hope Archives - Held By His Pierced Hands

In the Face of Suffering, We Live in Hope

When it comes to miracles, I’m kind of a skeptic. By which I mean that if you’ve got half a dozen atheist doctors who swear your healing was a miracle, I’ll consider it. But one marvelous thing about our Church is that it’s skeptical the same way. So when the Church declares something a miracle, you’d better believe there’s no other explanation. As an apologist, I find these miracles encouraging. But as a human being, they break my heart.

Judith 9:11-12, one of the most impassioned pleas I've ever read. — Judith 9:11-12, one of the most impassioned pleas I’ve ever read.

It’s not the miracles that break my heart, I suppose. It’s the many, many others that don’t happen. The stillborn babies who stay dead. The kids in car accidents who never recover. The people who got on that plane, the girls stolen from their school, the children sent away as refugees. In a world where innocents are being slaughtered in Gaza and Syria and Ukraine and Iraq and Chicago, how can we claim that our healing or safety or raffle ticket was foreordained? Are we really so arrogant as to believe that God cares more about us than he does about the thousands, the millions he doesn’t save?

This is what miracles seem to imply. If God saves some, he chooses not to save others. It’s an ugly idea, one we’re generally more comfortable ignoring as we pacify ourselves with platitudes about how “everything happens for a reason” and “God will provide.” Tell that to the mother fleeing Mosul rather than convert at the point of the sword. Tell that to the father sending his 9-year-old thousands of miles to the north, trekking through the most dangerous areas on the planet alone in the hopes that there will be safety at the other end. Tell that to the woman who lost her husband on that flight, to the little boy whose sisters still haven’t been brought back. Tell it to the victims of rape and torture who cried out to a silent God. It’s not enough.

It’s not enough because it’s not true. God is not your fairy godmother. He’s not your personal assistant or your oncologist. He doesn’t send angels to surround you to make sure you’re happy all the time. God doesn’t care at all if you’re happy all the time. Because he’s not your babysitter. He’s your Father. And fathers love their children too much to give them everything they want.

Our problem is that we’ve confused providence with luck. We see good things happening to people and assume the universe is on their side. Bad things, of course, mean the opposite. There’s no rhyme or reason to it all beyond a vague feeling that God prefers some people to others or has “a special plan” for them, which never seems to involve much more than occasional volunteering for a few years after their miracle. And the millions left to languish? Well, let’s not think about them.

I refuse to worship that god. The god who plays favorites, who saves some while abandoning others, is no god worthy of the name. He’s certainly not the God who died on the Cross, the God who desires that all men be saved.¹ He’s a petty magician, an idol for the privileged who want to validate their comfortable lives in the face of the suffering masses.

What delivers me from the Baal of Miracles? Perspective.

If this life were all there was, it would be impossible to love God. Even acknowledging how much suffering is entirely the result of sin, there is too much pain to believe in a good God. How can a good God allow cancer and tsunamis and famines on top of rape and genocide and brainwashing? How can we say that God is love? How can we cry that he is good when there is so much evidence to the contrary?

Because the meaning of this life is not this life.

We can’t understand what God is doing any more than an infant can understand what his mother is doing–less so. We see the now, or even the 50 years from now. We see the splash. God sees the ripples. And not just the ripples on our lives but the ripples on the lives of those we love and those we hate and those we’ve never bothered to notice. God sees the ripples on eternity. God knows which miraculous cure will bring conversion and which painful death will draw hearts to him. He doesn’t give you cancer because you need to learn how to be a better person, but if he lets you suffer through it, he is working. This is the God who took the greatest evil of all time, the torture and deicide of Good Friday, and turned it into the greatest good for the human race. There is nothing he cannot turn to good.²

This is what gives me hope. Not that God might work a miracle for me but that he is working miracles, daily miracles. This is providence, that for me in my comfortable life and for those suffering and abandoned, for every last person on this planet God is working miracles. He is holding them close and drawing them closer, even when they seem most alone. Because he knows what they need. This is the Christian answer to the problem of evil: God knows better than I. And he is working.

So what can I say to the mothers with empty arms, the broken victims of abuse and neglect, the refugees and hospice patients and orphans and addicts?

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what God is doing, but I know that he is doing something. I don’t know what good will come of this, but I know that good will come. I know this the way I know how to breathe or which way is down: not because I can prove or explain it but because everything in my life cries out this truth. You are loved in your suffering. God weeps with you, hanging on the Cross for you. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what he’s doing. But I know who he is. He is good. He is love. He is for you. And there will come a day when all is made clear, when you’re welcomed into the embrace of the God who has been waiting for you since before there was time and you see just how all things worked for good. But until then, I will stand with you in the unknowing. Together we will hope and love and suffer. And we will trust in a God who is so much bigger than our pain.”

Miracles seem arbitrary and unfair because our vision is so short. But we worship an eternal God who did not spare his own Son but handed him over for us all.³ There is nothing he will not do for us. Ours is to trust that when we lie broken amidst the rubble of our lives, even then he is working. Even then we are protected. Even then we are loved by a Father who wills our greatest good, though it may be a long time coming. Wait in hope, my friends. My God will not disappoint.

I Tim 2:4 [↩]
Rom 8:28 [↩]
Rom 8:32 [↩]

Hope for the Church

One question I often hear as I travel about the country is generally posed by a member of the older crowd, often prefaced by disparaging remarks about my generation.

“Do you see any hope for the Church?” they ask disconsolately.

Hope for the Church? Hope for the Church?? By definition there is hope for the Church. Jesus told us when he founded it that the gates of hell would not prevail against it. There is always hope for the Church because the hope of the Church is Christ, victor over death.

Still, I know what they mean, these faithful grandparents who feel as though they haven’t seen a twenty-something at Mass in twenty years. They see babies having babies and pews standing empty. They watch divorce rates rise even as sacramental marriage rates plummet. There sometimes seems little hope in a Church that’s accused of being irrelevant.

4 million followers. NBD. — 4 million followers isn’t that much, apparently, but if you add together all the languages he tweets in he’s in the top 50 in the world.

But ah, there is hope. There is hope in youth programs filled with kids who love Christ. There is hope in the flourishing campus ministry centers, hope in the young families with four and five and six kids and enough John Pauls and Thereses to stock a Catholic gift shop. There is hope in long confession lines and in the wild popularity of @Pontifex.

There is hope in every tabernacle and every Sunday School classroom, but nowhere have I seen more hope than in the home where I ate dinner last night.

Gathered around kitchen table and dining table and card tables were a dozen deacons, all of whom will be ordained in the next few weeks, a handful of seminarians, a bishop, half a dozen priests, and assorted non-clerical types. I’d accidentally shared a holy hour with five of the deacons earlier in the day, startled from my silent distraction by the sight of these strong young men dropping to their knees before a God made weak. Over a marvelous dinner, I saw the fruit of many such holy hours in the kind eyes and passionate conversation of these godly men, each one eager not for the honor due to a priest but for the sacrifice required of a victim.

This morning, a dear friend, Father Joe Kirkconnell, was ordained down here on Grand Cayman and his seminary classmates are here to celebrate with him. Father Joe is a quietly holy man, a man more humbled and overjoyed and astonished at the grace of ordination than any I’ve seen. He is intelligent and pious and kind and somehow he is shocked that God would give him this gift. After the election of the candidate (when the bishop declared that he would be ordained), he let out a joyful sigh of relief, as if even during his ordination Mass he had been afraid they might change their minds. It’s enough to make a person weep,¹ seeing how grateful he is for what so many would consider a cross.

But this is priesthood. These men don’t feel they’re doing the Church a favor. They’re awestruck by the magnitude of what is being given them. “These hands,” one said to me. “These hands with their long fingers and their odd wrinkles–these hand will consecrate, will bring God to earth.” They are longing to serve, longing to sacrifice, longing to lay down their lives for their sheep.

Now, I’m notorious for going all catholic fangirl on seminarians, but this time you would have done the same. Watching these men, these brothers in Christ and soon to be brother priests, tease each other over their reactions to stingrays, spend an evening filling glasses and taking plates in service to the others in attendance, and roar with laughter at stories that ended with the punchline, “I never should have asked a liturgist,”² I was overwhelmed by their joy, their goodness, their servants’ hearts and love for truth.

The first time I asked Fr. Joe if he thought he might become a priest, years ago after we prayed our usual rosary in his dorm chapel, he looked wistfully at me and said, “I hope so.” There was no pride, no indecision, just a longing to belong to Christ and serve his Church. Today, he lay on his face on the floor of the church and offered his life irrevocably to you, whoever you are. Others did the same all over the world. And next week there will be more, and the week after. On and on throughout the summer and beyond.

This year and next year and every year until the end of time, there will be men who throw away perfectly good lives to live for the people of God. And these young men who taunt each other and encourage each other and challenge each other and pray for each other give me hope. Oh, there are bad priests out there. But there are so very many men who are laying down their lives, holding nothing back, pouring themselves out for people who see nothing beyond the collar. Pray for them. Invite them to dinner. Thank them for their service. Go to Mass. Go to confession. (There’s no greater gift you can give a good priest than your sins.) These men who absolve and instruct and consecrate and suffer for you are, along with so many other God-lovers, hope for the Church. May God grant us holy priests.

My dear Fathers, thank you. Thank you for the gift of your life.

Which I did. I probably cried 25 times today. Oh, how I love the priesthood and holy priests! [↩]
Best dinner party of my life. [↩]

I’m Glad Pope Benedict Is Resigning

I’m always creeping people out talking about how cute he is, but come on! How can you not love that face??

I loved JPII. He was the pope of my conversion, the pope whose eyes shouted love for me. There were moments in my youth when I believed the lies the world tells about the Church’s misogynistic and antiquated ways, times when I felt that perhaps it was just some patriarchal bureaucracy. But I knew that my Papa loved me–not loved everybody, but loved me. When I couldn’t believe that God loved me, this Pope who responded to cries of “We love you!” with “Perhaps I love you more”–he showed me the love of Christ in a powerful way.

When he died, I sobbed. And then I rejoiced. I had loved him for so long but I knew that, as much as he loved me, he would never know my name. I studied in Rome for a semester to be near him, but 5 seats in from the aisle was the closest I was going to get. In death, he knew me. In death, he listened to me. In death, he sat beside me at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

I was fully prepared to love his successor, but I knew that I would never adore him the way I adored John Paul.

And I was right. I don’t love Pope Benedict that way–but I love him just as much. See, JPII is my number 2 crush of all time. No joke, I see pictures of him at 60 and I think he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. I don’t even notice that he’s old. I don’t feel that way about Papa Benny; I don’t swoon over his pictures or get butterflies in my stomach when I think about him. He’s not exciting–not the rock star John Paul was–but he feels like home. When I look at his picture or read his words, I know that I am held in the Father’s embrace. I suppose I loved JPII like I love Christ. But I love Pope Benedict like I love the Father.

So this morning’s news stunned me. Not only are we losing him, in essence, but he’s choosing to go. And yet I feel no sense of betrayal, not even confusion. There may not be a holier man in the world today; if he feels the Lord has asked him to abdicate, I trust him.

Nor does any man more deserve to retire to a life of prayer. For 85 years, Pope Benedict has poured out his life for the Church. In recent years, he has prayed and written and spoken and traveled and suffered ridicule and abuse and yet still he loves us. A dear student of mine was blessed to meet him once; she told me that she has never in her life felt more loved than when he looked in her eyes.

Even in stepping down, he is serving us.

And now he feels that he is no longer capable of giving the Church what she needs. I have a hard time believing that any man alive would be better at this work than he, but I trust him. I’m stunned by his humility in acknowledging his limitations, most particularly by his entreaty: “I ask pardon for all my defects.” That such a man would forgo weeks of interviews and accolades from his adoring faithful and instead speak quietly to the Cardinals, proclaiming his weakness and begging their forgiveness–this is the reason the world stands shocked. Not because he resigned, but because even his resignation is not about him. Sr. Mary Theresa of the Dominican Sisters of Mary, Mother of the Eucharist put it beautifully: “Pope John Paul II remained in office so that he might show us how to suffer and how to die. Pope Benedict XVI is leaving the Papal Office so that he might show us how to live in humble honesty.”

The Holy Father’s resignation is a great loss to our Church. But it is also a great gift–a gift of humility, of prayer, of discernment. In stepping down, our beloved Pope continues to teach us to live in the Father’s will. I’m glad he’s teaching that lesson. I’m glad he’s living such humility. But most of all, I’m glad he will have some years of peace at the end of his life. The gates of hell will never overcome the Church of Christ; may God bless us with another saint as Vicar.

Aggie Catholics has a great piece on why this is a good thing. Fr. James Martin tells us what this teaches us about discernment. Ti m O’Malley explains how this lesson in seflessness should change us all. Jimmy Akin‘s first thoughts help clarify the situation. And my dear friend Christina Grace is just mourning the loss.

And Still We Rejoice

For those shaken by yesterday’s shooting–another in a long line of acts of senseless violence against children–tomorrow’s celebration might seem callous. Gaudete Sunday? Rejoice? When children are killed in their desks, ripped apart in their mothers’ wombs, beaten by their parents, forced to slaughter each other as child soldiers, sold into slavery, how can we rejoice? When Friday, as horrifying as it was, is not out of the ordinary in a world where children are killed by the thousands in “ethnic cleansing” crusades? When children themselves become murderers on the streets or in their nice suburban homes? When thousands of children die of hunger each day while you and I shell out 20 bucks for dinner without batting an eye? Now, you tell me, rejoice?

When Israel had been destroyed and Babylon was knocking down the door of Judah, how could they then rejoice? When even priests and Levites worshiped idols? When the best you could hope for was to live in peace and die in peace and then…who knew? When all the world was trapped in the darkness of sin with only the barest hint of a promise of the Light to come, how could they then rejoice? But Zephaniah calls from the darkness:

Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!
Sing joyfully, O Israel!
Be glad and exult with all your heart,
O daughter Jerusalem!
The LORD has removed the judgment against you
he has turned away your enemies;
the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst,
you have no further misfortune to fear.
On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem:
Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!
The LORD, your God, is in your midst,
a mighty savior;
he will rejoice over you with gladness,
and renew you in his love,
he will sing joyfully because of you,
as one sings at festivals.

Zephaniah has no reason to hope, in a world of sin and slavery and suffering. But he knows the One who is hope, the One who turns mourning to gladness, the One whose mercies are renewed each morning. And despite the wisdom of the world, he looked to God and found joy in the midst of sorrow.

When Christ had died and his disciples were following him in ignominy and death by the hundreds and the thousands, how could they then rejoice? When Paul had been beaten and shipwrecked and imprisoned, how could he rejoice from the darkness of his prison cell? When Jesus had promised to return again and yet…nothing–how could they rejoice? But Paul writes from his cell:

Brothers and sisters:
Rejoice in the Lord always.
I shall say it again: rejoice!
Your kindness should be known to all.
The Lord is near.
Have no anxiety at all, but in everything,
by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving,
make your requests known to God.
Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding
will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

Rejoice, he says. Have no anxiety, he says. Seek the Lord and you will find peace, he says.

But still hunger and violence and torture and rape and how oh HOW can we rejoice?

When the Savior of the world was born amid noise and filth, how could Mary rejoice? When armed men were sent to slaughter him, when he was saved at the cost of dozens of other young lives, how? How could she flee into Egypt and lose her son for three days and remain a woman of joy? How could she watch him rejected and ridiculed and beaten and tortured and killed and stabbed and laid in a tomb and still trust in God?

And yet she did. In all things, her spirit rejoiced in God her savior. Facing life as an unwed mother, she trusted. At the foot of the Cross, she trusted. When he left her again to continue in a world that had slaughtered her only son, she trusted.

Scripture is so clear on this, my friends. Joy is not contingent on the circumstances of this world but on God who is so much bigger than our circumstances.

Sing out, oh heavens, and rejoice oh earth. Break forth into song, you mountains, for the Lord comforts his people and has mercy on his afflicted. But Zion says, “The Lord has forsaken me. My Lord has forgotten me.” Can a mother forsake her infant? Be without tenderness for the child of her womb? Even should she forget, I will never forsake you. See, upon the palms of my hands I have written your name. Your walls are ever before me.-Isaiah 49:13-16

Though he slay me, still will I trust in him. -Job 13:15

God is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in distress. Therefore we fear not though the earth be shaken and mountains plunge into the depths of the sea, though its waters rage and foam and the mountains quake at its surging the Lord of hosts is with us, our stronghold is the God of Jacob. -Psalm 46:2-4

We hold these treasures in earthen vessels that the surpassing power may be of God and not from us. We are afflicted in every way but not constrained, perplexed but not driven to despair, persecuted but not abandoned, struck down but not destroyed, always carrying about int he body the dying of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our body. For we who live are constantly being given up to death for the sake of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh. -2 Corinthians 4:7-11

Though the fig tree blossom not nor fruit be on the vine, though the yield of the olive fail and the terraces produce no nourishment, though the flock disappear form the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, yet will I rejoice in the Lord and exult in my saving God. God my Lord is my strength, he makes my feet swift as those of hinds, and enables me to go upon the heights. -Habakkuk 3:17-19

But I will call this to mind as my reason to have hope: the favors of the Lord are not exhausted. His mercies are not spent. They are renewed each morning, so great is his faithfulness. My portion is the Lord, says my soul; therefore will I hope in God. -Lamentations 3:21-24

When cares abound within me, your comfort gladdens my heart. -Psalm 94:19

At times like this, it’s easy to respond with discouragement and despair.¹ Without Christ, I can’t see how I would respond any other way. But my God saw how miserable this world was and couldn’t stay away. He sent his only Son to enter into our mess, to suffer with us and for us. My God ached for love of us and so he changed everything. And he longs to do it still. He longs to turn our mourning into dancing. He longs to bring peace to our troubled hearts.

This is terrible. There is so much evil and so much suffering and misery and desperation in this world. But we were not made for this world. If you are suffering today–and I think we all are–I’m so sorry. But I know a God who is bigger than your pain. Let us turn to him and–in everything, despite everything, because of everything–let us rejoice. At the end of the day, God is still so, so good.

And of course, and always, we pray. We pray for the deceased and their loved ones. We pray especially for the young souls who witnessed such violence and will spend the rest of their lives trying to recover. God help them.

Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer. -Romans 12:12

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In case the assurance of God’s sovereignty isn’t enough for you, here are some reminders of the goodness he’s put in men’s hearts.