Tag: Eucharist

On Praying in Churches

Some time ago, I was in Europe chatting with a young American priest. We were discussing the state of Catholicism in the different European countries I’d visited and I was going on and on about Bavaria, the Texas of Germany, where churches are unlocked all day and so many people show up on Holy Days that they put speakers outside the church for the masses to hear the Masses.

“And the best thing, Father,” I gushed, “Is that they actually pray in their churches!”

He looked confused.

“No, I don’t mean for Mass. I mean, throughout the day! Every time I go for my holy hour, four or five different people stop through to make a visit while I’m in there. It’s unreal! Americans don’t pray in churches. I can go weeks without seeing another person in the sanctuary outside of Mass.”

“Oh, that can’t be true,” he protested. “At the parish I worked in, we had people stopping through all the time.”

“That’s wonderful, Father,” I said tentatively, “but it’s not typical.”

“No, no, I’m sure it’s more common than you think…” he began, but trailed off. “I suppose you have more experience of this than I do.”

“I’m pretty sure I do,” I said apologetically. “And I’d say that of the 45 hours or so that I spend in churches each month—outside of Mass, of course—I’m alone for all but 5 hours. At best.”

Now, this isn’t counting adoration. And I suppose it’s possible that I’m just going to the wrong churches or at the wrong times. But I have reason to think that’s not the case.

church with sunThe biggest reason, of course, is how often churches are locked. It’s gotten to the point where I call churches before heading over to ask if the building will be unlocked. Even in posh areas during business hours, the answer is often no. And when I ask to be let in to the church, people are confused.

“What for?” they ask.

“To pray.” I answer. It’s not a ridiculous question, after all. I might be there to practice the piano or to sketch the statues.

Sometimes, apparently, that’s not a good enough reason, and I’m told I can’t go in. Other times, the confusion remains, but they walk me over. Still other days find me staying after Mass for my prayer time and being asked to leave so they can lock up. I’ve been kicked out of more churches than most people will go into in their lives. And I understand that some churches need to be locked, especially in more crime-ridden areas. I certainly don’t expect anyone to allow a stranger to hang out with gold candlesticks at 10pm. But the fact remains that many (most?) Catholic churches in the United States seem to have no sense that people ought to be able to pray there.

There is something wrong with a Christian culture where I am looked upon with confusion and even suspicion for wanting to enter the presence of God incarnate to talk to him. This is the culture I’ve encountered in hundreds of churches across America. Even if it is possible to get in to pray, it’s so unusual that people look upon me with concern when they see me in the pews. After all, if a young woman’s come to church outside of Mass, someone must be dead or pregnant or something equally distressing.

I don’t think this has much to do with increased vandalism or lower rates of church attendance. I think it’s a reflection of the poverty of our faith, particularly our faith in the Eucharist.

Easter adorationIf we really believed Jesus was present in the Eucharist, wouldn’t we make some kind of effort to spend time with him? If we understood that the King of the universe was waiting, alone and rejected, our Prisoner of Love in the tabernacle, wouldn’t we stop by? But most of us don’t. Even if we drive by unlocked churches on our way home from work, even if we walk by chapels in our hallways, we don’t stop in.

It’s not your fault that you don’t. Or not entirely. Has it ever been suggested to you that you make a chapel visit? Is your church open if you wanted to? Can you find the tabernacle if you do get in?

I spent years following the Lord before I was convicted that I needed to do my best to get close to him physically as well as spiritually. And I really think it makes a difference. Sure, you can pray in your bedroom or your car or your office or anywhere at all. It’s not like Jesus isn’t present everywhere you turn to him. But the advantage of praying in a church isn’t just the lack of distractions (or the more sacred nature of the distractions). It’s that the God you address is really there, ten feet away, gazing with love on you. His spirit is omnipresent, but his body and blood are waiting in the tabernacle.

Witnessing this faith in the real presence was a transformative moment for Edith Stein (St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross). Walking through Frankfurt one day, she saw a woman with a shopping basket stopping in to pray at the cathedral. “This was something totally new to me,” she reflected years later. “In the synagogues and Protestant churches I had visited before, people simply went to services. Here, however, I saw someone coming straight from the busy marketplace into this empty church as if she was going to have an intimate conversation. It was something I never forgot.”

I know a man—a Catholic father of five—whose first step toward Rome was a moment of wonder at the silence in a Catholic sanctuary before Mass, so different from the friendly chatter of his Baptist church. There was something different here, he remarked, some reverence paid particularly in this space. It was the silent visit of hungry souls to their Eucharistic Lord that first called him home.

There is something different about a Catholic church. Though the architecture might be oddly asymmetrical and the art unworthy of the name, though the plaster might be peeling and the pews painful, though the drafts might be bone-numbing and the sound system useless, he is there.

The Protestant (formerly Catholic) Cathedral in Edinburgh. A lovely building but he's not there.
The Protestant (formerly Catholic) Cathedral in Edinburgh. A lovely building but he’s not there.

Caryll Houselander tells a striking story of a woman who first realized this difference:

“A Catholic who had never been inside any but a Catholic church was taken to see a pre-Reformation cathedral now in Anglican hands. It was filled with fine old carving, the tombs of Crusaders, a famous pulpit and font, and so on, but she was struck by only one thing: the absence of the Blessed Sacrament. ‘But it is empty!’ was all she could say. Until that time she had not had any special devotion to the Blessed Sacrament, but from that day her devotion began.”1

His presence matters. And our life ought to be a response to that. I’m not saying you have to make a holy hour every day, although some of you certainly could make time for that. And maybe the only church is so far out of your way that it can’t be a daily thing.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe you can spend ten minutes a day in the very presence of the God who gave you everything.

If your church isn’t open, talk to your pastor and see what can be done. Maybe the retired Knights of Columbus can volunteer to be in the church six hours a day—an honor guard of sorts for the Lord—so that the powers that be feel comfortable leaving the church unlocked. If the church is only open during business hours, you could ask for an hour every evening that it will be unlocked for those who work days. Perhaps there’s a code that could be put on the door, available for all parishioners (or hobos) who ask the office. If you’re building a new church, figure out a way to have a room that’s open 24 hours with a view of the tabernacle.2

All I know is it’s not okay that we treat the very presence of God like it’s no different from any other room. And rebuilding a culture that hungers for our Eucharistic Lord starts by being the change—by spending time with him in his Real Presence and by encouraging others to do the same.

2015-08-30 21.20.17

Dear Fathers, preach on it. Parents, take your children. Working people, mention your lunchtime chapel visit. Teachers, take your students for ten minutes on Fridays. Take time on your knees after Mass. Start your date night with the Lord. Make it a part of your parish events. A love of Jesus in the Eucharist is evidence of that personal relationship with Christ that transforms and animates his followers and the only way I can see to learn to love him is to act like we do until his grace makes it true.

Are you ready to join me in that strange, strange practice of being in the presence of the Person you’re talking to? I’d love to hear how you plan to keep him company—and any of your stories of confusing people by praying in churches.

  1. From The Reed of God which you simply must read immediately. [↩]
  2. If they ask my advice for the next Code of Canon Law, I’m going to say this ought to be required of all new construction. Also, all churches in developed nations must have websites with Mass times prominently featured on the home page and bulletins uploaded in a timely fashion to inform people of changes to the usual schedule. I’ve been bitten way too often by canceled Masses that you could only know about if you heard the announcements the Sunday before. [↩]

Something to Consider

I wonder if there was ever a Saint in the history of the world who was able to attend daily Mass and simply chose not to.

Image courtesy of the U.S. Army.
Image courtesy of the U.S. Army.

Not a guilt trip, just an invitation to reconsider your priorities. If the purpose of your life is to be a saint, what’s stopping you? Maybe daily Mass is impossible for you. But if it’s just that you’re lazy or busy or easily bored…think about that.

Feels Like Home

There’s something about the word “home” that’s always sparked a feeling of longing in me. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound” was my favorite song for much of high school,1 promising a place all my own where someone was waiting for me. In college, I found myself praying the chorus of “Feels Like Home” more times than I can count, aching for a place where I belonged. Lately I’ve felt “Let Me Go Home” running through my soul when I’m sitting with Jesus, my heart desperate to finish my exile. And today, I find tears in my eyes every time I watch the end of “The Wizard of Ahhhs.” (The whole thing is incredible, but I start getting wistful at 4:30.)

I guess home’s always felt like more than just the place you get your mail. It’s a place where you belong, where people miss you and love you flaws-and-all but challenge you to be better. It’s a place where you can sit and let the stress melt off, where you can be real. It’s a place where no one judges you for sleeping in and you don’t have to ask where the spatula goes. It’s a place where you don’t have to make small talk, where you can sit in companionable silence or pour out the mundane agonies of the day. It’s a place where you’re totally comfortable and pushed out of your comfort zone. It’s a place where you fit.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home.

Not just the two years I’ve been officially homeless, either. For years before that I was in other people’s space, never truly settled. The house I had in Georgia–five years ago–was kind of home. It was my place, anyway, where I could be real. But even there something was missing. There wasn’t a community that loved and challenged and supported and stretched me. Maybe for most people there isn’t. But that’s what my heart’s been longing for lately.

These past few days–after a week with a community of young people who are truly seeking Christ–I’ve realized just how much I want a home. And it’s not just the little things about feeling comfortable raiding the fridge or knowing where things go. I visit any number of homey places and lots of families who are incredibly hospitable. No, it’s the knowing and being known that I long for. It’s friends I can cry with who I see more than once every six months. It’s being able to turn off, to quit the small talk and the answering of the same questions I’ve answered a million times while still being drawn into deep reflection.

The view from my second-favorite spot.
The view from my second-favorite spot.

I was praying on this tonight, asking the Lord if this longing for a home is his way of leading me to settle down or if it’s just more of my restless heart longing for heaven. I started thinking about how the chapel I was in, my “home” chapel, didn’t even feel like home despite the fact that I’ve been going there (on occasion, anyway) for almost 15 years. Despite the fact that I’ve spent more time there than almost any other chapel in the world. And then it struck me.

This chapel is home.

This chapel is home and the cathedral is home and the random airport chapel with a tabernacle tucked in the corner is home, too. The side room on an Army post with an office chair facing the makeshift altar is home. The Cathedral of Notre Dame and the Basilica at Notre Dame2 and the roadside chapel are home.

Home is where he is.

Home is where I belong. It’s where he misses me and loves me and challenges me to be better. Home is where I look at him and let out a deep breath, all the forced cheerfulness sliding away to show how very tired or confused or hopeful I am. Home is where I have to wrestle with the issues I try to avoid. Home is the Eucharist.

On Corpus Christi3 Sunday, I could meditate on the Eucharist as the consummation of our marriage with Christ. I could explain the Eucharist or defend it using Scripture or the Fathers. I could muse on why God gave us the Eucharist. But all I can think today is that the Eucharist means that no Christian is homeless. It’s the reason I’m alone but I’m not lonely.

Sheen love storyEverything Jesus promises in John’s Last Supper is fulfilled in the Eucharist. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he begs. “Where I am, you also may be.”4 “I will not leave you orphans,” he promises. “I will come to you.”5 “Remain in my love,”6 he commands, knowing that it will be possible only because he comes to us. “Your joy will be complete…and no one will take your joy from you,”7 says Christ our joy, and draws us deeper into his embrace. And to hearts weighed down by the sorrows of this life, our God made weak whispers, “Take courage. I have conquered the world.”8

St. Augustine
St. Augustine

I know my solitary hobo life isn’t natural.9 And maybe one day my longing for home will find some fulfillment in a place I belong and a community that calls me to holiness. But I don’t think I’ll ever really feel at home. This restless heart of mine will never find rest in this world because this world is not my home. The closest I’ll get this side of heaven is the taste of heaven I receive each day, the God who’s the same wherever I am, whether I’m lost and alone or surrounded by people who love me. The Eucharist is home.

Happy Feast of Corpus Christi. May we find fulfillment only in Christ, our hope, our joy, our home.

  1. And the inspiration for “Derivative Bound,” a pre-calculus project for the ages. [↩]
  2. See what I did there? [↩]
  3. Shoulda-been-Thursday [↩]
  4. Jn 14:1, 3 [↩]
  5. Jn 14:18 [↩]
  6. Jn 15:9 [↩]
  7. Jn 15:11, 16:22 [↩]
  8. Jn 16:33 [↩]
  9. For now, I hope it’s supernatural. When it becomes merely unnatural, I’ll stop. [↩]

Advice to Priests

I was stunned the other day to have a good man, 25 years a priest, ask me for advice. Not with a specific situation either, just “Do you have any advice for me?” I didn’t know what to say to this priest of God, this man who speaks and the Word is made flesh, who grasps the hands of sinners to drag them back from the edge of that unscalable cliff, who leads people to Christ in a more real way than I ever will.

“Pray,” I said. “Love Christ and his Church and pray.”

But he wanted more. And I always have an opinion, even when I have no right to. So add this to the list of things I have no business giving advice on.1

Image courtesy of Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P.
Image courtesy of Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P.

If I could ask one thing of priests, it would be this: celebrate the Sacraments like you believe that they’re real. I imagine that most of you do believe that they’re real. And I’ve been privileged to know many priests whose love of the Lord is so powerfully evident in the way they lead their people in prayer. But that’s not always the case. Imagine if you celebrated Mass completely attentive to the fact that you were about to call God down to earth. Wouldn’t it be slower, more reverent, more intense? Wouldn’t you be awestruck, holding the host in your hand? Would you really make do with a quick bow if you honestly believed—or maybe remembered is the word—that Jesus Christ was truly there? More than just doing the red and saying the black (which is a great start), what if you treated the sacred mysteries like they are sacred and mysterious?

Via.
Via.

In a sacristy in Avila, the words surrounding the crucifix on the wall say, “Priest of Jesus Christ, celebrate this Holy Mass as if it were your first Mass, your last Mass, your only Mass.” If you can’t excite the emotions your first Mass stirred up, can you try to imagine how you would say Mass if you knew you were about to meet God face to face? You are, after all.

I don’t mean to imply that all you really need is emotions—or that if you try hard enough you can manufacture pious feelings. I just mean that your people don’t need good homilies. They don’t need good administrators. They don’t need friendly guys. Those things are all nice, but what they need are pastors who are showing them what holiness looks like. They need to see you and wonder at your love of the Lord. They need to believe that it’s possible to know Christ, and you can teach them that by coming to know him better yourself.

Via.
Image via.

I have some Facebook friends who are priests and will occasionally post with joy about how they love the confessional. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard a bored “Say three Hail Marys now make your act of contrition” after pouring my heart out in the confessional. And I know you’re overworked. But this is sacred: a lost soul crawling home to his Father. What if you heard confessions with the immensity of this work in mind? I know you’ve heard a thousand confessions, and I do hope mine always bores you, but pray. Oh, Father, pray for the grace to remember what it is you’re doing!

Because if you really believed that confession saved souls, that confession was a sinner kneeling at the foot of the Cross and surrendering his hammer into the pierced hands, wouldn’t you do anything to draw people there? Wouldn’t you preach on mercy? Wouldn’t you be in the confessional for hours each day? Or at least for minutes each day? Wouldn’t you offer confession more than half an hour a week? I know you have so much going on. I understand that you’re pastor and teacher and counselor and administrator, but if confession is real, nothing matters more. You have parishioners who’ve been away from the Sacrament for decades because nobody’s asked them to go. Don’t just ask: beg.

From an inspiring post on priests who have given everything for the faithful.
From an inspiring post on priests who have given everything for the faithful.

Baptize babies like it’s the most important day of their lives. Prepare couples for marriage like that’s how God is making them Saints. Anoint like it’s the lifeline holding people to Christ. Confirm like you’re sending soldiers into battle. Spend enough time in private prayer that your public prayer looks more like prayer and less like a formality. The more you love Christ, the more we’ll see that radiating from you. And the more we see it, the more we’ll line up to follow.

I don’t mean to criticize, just to challenge. I’m so grateful for you and for every priest. I have such respect for you and I understand the pressures and the difficulties of wearing a dozen hats and dealing with a thousand different personalities. I know that you’ve got duties that seem to keep you from the confessional and a timeline to stick to for Mass. I know that appearances aren’t everything and that the priest who seems most bored and inattentive might be in deepest contemplation. I know it’s hard to fake reverence when you’re doubting or sick or just doing it for the ten thousandth time. I know that many of you are saints in the making, offering your lives daily for those you serve. Thank you for all that you do and all that you are, for your love of the Lord that  shines through everything you do.

But I also know that sometimes when you make a living challenging others to grow in holiness, nobody challenges you. I don’t speak for everyone, but from one laborer in the vineyard to another: won’t you please show us that you believe what you say? Won’t you please fight for us and worship for us and lead us? Remember the priest you wanted to be 5, 20, 50 years ago and be that man. Be John Vianney or Padre Pio or Don Bosco or Ignatius or Francis Xavier or Ambrose. Be Christ. Be you. But always be his.

My advice to you is the same advice I keep giving myself as I stumble through, halfhearted and distracted: be a saint. Nothing else matters.

  1. Drafts waiting to be finalized include “How to Raise Kids Who Stay Catholic” and “How to Be Good in Bed.” Don’t get too excited—it’s about chastity. [↩]

What to Do When Mass Is Awful

One downside to being a hobo is that there’s no vetting parishes before deciding to go to Mass there. Whether it’s stopping at a parish in Kentucky because its noon Mass fit my 12-hour drive or going to the only church in Abilene, KS, I don’t always have a lot of choice in the matter. And when I do, I don’t tend to have enough information that I can avoid sketchy parishes. The result, of course, is that I go to a lot of…trying Masses.

One particularly frustrating Mass got me thinking, some time after the rain stick and before I noticed half a dozen adults chewing gum. As I tried to ignore the murmured conversations all around me (because, really, why listen to the Mass?), the Lord reminded me that there’s very little that can ruin the Mass. Oh, there’s plenty that can ruin my focus or my prayer or even the state of my soul if I let it, but almost nothing actually has the power to ruin the goodness that is the Mass.

Things that can’t ruin Mass (although not for lack of trying):1

  1. Granted, the lighting wasn't great, but there's not much you can do with seafoam carpeting and cinder block walls.
    Not even seafoam carpeting and cinder block walls can ruin Mass. I promise.

    Ugly sanctuaries. And not just the brown brick monstrosities of my youth. I’m talking a picture of MLK Jr. hanging to the right of the altar. However much you respect the work he did, the man is not a Saint.

  2. People chewing gum. Never okay in a house of worship, but I’m sure you knew that.
  3. People dressed immodestly. Leggings are not pants and if you’re convinced that shorts are Sunday-Mass-appropriate, please do make sure that they cover your butt. Also, what’s with all the cleavage at Mass? Or anywhere, for that matter? I tell you, friends, I just don’t get it.
  4. Cell phones going off. Even when people answer them and talk about how they’re leaving church as they walk out on their phone. Yup, been there.
  5. Screaming kids. By which I usually mean fussing kids whose parents scoop them up and out of the sanctuary but still get dirty looks. But even the ones who are totally indulged, driving their matchbox cars up and down the pews making screeching noises can’t ruin Mass.
  6. Illicit liturgy. I’m talking pita bread Jesus, the congregation sitting through the whole Mass, lay people proclaiming the Gospel, the priest receiving communion after everybody else–I begin to think I really have seen it all.
  7. Bad music. I’m rather a musical snob, so when I hear a cantor who’s a quarter step flat for a whole psalm, a pianist who doesn’t understand rests, or a guitarist playing in the wrong time signature, it’s a challenge to me. And Catholics aren’t exactly known for their music….
  8. Heretical music. “I myself am the bread of life…” Okay, fine, John 6. “…You and I are the bread of life!” What? No. We aren’t. That doesn’t even make sense! Seriously?
  9. If I hear that one again, I'll text this to the preacher.
    If I hear that one again, I’ll text this to the deacon.

    Heretical preaching. I actually heard an Easter homily once where the deacon preached that Jesus didn’t rise from the dead. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

  10. Obnoxious neighbors. You know–the ones who say all the responses reallysuperfast or the ones who seem to be boycotting the new translation or the ones who spend the whole offertory chatting about Kendra’s new boyfriend. I’m of the opinion that the only reason you talk during Mass is if, say, one of your limbs falls off and you have to whisper to your neighbor to please hand it back to you. Otherwise, not a word.

Plenty of these things, of course, might ruin your experience of Mass, but ultimately Mass is not about your experience. It’s about the objective truth of God made man made food for us. And if it’s a valid Mass,2 it is quite literally the most incredible thing ever to happen in the history of the world. When we’re dealing with a glory so stunning as the Eucharist, even the most heinous of liturgical practices can’t ruin it.

Now don’t get me wrong–good liturgy is at the heart of our faith and reverence is tremendously important.3 But when I let these relatively inconsequential things frustrate me, I’m worshiping music or rubrics or proper attire at the expense of God. And really, I’m letting the devil win. When you go to Mass, you strike a blow at Satan; when you spend your Mass frustrated or judgmental, he deflects it. And then some.

So when is Mass awful? When it isn’t Mass.

  1. If the priest uses any words other than “this is my body” and “this is the chalice of my blood” for the “consecration.”4
  2. If the priest “consecrates” anything other than wheat bread or grape wine.5
  3. If the “priest” isn’t a priest.

That’s it. No matter how bad the music, how dull the preaching, or how rude the congregation, if the form,6 the matter,7 and the minister8 are correct, God shows up. And if the God of the universe becomes an inanimate object for you, stopping at nothing to be with you, then no amount of human failure ought to rob you of of your Eucharistic joy. A valid Mass, my friends, can never be awful.9 The congregation or the preaching or the music or you can be awful, but the Mass isn’t about you. It’s about God. And he is faithful, even when we’re pathetic.

So what should you do? Well, I’m a big fan of making imaginary excuses for people.10 Or finding ways not to be distracted. Or, if it’s possible, shopping around for a licit Mass with a reverent congregation.

But it really comes down to your attitude. If you approach the Mass like it’s an opportunity for you to be entertained or enlightened or pacified, you’re doing it wrong. If you’re making a mental list of liturgical abuses, I sympathize, but I remind you: unless you’re a bishop,11 you are not the liturgy police. You are the faithful. And while it would be wonderful if everything was done right and everybody really did what they ought, making that your standard for a “good” Mass is pharisaism at best and idolatry at worst.

I totally took this picture. Be impressed.

If you approach the Mass like you’re approaching the throne of God, though, everything that’s “wrong” with a particular liturgy fades into the background. If you offer God your frustrations in atonement for your sins, if you close your eyes and beg for the grace to focus on him and not on them, if you remember that God loves us in our brokenness and wants everything we have to offer even if it’s awful, if you remind yourself over and over that however Father might embellish the Mass you’re still truly present at the Last Supper, the Crucifixion, and the Wedding Feast of the Lamb–well, just think of the grace!

Now if you’re in a position to do anything about any of the above, please do. Make announcements about gum, preach about proper attire, ban liturgical abuses. But if you’re like most of us, with no power to change anyone but yourself and–maybe–your family, don’t let propriety trump worship. Recognize what’s wrong if you must and then look back to Christ crucified for you. In the face of that, what else really matters?

*************

Last week I mentioned that I wanted to go to Wyoming and now I am! So I’ll try it again: I really want to go to New Mexico and South Dakota but I have nobody to visit and they’re not on my way. Anybody want me to come speak? (Or anywhere else out West, really, but I’ve got every other state covered as far as excuses to go there.)

  1. Every single one of these examples has really truly happened to me. [↩]
  2. Meaning Jesus actually shows up. You’ve probably never been to an invalid Mass. I think I went to one once but I’m not positive that it wasn’t just hugely illicit. [↩]
  3. Half the reason I wrote this post was to point out what isn’t appropriate at Mass. And please, before you get upset that I’m saying it’s not a big deal when things are illicit, I know that it’s a huge deal because the Mass is so important and it needs to be done right. I’m just saying that relative to the Eucharist, who is God himself, liceity is nothing. Because relative to the Eucharist, everything is nothing. I’m advocating perspective, not anarchy. [↩]
  4. My friend once went to a “Mass” where the priest said “this is the cup of my life.” No transubstantiation, no Mass. Lame. [↩]
  5. Leavened bread in the Roman Rite is illicit–against the rules–but not invalid. If a priest tries to consecrate cornbread, though, it’s not Jesus. [↩]
  6. Words. “This is my body,” “this is the cup of my blood.” [↩]
  7. Stuff: wheat bread, grape wine. [↩]
  8. A validly ordained priest–by necessity, a Catholic man. [↩]
  9. Except in the archaic sense of inspiring awe, in which case every Mass is awful, most especially when it’s glorious. [↩]
  10. “He must have gotten stuck in traffic and not had time to change and that’s why he’s wearing sweatpants and a cutoff tee to Sunday Mass.” “They’re probably chewing gum because they’ve never been in a church before and they don’t know proper etiquette.” “Maybe Father’s never read the rubrics.” “That 10-year-old playing her handheld game must have special needs.” [↩]
  11. In which case oh my gosh hi and you’re amazing and thanks for reading my blog wanna be my best friend?!?!? [↩]

I Surrender All

I was on retreat this weekend with 800 kids from Indiana.1 I wasn’t giving any talks, just getting down in the trenches with some relational ministry and it was awesome.

Being in the audience, I got to participate in all the ridiculous games that MCs make you play. Turns out I’m not half bad at Simon Says. So we’re down to maybe 20 people in the whole gym and Simon Said “Don’t smile.” Y’all, I am incredible at not smiling. It’s probably my greatest skill of all time. I was the 1995 St. Mark’s Summer Youth Wave Darling-I-Love-You Champion, and if you’ve ever played that game, you know I’m for real. When told to keep a straight face, I have not once in my entire life cracked a smile.

So there I am, not-smiling, and assured of victory in this game2 when Manny pipes up behind me, “Miss, if you smile I’ll go to confession.”

Done. I turned to him and grinned. He looked rather taken aback: “But now you lose, Miss!”

“Ah, but your soul is worth more to me than victory.”

It got me thinking about all the many deals I’ve made with kids. When it comes to objective grace, I’m not above a little encouragement (read: bribery). I think that if all it took to get you to go to confession was my promise to buy you an *NSYNC3 t-shirt, you were probably looking for an excuse to go anyway. So if I can make a deal with you to get you to make good choices, I’ll do it.

I once told a guy I liked I’d take him to dinner if he went to confession.4 I ate a wasabi peanut for a kid who promised he’d do his homework for the rest of the year.5 I even had a kid tell me she’d save sex for marriage if I’d smoke a cigarette with her after graduation. Abso-freaking-lutely, darling.6 Just before I entered the convent, I offered a friend 10 grand to stop sleeping with his girlfriend. Ten thousand dollars. He said no. I guess you can’t win them all.

So I was sitting in the bleachers after this game of Simon Says congratulating myself on all the sacrifices I make for the kingdom when I realized how paltry they are. “If you do this for me,” I say, “I will surrender control over a very small aspect of my life.” A wasabi peanut? Seriously? Here I am thinking I make a darn good junior Messiah when I’m offering so little–and then only on the contingency that I trust someone to follow through on his end of the bargain. The real Messiah offered everything.

via flickr
via flickr

I was rather overwhelmed by this thought, that Jesus offered himself completely to us even knowing that we wouldn’t follow through on our end of the bargain. It kept coming to mind over the weekend. And then Saturday night, all 800 youth knelt on the gym floor for 2 hours as Father came around to each person with the monstrance. When Jesus approached me, I was staring at him with Father’s face just behind him when Father began singing along with the worship team: I surrender all to you, all to you. Jesus sang to me, “I surrender all to you.” Helpless and ridiculed in the Eucharist, he reminded me once again what his presence here on earth has always meant.

Jesus didn’t offer only his hunger or humiliation or suffering or even his death. Jesus offered every moment of his life. And when he rose, he offered it again. And when he ascended into heaven, he still wasn’t done. He came back for us in the Blessed Sacrament. And today, he waits for us in the tabernacle. He waits for every one of us–not just the worthy or the holy or the immaculate. He offered himself for you and for me, even though he knew we would betray him. Even though he knew we would ignore and reject and forget him. He didn’t die only for those who are good soil–the rocky and thorny and hard-packed ground are his, too. He died for obedient sheep and wandering sheep and black sheep and goats and sparrows and anyone who’ll have him and even those who won’t.

Christ on the Cross by Francisco de Zurbaran
Christ on the Cross by Francisco de Zurbaran

Each Lent, I’m reminded by my hunger that every moment is the Lord’s, that every sacrifice is for love of him. This year, I’m thinking especially of all that I hold on to, keeping it “safe” from a God who surrendered all for me. The pride and envy and security and control that I think I need, that I cling to even when the Lord tries to loosen my grip–how pathetic, compared with the glory he surrendered for me. I offer the Lord so much but I hold back. “Lord, I will pray a rosary every day for the rest of my life, but seriously don’t ask me to pray an extra one with those kids or I will freak out.” “God, I’ll give you an hour in adoration, but if the next person is 5 minutes late, you’d better have a good explanation for why I was stuck here.” “Lord, I can love everyone except that kid. Nobody could love that kid.”

It’s easy to congratulate ourselves on what we’ve given to the Lord. When we start to see what he’s given to us, our paltry sacrifices don’t seem quite so impressive. Praise the Lord that he doesn’t ask what we have to give before offering us his very self, body, blood, soul, and divinity. He surrendered all for us. He surrenders all for us. Forget all those little sacrifices–let’s meet him in the Eucharist and offer our lives to him.

  1. South? Central? Wherever Carmel is–I never did look at a map. But I did figure out that I was on Eastern time, so that’s a plus. [↩]
  2. Have I mentioned that I’m wildly competitive? [↩]
  3. Definitely had to google that to see how to capitalize/punctuate it. [↩]
  4. Score! Grace and a date. [↩]
  5. He didn’t turn in a single thing, I’m still bitter. [↩]
  6. A year and a half later, still a virgin. So maybe she breaks her promise–at least I got her to think twice about it. [↩]

My Favorite Thing About NYC

There are churches everywhere!  And whether they look like this:

Granted, the lighting wasn’t great, but there’s not much you can do with seafoam carpeting and cinder block walls.
My friend Amanda likes this window. But what about those metallic squares to the right? Can you see those?  Nobody could like those.

or like this:

I love the altarpiece.

Check out the Joyful Mysteries in this window!

what matters is this:

15 years after my conversion, seeing this candle lit somewhere I wasn’t expecting it still gives me a thrill.

Because he was present among stalls and he’s present among cinder blocks.  What a blessing to step from the empty noise of the street into the eloquent silence of his presence.

 

1st church: Nativity in Manhattan; 2nd church: St. Thomas Aquinas in Brooklyn–just your generic NYC neighborhood church.  I swear, sometimes it’s like being in Rome!

Why I Go to Mass Every Day

Sometimes I have to drive 40 minutes each way.  Sometimes I have to walk in 100 degree weather.  Sometimes I have to skip a meal.  Sometimes I have to get up at 5:30.  Sometimes I have to take two cranky children.  Sometimes I have to go in Arabic or Polish or Korean.  Sometimes I have to drive through the snow.  Sometimes the homily is terrible.  Sometimes the priest is so sketchy that it barely counts as Mass.  Sometimes I’m sick or tired or just cranky.  Sometimes I don’t pay attention at all.

So worth it.  Every time.

Source and Summit and Everything in Between: Why the Eucharist

As I walked my nephew through his prayers last night, we enjoyed the following exchange:

Me: Can you tell God how great he is?  What did Jesus do that was great?

John Paul: He took bwead and wine and tuwned it into his body and bwood!

I swear I’m not making this up.  Completely unaware of tomorrow’s feast (or my epic series of Eucharist posts), the one event from the life of Christ that struck my 2-year-old nephew as awesome was the institution of the Eucharist.

Yes, I’m taking notes for the hagiography.

Just so everybody knows that his theology’s sound, John Paul has also been known to stop playing, look up, and say, “Thank you fow Jesus fow dying fow me!”  He’s a little preposition happy at the moment.

But he’s on the right track.  Somehow, his little child’s mind gets that the Eucharist is just as essential as the Passion.  In fact, it’s an extension of the Passion.

Behold the Lamb of God

I’m sure everyone reading this knows that the Passover is a type (a foreshadowing) of the Passion.  But bear with me here (And turn to Exodus 12 if this is news).  In order to save his people from slavery to Egypt (sin), God ordered them to take an unblemished lamb (sinless Lamb of God) and slaughter it (crucify him) at twilight (during an eclipse).  He ordered that not a bone of it be broken (Jn 19:36) and that the Israelites anoint their doorposts with its blood (be baptized and saved by the blood of the Lamb).*

People usually finish drawing the eery parallels there (although can I point out that John the Baptist called Jesus the Lamb of God–sacrificial victim–just before Jesus was baptized, symbolizing his union with sinners and his death?  Sweet.) but that’s only the first part of the ritual.  Any Jew will tell you that the meat (hehe) of the Passover ritual is the Seder meal.  In fact, Exodus spends more time commanding that than it does commanding the sacrifice, going so far as to say that all Israelites must eat the lamb (Ex 12:47–I guess Jewish vegetarians just have to suck it up one day a year).

The Old Testament is engineered intentionally by God to reveal the New in the light of Christ.  We start to understand the purpose of the Ark of the Covenant when we look at Mary.  We get a sense of worship when we look at the temple (incense, anyone?) and we can’t understand Baptism without the flood and the Red Sea.  So what’s with all the sacrifice stuff all over the Pentateuch?  And why is it always telling them who was supposed to eat of the sacrifice?

That’s right.  Many kinds of sacrifices had to be consumed entirely, others eaten by priests, and some eaten by the one who offered it.  The idea was that you offered your best to God, who made it sacred.  Some of it went to the priests, some was burned up, but some was given back to you.  You then feasted with your family, thanking God for the opportunity to make a sacrifice (now there’s some good theology) and being sanctified by consuming what was holy.  The ancient understanding of holiness was that it was contagious.  If you touched something unclean, you became unclean; if you touched something holy, you became holy (or got struck dead–2 Sam 6).  God called the Israelites to consume their sacrifices so that they might become holy as their heavenly Father is holy.  For Ancient Jews, a sacrifice without a meal was incomplete.  A Passover without a Seder was sacrilege.

Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross is clearly a Paschal (Passover/Easter) sacrifice; so where’s the meal?  Well, he had to go a little out of order, but the Apostles consumed the Lamb of God at the Last Supper, when he offered his body and blood to them under the form of bread and wine.  You cannot have the Passion without the Last Supper–you cannot have Christianity without the Eucharist.**

Because for the Israelites, sacrifice was necessary, yes.  But the feast was how they shared in that sacrifice.  The meal was the source of sanctity for them just as the Eucharist is for us.  It’s the source of our faith as well.  In John, Peter makes his profession of faith after the bread of life discourse.  In Luke, the disciples on the road to Emmaus didn’t recognize the risen Christ until after he broke open the Scriptures for them (Liturgy of the Word) and then took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them (Lk 24:30).  It’s through consuming the Passover Lamb that we are drawn to faith.

And here’s the thing of it: this isn’t just some accident of allegory where we felt as though we had to get all the details right.  “Okay, well, there’s something in here about eating it standing up, so let’s nix the altar rails….”  No–God created the Passover for the purpose of showing us what the Passion meant–and showing us that it didn’t end on the cross or in the empty tomb or even on Ascension Thursday.

My friends, Jesus loved you too much to spend only 33 years on earth.  It wasn’t enough for him to live for you, nor to die, nor even to rise again.  He needed to be with you, here for you, every moment of every day.

At the Last Supper, he made this promise: I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you (Jn 14:18).  This wasn’t a promise made only to his Apostles, merely a promise of the Resurrection.  He’d told them about that a half dozen times.  They weren’t suddenly going to get it now.  No, this was a promise to you that he would offer himself for you not once but eternally.

“I refuse,” he said, as he stared death in the face, “I refuse to leave her.  I will come back for her.  I will wait for her, weaker than I was on the Cross, poorer than I was in the manger.  I will suffer abuse and ridicule, be ignored and profaned, every day for the rest of time rather than leave her.  And most days she won’t bother to come see me.  And she’ll receive me without a thought about me.  And some days–Father, forgive her–she’ll come to me mired in sin.  But I will never leave her nor forsake her.  I will wait for her in the tabernacle.  I will stare at her from the monstrance.  I will kiss her as she receives.  I will dwell in her heart.  I will be borne in her life.  I will not leave her.”

The act of receiving is so intimate, this moment at which we accept the love of another person given entirely for us.  We the Church walk up the aisle to our groom.  When a groom takes his bride to their marriage bed, when they consummate their marriage, they say to one another, “I give myself completely to you forever.”  And each time they make love, they renew the covenant of their marriage, making again with their bodies the vows they spoke on their wedding day: I give myself completely to you forever.

As he stretched out his arms on the cross, Jesus said to his bride the Church, “I give myself completely to you forever.”  In the person of the priest, he says at each Mass, “This is my body, which will be given up for you”–I give myself completely to you forever.  That is the promise of the Eucharist, the sign by which Christ renews his covenant with the Church.  It’s an act of marital love, and act of intimacy so profound that it’s called the summit of the Christian life.  Jesus, the lover of your soul, is drawing you to himself, giving himself completely to you–not just spiritually but physically–begging that you be captivated by him as he is by you.  Begging that you give yourself in return.

Sure, he could do this by sending his Spirit into our heart or stirring up a desire for union with him.  But God made us physical and spiritual–he knows that we’re not purely spiritual creatures and we can’t survive on the spirit alone.  He gave us the Eucharist as a physical expression of the all-encompassing, life-giving love we were made for.  The reality of his presence allows us to give ourselves completely to him as he offers himself completely to us.

This physical reality of the Sacrament touches our hearts in a way that spiritual certainty just can’t.  Because it’s real.  It’s tangible, it’s physical, and it’s beautiful.  A perfect love for Christ would desire to possess him completely–which we do when we receive.  A perfect love for Christ would desire to be transformed into him–which we are when we receive.  A perfect love for Christ would desire to give ourselves completely to him–which we can when we receive.

Praise God for the gift, the incredible gift of the Eucharist.  Here is the one place where you are fully known, loved exactly as you are, and called to be greater.  Here is the one place where you are completely accepted by the one person whose acceptance matters.  My friends, if you are blessed to be Catholic, please, oh, please learn to love Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.  You won’t always feel it (Lord knows I don’t) but when you choose to see him with eyes of faith, your life will be transformed.  The Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian faith.  It is our strength to endure and the reason we sing.  It is the promise of his love and a foretaste of heaven.  It is, quite literally, the meaning of life.

Jesus longs to love you in the Eucharist.  Let him.

 

*Can I just tell you that when this was first explained to me it absolutely blew my mind?  I was in high school and I seriously freaked out.  I knew Jesus and all, but I had no idea that this Christian thing could be intellectually stimulating.  Little did I know….

**Incidentally, this seems to have been Tolkien’s biggest problem with The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; Lewis set up a whole Passion narrative with no Last Supper, a whole Passover with no Seder.

Everybody’s Doing It: Church Tradition on the Eucharist

Yesterday’s post (I hope) made it pretty clear that Scripture supports the Catholic understanding of the Eucharist.  In all things, though, we need to look to Church Tradition as well.  1 Thes 2:13 and 2 Thes 2:15–among many other verses–tell us that we need both Scripture and the inspired Tradition of the Church in order to come to a fuller understanding of our faith.  But that’s an argument for another day.

Church Fathers

Suffice it to say that whether or not you believe in the Church’s ability to speak infallibly, it’s hard to argue with the unanimous tradition of the early Church Fathers.  After all, these guys were only a few generations removed from Jesus–early in the game of telephone, if you will.  It stands to reason that their understanding of the faith has been less corrupted than what it might have become centuries later.

This was the clear understanding of the reformers.  Facing an ornate, bureaucratic Church weighed down by what appeared to be the accumulated “traditions of men” (Mark 7:8), Luther and his colleagues sought to go “ad fontes,” to the sources.  Their theory was that a Christianity 1500 years removed from Christ couldn’t possibly know what Christ taught unless it looked to the early Christian Church.  Now, Luther tended to look at Scripture alone, but his theory seems to indicate that the earliest Christians were almost as reliable.

So when we’re talking about the Eucharist, let’s start with the earliest Christians.  If we’ve got a consensus in Scripture and a consensus in the early Church, I don’t think there’s much left to argue.

The Eucharist is the flesh of our Savior Jesus Christ, the flesh which suffered for our sins and which the Father, in His graciousness, raised from the dead. -St. Ignatius of Antioch, around 100 AD

As Jesus Christ our Savior being incarnate by God’s Word took flesh and blood for our salvation, so also we have been taught that the food consecrated by the Word of prayer which comes from him, from which our flesh and blood are nourished by transformation, is the flesh and blood of that incarnate Jesus. -St. Justin Martyr, around 150 AD

Could not Christ’s word, which can make from nothing what did not exist, change existing things into what they were not before? It is no less a feat to give things their original nature than to change their nature. -St. Ambrose of Milan, 4th century

Since Christ himself has declared the bread to be his body, who can have any further doubt? Since he himself has said quite categorically, “This is my blood,” who would dare to question it and say that it is not his blood? -St. Cyril of Jerusalem, late 4th century

Cyril asks the exact question here: who, John Calvin, are you to say that Jesus didn’t mean what he said?  It seems that Cyril was just making a point, though, not addressing anyone in particular; history tells us of absolutely no mainstream Christian denying the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist during his time.

Actually, we have no record of anything of the kind for more than 1000 years after the time of Christ.  Berengarius of Tours in 1088 is the first Christian on record as denying that the Eucharist is the true body and blood of Jesus.  This idea of a “symbolic” or “spiritual” presence of Jesus was so foreign to the early Church that nobody even considered it for a thousand years and when someone did they branded him a heretic and ran him out of town.

You want to tell me that 1000 years of Christians were all completely wrong on this central mystery of their faith?  Doesn’t sound ad fontes to me.

Saints Throughout History

The Saints’ obsession with the Eucharist didn’t stop in the early Church, though.  Love of the Blessed Sacrament is a hallmark of sanctity, found in the lives of every Saint we have adequate information on.  Here are some highlights:

 Material food first changes into the one who eats it, and then, as a consequence, restores to him lost strength and increases his vitality.  Spiritual food, on the other hand, changes the person who eats it into itself.  Thus the effect proper to this Sacrament is the con­ver­sion of a man into Christ, so that he may no longer live, but Christ lives in him; conse­quent­ly, it has the double effect of restoring the spiritual strength he had lost by his sins and defects, and of increasing the strength of his virtues. -St. Thomas Aquinas, 13th century

I don’t know how many of you are aware of how desperately Catholic Tolkien was, but I hope you see the connection between Aquinas’ understanding of the Eucharist and Tolkien’s description of elven lembas (waybread–viaticum, anyone?).

Can you believe this is just what popped up when I googled lembas?

The lembas had a virtue without which they would long ago have lain down to die. It did not satisfy desire, and at times Sam’s mind was filled with the memories of food, and the longing for simple bread and meats. And yet, this way bread of the Elves had potency that increased as travelers relied upon it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and it gave strength to endure, and to master sinew and limb beyond the measure of mortal kind. -J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King (For more on lembas, check this out.)

I know, right?  Here’s St. Francis of Assisi, “the most Christlike man since Christ”:

And just as He appeared before the holy Apostles in true flesh, so now He has us see Him in the Sacred Bread. Looking at Him with the eyes of their flesh, they saw only His Flesh, but regarding Him with the eyes of the spirit, they believed that He was God. In like manner, as we see bread and wine with our bodily eyes, let us see and believe firmly that it is His Most Holy Body and Blood, True and Living. (12th century)

Let’s listen to the Little Flower:

Do you realize that Jesus is there in the tabernacle expressly for you–for you alone? He burns with the desire to come into your heart. -St. Thérèse of Lisieux, 19th century

Or her namesake, Mother Teresa of Calcutta:

When you look at the crucifix, you understand how much Jesus loved you. When you look at the Sacred Host you understand how much Jesus loves you now.

You can find tons of these all over the internet because the Saints agree with Christ: this is his body.

Regular Folk

I just couldn’t leave this smorgasbord of quotations on the Eucharist without my very favorites, from regular people (okay, geniuses, but not Saints).

Blaise Pascal, famous for being a philosopher and a mathematician and one of the greatest minds of all time, sums it up quite nicely:

How I hate such foolishness as not believing in the Eucharist!  If the Gospel is true, if Jesus Christ is God, where is the difficulty?

Tolkien didn’t stop at allusion when discussing his love of the Eucharist.  In a letter to his son, he explained what the love of his life was:

Out of the darkness of my life, so much frustrated, I put before you the one great thing to love on earth: the Blessed Sacrament…..There you will find romance, glory, honour, fidelity, and the true way of all your loves upon earth, and more than that.

Twenty years later, his feelings were much the same:

 I fell in love with the Blessed Sacrament from the beginning – and by the mercy of God never have fallen out again: but alas! I indeed did not live up to it…Out of wickedness and sloth I almost ceased to practice my religion – especially at Leeds, and at 22 Northmoor Road. Not for me the Hound of Heaven, but the never-ceasing silent appeal of Tabernacle, and the sense of starving hunger.

This, friends–this is what it means to be a Catholic.  To hunger for the Eucharist, to be enamored of Christ’s body and blood, here present to us at all times, sinners that we are.

I leave you with the words of Flannery O’Connor, an American Catholic author from the early 20th century.  She says what we, perhaps, would say: I can’t explain it, but I believe it with everything that I am.

I was once, five or six years ago, taken by some friends to have dinner with Mary McCarthy and her husband, Mr. Broadwater. (She just wrote that book, “A Charmed Life.”) She departed the Church at the age of 15 and is a Big Intellectual. We went at eight and at one, I hadn’t opened my mouth once, there being nothing for me in such company to say. . . . Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them.

Well, toward morning the conversation turned on the Eucharist, which I, being the Catholic, was obviously supposed to defend. Mrs. Broadwater said when she was a child and received the host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, He being the most portable person of the Trinity; now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one. I then said, in a very shaky voice, Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.

That was all the defense I was capable of but I realize now that this is all I will ever be able to say about it, outside of a story, except that it is the center of existence for me; all the rest of life is expendable.

All the rest of life is expendable.

Tomorrow: Source and Summit and Everything in Between: Why the Eucharist.