve and reach out. Tell her how she’s been a mother to you or your children. Thank her for the way she loves the people around her. Offer to pray for those grieving the loss of their mothers.

I wanted to spend today just celebrating the many, many amazing moms I know. But instead, God asked me to sit with the many other women who are suffering. Their pain shouldn’t take away your joy–you don’t have to feel guilty about having children or a great mom. But knowing how other people are suffering today should make you even more grateful for what you have and should call you to reach out to them in their pain as well.

It’s a hard day. It’s a beautiful day. Because motherhood–womanhood–personhood–is hard and beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day, friends. I hope the Blessed Mother holds you close today.