prayer Archives - Page 4 of 6 Held By His Pierced Hands

How to Pray: Start Shallow

There’s one piece of advice that I probably give more than any other. In fact, I usually give it as homework when I speak to a group:

Spend fifteen minutes in silence with the Lord every day. No music, no rosary, no Bible, just you and Jesus and the awkwardness of silence.

In my experience, Catholics aren’t often encouraged just to have quiet time with the Lord, although I can’t imagine there are any Saints who didn’t do that on a daily basis. But silence means vulnerability and dealing with our issues and letting God into our mess and listening to him and isn’t it easier just to dash off a half-hearted rosary and call yourself good?

Now the rosary is a beautiful prayer and y’all know I love the Bible and the Mass and every other Catholic devotion. But there is no substitute for silent time with the Lord. It’s easy to use the beautiful prayers of our tradition to keep God at arm’s length. Not so easy when it’s just you and him and a whole lot of nothing else.

So I tell people to make a commitment to silent prayer, which is all well and good but most of us don’t know how to pray. The response I hear most often is, “I don’t know what to say.”

"I was there. I took pictures. Shut up about the playground already!" #parentingfail #youneedanapMax — “I was there. I took pictures. Shut up about the playground already!” #parentingfail #youneedanapMax

Here’s how you start: just talk. God just wants to hear your voice. Tell him about your day. “But he already knows all that!” Yes, but he wants to hear you say it. Just like you enjoy hearing your three-year-old tell you about story time even though you were there with him, God likes listening to you talk. And when you start talking, he starts showing you what was really going on.

One of the most important elements of my prayer life is my nightly chat with the Lord. I start off talking to him about the big things that are weighing on my heart and then go through my day from the very beginning. I don’t take it minute by minute, but I hit the highlights. It gives me a chance to deal with some of my unresolved thoughts about the day. And the more I talk to him (and, especially, the more I’m steeped in Scripture and the liturgy) the more my reflections on the day turn to praise or contrition or thanksgiving or supplication. I start off shallow, but the Spirit starts to move and my lame rundown of the day’s events becomes so much more. Then I end by choosing the best and worst moments of the day and praying over those and then asking a particular grace for the next day.

To give you an idea of what I’m talking about, here’s what my prayer looked like tonight. I took out some of the more personal parts and condensed some of the stuff that got long, but this is pretty much what I’m talking about. Enjoy your visit inside my head.

Ooh, it was hard to wake up this morning. Which is probably because I was an idiot last night and stayed up way too late reading. Lord, will you make me more prudent and help me to get some sleep? But I made it through the whole day without coffee, so that was kind of great. Save the good stuff for when I really need it.

Then I went to Mass, which was…I don’t really remember much about it. I know I wasn’t falling asleep. I just wasn’t really paying attention. Because I mostly don’t pay attention at Mass. I guess I forget Mass is prayer and just think of it as something I have to do. I’m not sure really how to fix that. Get there earlier? Just be more present? In any event, help me to pray the Mass instead of just showing up.

I came back and helped get the kids ready. God, I love those kids! Thank you so much that I get to be their aunt and that I get to spend time with them this summer. Help me love them well. And you know what? The car ride wasn’t bad! I mean, Mary Claire was kind of a disaster. But Elizabeth slept, so thanks for that. And Mary Claire mostly wailed quietly. Plus we prayed a Rosary. Well, we said a Rosary. I was pretty wildly distracted, but darling, it’s just the best I can do today. I love that you’re okay with even my feeble attempts. But do make me holy.

And we got to Grandmother’s house and John Paul wasn’t a disaster. I don’t think he broke a single thing! Well, the pool noodle, but all told, it was pretty impressive. Thanks for how he’s growing and figuring out how to interact with people and the world. I’d say he’s getting more normal, but that will never happen–and thank you for that! Just let him be a force for you, love.

Chick Fil-A was awesome. Man, I love that place. Thanks for the Solemnity so I could have chicken nuggets and a milkshake on Friday! Oh, I guess also thanks for the Solemnity because it’s a beautiful celebration. The Sacred Heart–Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.¹ What a grace it is to rest in you, Lord. Thank you for holding me close, for just seeing the mess I am and loving me and wanting me and even using me. I just want to be all yours, love, to give myself for the salvation of sinners and the glory of your name. Yeah, that’s what today was about. But also, thanks for the milkshake.

And that thing Grandmother said–that was so kind of her! Help me to be the person she thinks I am, to deserve such a compliment. Ugh, and help me not to judge people so much. I’m just such a jerk. But you’re teaching me, aren’t you? I’m sorry. Oh, heal me!

She is something else, Grandmother. 94 years old and she suggests that we take a walk down to the river! I mean, I want to die young because I’m lazy, but if I have to live a long life (and I’m sure I do), could I age like that? Healthy and active and lucid? Your will, though. If I need to suffer, let it be done unto me. Just…help me endure it.

But I love watching her with the kids. And they really did such a great job! Even on the car ride home–well, until the end, but that wasn’t so bad, all things considered. And dinner was crazy but not too bad. Thank you that Elizabeth wanted to go to bed early so she wasn’t in the mix when Mary Claire had her disaster. You sure know what we can handle. And thank you that I was here at all! Poor Rosie might have been overcome with all that tonight, and pregnant to boot. Thank you that they’re so open to life and to letting me love their little ones.

And then I went to the library and it was closed, which is really frustrating. But, in retrospect, probably a good thing. Maybe this way I’ll get to bed at a reasonable hour, since I won’t have a book to read. I’ll just have to pretend the internet doesn’t exist. Oh, Buzzfeed. If I were a Saint, I probably wouldn’t care so much about which P.G. Wodehouse character I am or why Fred and George are the best characters in Harry Potter. (28 reasons!) Maybe it’s legitimate leisure. After all, when do I really get to chill during the day? But I should probably balance leisure with sleep….

Man it’s cold in here. But it’s June so maybe I should stop whining and ask you to bless people who can’t afford air conditioning instead. God, help the poor. And show me how you want me to help them. I feel like my heart is so drawn to evangelization that there isn’t anything left for serving the poor, but Pope Francis might not be on board with that.

Oh, and then finally I got my chapel time. And I don’t know what you’re doing, Lord, but I’m in. I’m going to try to keep my heart more open and just be more aware of where you’re leading and we’ll just see where we end up. Thank you that I was totally conscious for the whole meditation. And I think getting back to On the Incarnation after so many years is going to be really good. The Sheed book is starting to drag a little.

Okay, so I need to start sending emails about July and August and tomorrow I’m just going to need you to teach me to be selfless. When I’m on baby duty, time for us doesn’t always happen when I want it to. It’s a grace that I usually get to live on your time, but help me not to be resentful tomorrow.

Best part of today? Honestly, probably sitting with you tonight. But I also just love being with those kids. Oh, no–when Elizabeth saw me this morning and I asked for a kiss and she lit up and ran to me. Help me to love better.

Worst part? Definitely when Mary Claire pooped on Cecilia and then we were cleaning that up and Rosie knocked over my coffee and then when we were cleaning that up Mary Claire peed on the rug. Oy, what a mess! But we were both pretty chill, which was an absolute grace. She’s such a good mom. Make her a saint. And thanks for letting me watch her grow. It’s pretty amazing to see.

Jesus, I love you. Teach me, draw me, forgive me, heal me. Make me holy. Amen.

Shallow in parts, intense in parts. Yours doesn’t have to use any fancy language or Bible verses. It’s often better if you don’t. God doesn’t want poetry, he wants reality. And if your reality is ugly or simple or dull, offer him that. Give him yourself.

I’m going to challenge anyone reading this who doesn’t spend time in silent prayer every day to do this for the next month. Set a timer for 15 minutes if you want.² Pray in the morning or at lunchtime if bedtime isn’t good for you. But don’t feel like the fact that you don’t know what to say is any excuse. We don’t any of us know what to say, not even St. Paul!³ Just start talking. Every day. It’ll get easier and you’ll get holier and God will start doing marvelous things. Start shallow–with your boring life that the God of the universe somehow finds enthralling–and see where God takes you.

Mt 11:28 [↩]
I just set the time before my phone screen shuts off and then if it’s dark when I feel like I’m done, I’m good. If it’s not, I circle back to something important. [↩]
Rom 8:26 [↩]

Stations of the Cross

The First Station: Jesus is condemned to death.

Pontius Pilate wasn’t a bad guy. He tried to let Jesus off, he really did. He tried to pacify the crowd by just beating an innocent man bloody. But they were so insistent. And sure, he had all the soldiers and all the power, but what if they had gotten mad at him? He couldn’t have that. No, Pilate wasn’t a bad guy, just a weak one. So weak that he permitted the greatest atrocity in the history of the world, crying, “It’s not my fault!” while he crucified the Lord of glory. You’re probably not a bad guy either. But is your refusal to stand up and be counted crucifying the Lord anew? Do you keep your mouth shut as your coworkers spew profanity or sit fiddling on your phone as your spouse slaves over dinner, dishes, bathtime, and bed? Do you make any effort at all, or are you sliding complacently to perdition having washed your hands of the need to stand up and be counted? Maybe it’s not your fight–but it wasn’t Jesus’, either, and he submitted. Shouldn’t you?

The Second Station: Jesus takes up his Cross.

When Jesus took up his Cross, it wasn’t tentatively, fearfully, or with disgust. Any halfheartedness in bearing his Cross would have made our salvation impossible as it slipped out of his grudging fingers. No, Jesus embraced his cross, clinging to the torture and the shame and the loneliness “for the sake of the joy that lay before him.”¹ There is no glory in accepting the suffering thrust upon us with anger and complaints. But if we embrace our crosses, rejoicing in the trials of life because we worship a God who bore them first and continues to bear them alongside us, we will be transformed.

The Third Station: Jesus falls the first time.

The very first thing Jesus did after taking up his Cross was to fall. He became like us in all things, even in failure and weakness. He understands what it’s like to be inadequate, to disappoint. Being a Christian doesn’t mean being perfect–it means offering our flaws to the Lord, then getting up and starting over. It’s running to the confessional, falling on our knees, and rising stronger. When you strive for virtue and fail, remember: your God was a failure, but he kept going and his failure became the world’s redemption.

The Fourth Station: Jesus meets his mother.

It seems his one moment of respite, this encounter with someone who loves him not for what he has to give her but simply for who he is. As her heart breaks, she reaches out to hold him, pushing past her own pain to comfort him in his. As we become more like Christ, we also become more like Mary, loving those who toil and suffer enough to give them the strength to go on. But it’s so easy to be repelled by their needs, afraid of the sacrifice we’ll have to make to love them. Who needs you right now to look past their disfigured face, to move past your discomfort and love them? Are you willing, like Christ, like Mary, to move beyond yourself and live for others?

The Fifth Station: Simon helps Jesus carry his Cross.

In turning to Simon for help, Jesus sanctifies our weakness. Simon of Cyrene is a Saint only because Jesus was strong enough to be weak. James and John are Saints because Peter and Andrew recognized their inadequacy and asked them for help.² Self-sufficiency is not a Christian virtue, particularly not in the area of combating sin. In what areas of your life do you need to humble yourself and ask for help? It won’t just give you support in carrying your cross–it may just make saints of the both of you.

The Sixth Station: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus.

She takes a great risk here, running through the crowd, pushing past the soldiers, and falling at his feet. She tenderly pushes the hair out of his eyes, mops the blood from his battered face, and comes away with his image imprinted on the cloth. For her selflessness, she is rewarded, not with wealth or fame but with the joy of having consoled the heart of Christ. To be a Christian is to be radical, to make people uncomfortable, to suffer for Christ. But when we choose to live with reckless abandon for the Lord, we find ourselves blessed beyond imagining with a peace that surpasses understanding.³ It’s just a matter of trusting that he will do what he said and living as we already know we should. When we do that, we will find ourselves–against all odds–bearing the true image of Christ to the world.

The Seventh Station: Jesus falls the second time.

By this time, I wonder if the soldiers aren’t annoyed. They have a job to do and this pathetic man’s weakness keeps complicating it. They roll their eyes, they jeer. They view the God of their salvation as an obstacle. If only we didn’t do the same. If only I saw the defiant middle-schooler as the purpose of Christ’s death on the Cross and not as a problem to be dealt with. If only I stopped resenting or tolerating people and started loving them. If only their weakness sparked compassion in me instead of exasperation. We expect the Lord to be strong in our weakness; what if we let him be strong in theirs through us?

The Eighth Station: Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem.

Crucifixion is the most painful and shameful way the Romans could devise to slaughter someone. It was so painful, they had to coin a new word to express the agony: excruciating. And yet, beaten within an inch of his life, dragging the instrument of his torture and death, Jesus saw nothing but others’ pain. “Do not weep for me,” he says, “But for yourselves and for your children.” It’s so easy to get caught up in our own suffering and ignore the pain of those around us, especially when their pain seems trivial. Remember, though, that the greatest pain a person has suffered is the greatest pain in the world. Live not just kindness but compassion, allowing your heart to ache for those who suffer–and then doing something to relieve that suffering, by physical aid, listening with love, or offering prayers and sacrifices. We become like Christ when we love like he did, even when we are broken ourselves.

The Ninth Station: Jesus falls the third time.

When Jesus fell the last time, there seemed no hope that he would rise again. He was spent, beaten and bloody, incapable of that last effort that would bring him to the top of Calvary. He could have just laid down and died right there, but he needed to be lifted up on the Cross for all the world to see. And so, in the face of hopelessness, he called on superhuman strength to persist. He kept going. And when he did that, he gave you the same power to let the Lord be strong in your weakness. There comes a point when we finally realize how completely inadequate we are to the task of holiness. We fall on our face, unable to resist the temptations or persevere in prayer. Then, at last, in our weakness he is strong.⁴ When we have nothing left to give, when we realize that we never had anything to give, then we allow him to be all in all. When we realize that we can never be good enough for him, we find that we already are good enough in him. Do not despair, my friends. It may be Friday, but Sunday is coming.

The Tenth Station: Jesus is stripped of his garments.

Jesus held nothing back. He suffered pain and loneliness, separation from the Father, and finally the shame and indignity of being stripped to hang naked as the crowds mocked. There was nothing he wouldn’t give for you. What’s your line? Do you offer him your Sunday mornings but not your Saturday nights? Are you willing to be martyred for him but not to be mocked? Do you hand over control of your relationships but not your internet habits? Allow him to strip you of the walls that you’ve put between your heart and his–your sin, your pride, your job, your standing in the community. The more you follow him, the more you will find yourself naked and unashamed in his piercing gaze. But you have to unclench the fists you’ve tightened around the garments you’ve clothed yourself with before you’ll ever find peace in him.

The Eleventh Station: Jesus is nailed to the Cross.

It was not nails that held him to the Cross. One would expect creation itself to rebel, the Cross to splinter and the nails to warp, when their Creator was crucified. But “Peace,” he told them, “be still.” Because even had the nails crumbled to dust, his love would have held him there. In his mercy, he became a slave to love and was never more free. You are not bound to stay in your marriage. Divorces are cheap and getting easier by the day. It’s not the law that keeps you there but your love. You are not bound to stay in your Church. God knows you wouldn’t be the first to leave. It’s not your obligation that keeps you there but your love. And so with your children and your job and whatever else may not seem worth it today. You stay because you are more free as a slave to love than you would be unshackled by all the relationships that hold you bound. And each moment that you choose love, each moment that you are crucified by your beloved, you will find that the nails bite less deeply as the pain becomes peace.

The Twelfth Station: Jesus dies on the Cross.

There is nothing in the life of Christ that is not also expected of his followers. So when he dies on the Cross, handing his life over for love of those who despise him, keep this in mind: you must do the same. This is the universal call to martyrdom, the requirement that all followers of Christ die daily to themselves in order that others may live. In order that Christy may live in them. We must die to our love of wealth that the poor may live. We must die to our love of rest that our families may live. We must die to our love of self that our neighbors may live. We must die to our love of mediocrity that Christ may live. Turning from laziness or pornography or Candy Crush or envy or rage or materialism or gossip or Twitter or complacency may feel like a crucifixion. That’s what you signed up for.

The Thirteenth Station: Jesus is taken down from the Cross.

Jesus’ corpse is pulled down from the Cross and lain in the arms of his mother. There is only one pain greater than the pain of a parent who has lost a child: the pain of a parent who has given a child. The Father knows that pain. Even though you mocked and betrayed him, even though you ignored and rejected him, even though you continue to deny him and will until you die, he thought you were worth it. And so he stepped back and watched his Son suffer for 33 years. And when it became almost unbearable for his sinless Son, he stepped back so far that God himself felt abandoned by the Father. He watched his Son die in agony and then looked at his broken, lifeless body and rejoiced. Because it was that misery that won him you. And you are worth it. Live like you’re worth it.

The Fourteenth Station: Jesus is laid in the tomb.

It is finished. Love has come and been slaughtered for his pains. Nothing, it seems, will be beautiful again. But Sunday is coming. In this moment of defeat, of silent agony and hope destroyed, lies the true joy of the Christian life: our God is bigger. He is bigger than death, bigger than divorce, bigger than sin and shame and shallow distractions. There is no wound he cannot heal, no death he cannot reverse. He may not triumph in the way you would have chosen, but know this: he will triumph. Know this, as you lie in your tomb, as you weep at her tomb, as you run from his tomb: for the Christian, defeat is merely the seed of victory. He will triumph.

Heb 12:2 [↩]
Lk 5:7 [↩]
Phil 4:7 [↩]
2 Cor 12:9-10 [↩]

Bipolar Faith and Its Antidote

I’m staying with a dear friend who knows me very well. Because she knows me so well, she was awfully excited to tell me that we were going to the Chrism Mass this week. I think she was rather taken aback when I wasn’t gleeful.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I asked. “I actually kind of hate long fancy Masses. Isn’t that terrible?”

I went to the Chrism Mass with her and spent the whole time reminding myself that it was okay that it was taking so long. I knew I shouldn’t be, but I was kind of annoyed that I’d spent an extra hour at Mass. I mean. come on. It’s not like I avoid time with Jesus. I just wasn’t really excited about an hour added to my usual (lengthy) prayer routine.

Yesterday, I found the only Saturday morning Mass in town. I left the church basement where I’d spent the night with a bunch of middle school girls and headed over there before 8. After spending Mass remarkably lucid (despite my 3 am bedtime), I was ready to get some prayer time in and then head back for coffee. But no. They pray a novena. And not the kind the little old lady in the front starts while people file out, either. Everybody stayed. Even the priest. And it was loooong. Like, at least 7 minutes. I tried not to be annoyed (because Mass had been short anyway), but I wanted to be done.

I had the same trouble last night. Heading to bed, all I could think about was how long Mass was going to be this morning. I knew it would be exhausting to stand through that epically long second Gospel–especially since there’s always a crowd on Palm Sunday. People always seem to show up when they know there are cool door prizes like ashes and palms. I was annoyed in advance because I was going to have to spend an extra 20 minutes with the Lord.

I make fun of other people when they do this. “Oh, you’re annoyed that Mass was 65 minutes? Good thing Jesus didn’t get down off the Cross after an hour.” “Oh, Mass is boring? You know what else was boring? Dying on the Cross!”¹

But somehow I think I’m allowed to be annoyed at long Masses and extra prayers because I’m already doing so much. “If this were my only Jesus time all week, I wouldn’t mind it being long. But I’ve already spent 2 hours at church today!”

Pharisee.

The Lord blesses me with extra time with him–time when I don’t have a single other thing to do–and I want to get out because I’ve already done my time. I stay because I have to, not because I’m letting him touch my heart. And I was there in the first place because I feel I have to be, not because I’m seeking him.

I’m shocked every year by the two Gospels from the Palm Sunday Mass, by how dramatically the tone changes and how the congregation is swung from one extreme to another. We walk into the church shouting Hosanna and waving palm branches, welcoming our Messiah with joy. Not 15 minutes later, we’re crying out, “Let him be crucified!” I thought it was strange, this bipolar shift from worship to betrayal. And then I realized it’s no accident, not just a convenient way to get the whole story into one Mass. It’s the life of a fallen Christian, crashing from praise into sin without even noticing the change. It’s my life.

I praise him at Mass and then roll my eyes when the little old lady in front of me is exiting the church too slowly. I receive Christ on my tongue and then use that same tongue to belittle the sketchy or dull or tone-deaf priest. I revel in his presence during my holy hour and rage at the person who was supposed to relieve me when I’m stuck an extra twenty minutes. Hosanna. Crucify. God help me, today wasn’t just a particularly interactive Mass–it was my life in a nutshell.

I think it’s all of us, especially those of us who are good. When we’ve been sitting around all day playing Candy Crush, it’s not so hard to get up and change a toddler’s sheets. After all, it’s about time we did something worthwhile. But when we’ve played with them all stinking day and made dinner and washed the dishes and put them to bed and someone wants a drink we’re about ready to go NUCLEAR on their cute little tooshies.

When we’ve only spent 5 minutes with Jesus and someone asks us to pray a rosary, it seems like a good opportunity; when we’ve already prayed a rosary (and a chaplet and a holy hour and the Office…) it’s just too much.

Satan’s a clever one, isn’t he? He lets us pray and do good works, sure, but he makes very sure we only do the ones we want to do. And anything done because it’s your will is always less beautiful than something done out of humility and submission. My self-centered holy hour is far less pleasing to God than my reluctant Hail Mary. Hebrews tells us that Jesus was made perfect by obedience in suffering.² Of course he was already flawless, but humanity is perfected only in obedience. And so he was obedient to Mary and Joseph, obedient to Caesar, obedient to Pilate and the Sanhedrin, obedient unto death.³ Our powerful God opened not his mouth,⁴ submitting to torture and execution not despite having done nothing wrong but because he had done nothing wrong.

As Lent gears up this week and comes crashing to a bitter end tinged with Easter glory, join me in asking yourself: what am I holding back? What crosses am I refusing to bear because they aren’t of my choosing? How has my self-congratulation gotten in the way of my hearing God’s voice? Get to confession and then make this resolution for Holy Week:

I will thank the Lord for every cross. Even the ones that are just minor annoyances that become crosses when I reject them. This week, I will live in the Hosanna. When my life cries out for him to be crucified, I will bite my tongue until I can muster the strength to thank the Lord for his mercy in allowing this red light or betrayal or stomach bug or extra litany or terrifying diagnosis or awkward conversation or rejection or commercial break. I will rejoice in the small inconveniences and allow him to break down the walls of selfishness I’ve built around my pious practices and nice deeds. I will let my piety become prayer by letting him direct it; I will let my kindness become charity by stopping at nothing. This week, I will be a saint.

And next week I will do the same. Hosanna.

Yes, I’m kind of a belligerent jerk. You must be new around here. [↩]
Heb 5:8 [↩]
Phil 2:8 [↩]
Is 53:7 [↩]

Reading the Bible through in a Year!

Aside from daily Mass and a commitment to silent prayer, the most important spiritual practice I’ve adopted as a Christian has been spending time in Scripture every day. Even having read the Bible 12 times, I still have to read with a pencil in hand. I’m always finding new insights, being shown new connections, and falling more in love with the Lord as I come to know him better. For me, it’s not enough just to read the books that I enjoy or the readings offered me by the liturgy–I need to wrestle with the hard stuff and find meaning in the boring stuff. And I need to know it all–not just so I can argue with it but so that I can live and breathe and love it. I need to replace the Beyoncé in my head with some Baruch and the Frozen (much though I love that movie) with Philippians. The only way that’s going to happen is if I’m in the Word every day. So that’s what I do.

The first time I read through the whole Bible, I started at Genesis and read till Revelation. It took me 5 years. Every subsequent time, I’ve managed it in a year. The problem with my cover-to-cover approach (among others) was that I’d get bogged down in Leviticus or Ezekiel and it was hard to motivate myself to keep going. When I switched to a yearly Bible schedule, I had a few chapters of Numbers each day but also a Psalm and half a chapter of a Gospel to keep me motivated. Plus the readings were associated with dates, so I couldn’t afford to get behind. I’ve used that schedule¹ ten times and it’s served me well, particularly since it’s loosely linked with the liturgical year.

But people have been asking me for years how to start reading the Bible, and my trusty old schedule wasn’t it. I began to realize that zipping through all of the Epistles in a month and then trudging through the Pentateuch wasn’t the best way to get much out of either. So I sat down and wrote out a whole new schedule. This one still gets you through the whole Bible in a year (and the Gospels twice), but it goes chronologically through the Old Testament (more or less) with New Testament books and fun books like Ruth and Jonah interspersed throughout to mix things up. It also gives you a chapter of some poetic stuff every day instead of dragging you through Proverbs for 200+ days. This schedule is more user-friendly, more reasonable for those who haven’t read the Bible before, and can start any day of the year. So now I’m passing it on to you!

I will warn you: I didn’t start with the easy stuff. I can ease you into the Bible by giving (relatively) simple, pleasant stuff first. My approach here wasn’t to leave the hard stuff for the end but to put it in an order that made sense. So if you’ve never read the Bible before at all, you could take two days for each day on the schedule or start with just the Psalms and the Gospels. The important thing is to start.

If you print this schedule double-sided, you can fold it up to fit in your Bible. And when you print it, do yourself a favor and print out my Bible timeline, too. It’s one piece of paper that I keep in my Bible at all times–a quick explanation of how everything in the Old Testament connects to everything else. So when you’re reading Hosea, you can take a quick look and see that Hosea was prophesying to Israel before the Assyrian Exile. And you can even see that there are two kingdoms in the Old Testament, a fact that I missed until my third time through the Bible.

Bible Timeline

Download the document here.

Halfway through Lent (Laetare!) probably isn’t the best time to hand this to you guys, but Easter doesn’t mean the end of prayer, fasting, or almsgiving. Maybe you can start this schedule on Easter? Or any other day of the year. Or read the Bible through using some other schedule. But if you’re a Christian and you haven’t read the whole Bible, I really think you need to change that.

One Year Bible Chronological

Download the document here.

Which I got off the internet and don’t have a source for, unfortunately. [↩]

Lenten Boot Camp

Update: Print off all the readings here (courtesy of Sara Larson): Lenten Boot Camp readings

Here’s a daily regimen of prayer that grows in length and intensity as you get into spiritual shape. You’ll start your prayer time each day (ideally in a chapel) with a 5-minute warm-up, offering the Lord your distractions and discussing with him anything that might be weighing on you. When you’ve slowed down and entered into a spirit of prayer, feel free to begin. As Lent begins, you’re looking at 20-25 minutes of prayer time. By the last few weeks, it should be more like an hour, with longer stretches of silence.

Feel free to be flexible with your “silent time.” If a passage moves you and you end up doing Lectio Divina or an Ignatian Meditation for half an hour, don’t feel compelled then to sit for another 25 minutes. As with the Advent version, this is a guideline, not a foolproof plan. Feel free to substitute anything. What’s essential is that you’re spending time in silent prayer–not just prayer but silent prayer–and that you’re easing into it.

It’s pretty heavy on the reading and on the silence. If that’s not how you pray, try another way. But do try to be intentional about sitting with Jesus when you have “nothing to say.” That’s usually when he speaks the loudest.

Ash Wednesday	Joel 2:12-17; Reading from St. Peter Chrysologus; 15 minutes silence
Thursday	Genesis 3; decade of the rosary; 10 minutes silence
Friday	Stations of the Cross (St. Alphonsus Liguori version); a few minutes silence after each station
Saturday	Matthew 4:1-11; decade of the rosary; 10 minutes silence
First Sunday	Sonnet XIV (John Dunne); 20 minutes of prayer (your choice)
Monday	Isaiah 53; memorize Isaiah 53:5; 15 minutes silence
Tuesday	Rosary; 10 minutes silence
Wednesday	Lectio Divina on Hebrews 12:1-4, then silence: 30 minutes altogether
Thursday	CCC (Catechism of the Catholic Church, paragraph numbers) 598-605; 2 decades of the rosary; 10 minutes silence
Friday	Mark 15:16-39; 15 minutes silence
Saturday	Matthew 17:1-9; Reading from St. Leo the Great; 10 minutes silence
Second Sunday	O Deus Ego Amo Te (Gerard Manley Hopkins); 25 minutes of prayer (your choice)
Monday	Exodus 12; Easter homily by Melito of Sardis; 15 minutes silence
Tuesday	Reading from St. John Chrysostom; John 14; decade of the rosary; 10 minutes silence
Wednesday	John 15; CCC 606-611; 20 minutes silence
Thursday	John 16-17; 15 minutes silence
Friday	Stations of the Cross (Mother Angelica’s); silence after each station
Saturday	John 4:5-42; journal on the reading; decade of the rosary
Third Sunday	O Sacred Head Surrounded (or listen here); 30 minutes of prayer (your choice)
Monday	Psalm 42-43; 20 minutes silence
Tuesday	CCC 456-460; Rosary; 10 minutes silence
Wednesday	Reading from St. Augustine; memorize Romans 5:8; 15 minutes silence
Thursday	Isaiah 50:4-10; Reading from St. Aelred; 20 minutes silence
Friday	Luke 23:18-49; decade of the rosary; 15 minutes silence
Saturday	John 9:1-41; write 5 things it tells you about who Jesus is; 20 minutes silence
Fourth Sunday	When I Survey the Wondrous Cross (or listen here); 10 minutes silence; 30 minutes of prayer (your choice)
Monday	Jonah; 2 decades of the rosary; 20 minutes silence
Tuesday	Luke 9:23-26; Take Up Your Cross; 25 minutes silence
Wednesday	CCC 612-618; Psalm 22; 20 minutes silence
Thursday	Isaiah 58; 2 decades of the rosary; 25 minutes silence
Friday	Stations of the Cross (inspired by Caryll Houselander); silence after each; Wisdom 2:12-24
Saturday	John 11:1-45; Ignatian meditation on the passage (feel free to use a guided one: Lazarus); 10 minutes silence
Fifth Sunday	Ah, Holy Jesus (or listen here); 20 minutes silence; 30 minutes of prayer (your choice)
Monday	Ezekiel 16; Luke 15; 20 minutes silence
Tuesday	Scriptural Rosary; 15 minutes silence
Wednesday	Isaiah 53; make a good examination of conscience; 20 minutes silence
Thursday	Reading from Maximus the Confessor; 30 minutes silence
Friday	Matthew 26:14-75; 30 minutes silence
Saturday	Matthew 27:1-66; Office of Readings; 30 minutes silence
Palm Sunday	The Hint of an Explanation; 30 minutes of prayer (your choice)
Monday	Genesis 1:1-2:2; Genesis 22:1-18; 30 minutes silence
Tuesday	Exodus 14:15-15:1; Isaiah 54:5-14; 2 decades of the rosary; 30 minutes silence
Wednesday	Isaiah 55:1-11; Baruch 3:9-15, 32-4:4; 30 minutes silence
Thursday	Ezekiel 36:16-28; Romans 6:3-11; 2 decades of the rosary; 30 minutes silence
Friday	Isaiah 53; John 19 (if not attending the Good Friday Liturgy); Psalm 22; 45 minutes silence
Saturday	Office of Readings; the Exultet; 45 minutes silence

All the readings (compiled by the fabulous Sara Larson) available as a PDF here: Lenten Boot Camp readings

Be holy, friends–and do let me know how this works out for you!

Big Ugly Buts

When people ask me how I got started with this hobo thing, the heart of it goes like this: I knew I needed to quit my teaching job and a priest friend said to me, “You’re good at public speaking and you’ve wanted to do more of that.” “Father,” I guffawed, “you can’t just quit life and be a public speaker!” And then I took it to prayer. And God said, “Tell me why not.”

I do a lot of reasoning with God. I tell him why it’s a bad idea for me to do something hard, how it’s really going to make me less holy, how I’m not going to be effective. I keep throwing up objections, like he hadn’t already thought of them. Turns out I’m in good company. Moses was much the same.

Grab your Bibles, friends, and flip to Exodus 3.¹ Moses’ first encounter with the living God is no laughing matter: a bush that’s on fire but not consumed. God demonstrates his power by doing something that’s impossible, using something frail for his glory without destroying it, and then tells Moses he’s going to do the same through him:

“Come, now! I will send you to Pharaoh to lead my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.” (3:10)

A disembodied voice from a miraculous vision. And Moses’ reaction?

But.

That’s right. Moses objects.

But Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and lead the Israelites out of Egypt?” (3:11)

The minute he’s called by God to do something great, Moses starts thinking about himself. He’s unworthy, he thinks, and so he corrects God.

“I’ve been feeling like I need to teach Sunday School, but I don’t know enough to teach anybody.” “I know I need to go to confession, but I’m just going to mess up again.” “They begged me to join the choir, but I can’t sing in front of people!” “I can’t be called to the priesthood, not with a past like mine.”

“I’m unworthy!” we cry. The problem is, it’s not about you.

God answered, “I will be with you.” (3:12)

“Who am I?” you ask? Nobody. It’s who God is that matters. And if he’s calling you, it’s because he’s going to use you. Even in your brokenness.

But.

“But,” said Moses to God, “when I go to the Israelites…if they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what am I to tell them?” (3:13)

But I’m ignorant. I don’t know enough. I can’t evangelize–I don’t have all the answers! I can’t encourage people to be holy–they’ll see through me!

God replied, “I am who am…. This is what you shall tell the Israelites: I AM sent me to you.” (3:14)

Jesus said it best: “I myself shall give you a wisdom in speaking that all your adversaries will be powerless to resist or refute.”² Yes, you’re ignorant. We all are. But he has all the answers. More than that, he is the answer. The Way, the Truth, and the Life. You can be inadequate. His grace is enough.³

God gives Moses all kinds of explanation and defense and even a detailed plan for fame and riches and a life of ease.

But.

“But,” objected Moses, “Suppose they will not believe me, nor listen to my plea?” (4:1)

What if they reject me? What if they hate me? What if I’m a failure? God can’t be asking me to risk that–there’s got to be something more comfortable I can do.

This time God gives Moses miraculous proof–a staff turning into a snake and back again, a leprous hand, water turning into blood. He shows Moses once again that he’s in control. “I’ve got this,” he says to Moses and to us. “Just follow. Remember that I’m a God of miracles and just follow.”

Moses, however, said to the Lord, “If you please, Lord, I have never been eloquent.” (4:10)

Good one–let’s fall back on humility. Figure out all the things that are wrong with you, all the things that keep you from praying or serving or witnessing like you should. Make a list and put it before God. “You see? I don’t have to do your will. Because I can’t.”

The Lord said to him, “Who gives one man speech and makes another deaf and dumb? Or who gives sight to one and makes another blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Go, then! It is I who will assist you in speaking and will teach you what you are to say.” (4:11-12)

Over and over he tells Moses, “It’s not about you.” God doesn’t call the qualified, he qualifies the called. So while grace builds on nature, it can do a lot more with a lot less than we think. If God is calling you to tithe or put your kids in Catholic school or discern religious life or stop using contraception or go to daily Mass, he will make it possible. You’ll be given what you need–extra time or prudence in spending money or trust in his providence or talent or virtue or whatever. You are already enough in him. Stop grasping at straws for why you “can’t” do what he’s asking of you.

Finally, Moses does just that. He stops making excuses and just refuses.

“Please, Lord, send someone else.” (4:13)

Through all the objections, God kept promising, kept explaining, kept showing Moses how he was enough because God was enough. He kept telling Moses that the Great I AM wouldn’t call him without preparing him first. He kept asking Moses to trust. When Moses stops negotiating (with a booming voice from heaven) and just says no, God gets a little miffed. (4:14) This is when God tells him that he already knew his concerns and his shortcomings, that he already took care of them.

“Have you not your brother Aaron the Levite? I know that he is an eloquent speaker. Besides, he is now on his way to meet you.” (4:14)

See that? All that time God was trying to convince Moses to follow, it was because God knew what he was doing. He didn’t tell Moses at first because he wanted Moses to trust him for who he was, not for what he had done. But his call was perfect, even down to the backup plan that was already in motion when he first called Moses. Aaron was already on his way to support Moses before Moses even started doubting his adequacy to the task.

I’ve heard these called “big ugly buts”–objections to God’s will that stand in the way of our following him. They’re rational and prudent and completely self-serving. They’re natural and faithless. They ignore the fact that God knows you, that he loves you, that he wants what’s best for you, and that he does the impossible every day.

I’d be willing to bet there’s something in your life right now that you know God’s putting before you. Something that’s nagging at you: a job you need to quit, a donation you need to make, an enemy you need to forgive, a sin you need to forsake. You were made for greatness but most of us are pretty mediocre. Moses was pretty mediocre–until he became the greatest prophet of the Old Testament. Peter was pretty mediocre–until he became the first pope. David and Esther and Augustine and Teresa were all pretty mediocre until they decided to get off their big ugly buts and start being who were made to be.

No, you’re not good enough. You’re not smart enough or holy enough or loving enough to set the world ablaze. Fortunately, it’s not about you. If God is calling you to some service or prayer or sacrifice, it’s because he’s going to do great things in and through you. You may not see how–or why–but you’ve seen him work again and again in your life. Stop wondering what he’s going to do and trust in who he is. Trust. Follow. Even when you don’t know where he’s leading. Because you may have to walk through the Red Sea and a whole lot of desert, but eventually you’ll get to the Promised Land. Get off your big ugly but and go.

Dust it off. I’ll wait. I’m not kidding–get your Bible and a pencil and start marking that thing up. [↩]
Lk 21:15 [↩]
2 Cor 12:9 [↩]

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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. [↩]

On Four-Year-Olds and Pharisees

My four-year-old nephew loves to pray. Seriously, when I talk about that kid, I feel like I’m reciting one of those ridiculous medieval hagiographies that tell you how the blessed child refused the breast on fast days. But John Paul is a little bit of a robot and his lifelong obsession has been all things Catholic. I’m more than a little proud, of course, but also rather bewildered when he wants to pray all the time. On Sunday, he went to Mass, prayed morning prayer, read the Bible all during his “nap,” prayed a whole rosary, prayed evening prayer and the office of readings, did his Saint Andrew novena, and his Magnifikid morning and evening prayer. I’m pretty sure he spent more time praying than I did.

On a given day, it’s not unusual to hear the following lines out of this strange kid’s mouth:

Just a little light reading before bed.

“No, don’t just pray one decade. We want to do ALL the mysteries!”
“Oh, I’m Jesus! I’m walking on water! Now I’m TURNING WATER INTO WINE!!”
“For my naptime story, I would like Isaiah chapter 41.”
“May I please take the Bible to bed with me?”
“No, Mom, don’t turn off the light! Wait till I finish Proverbs!!”
“No, Cecilia, you can’t be Ruth! We’re playing Pentateuch! Ruth is a Historical Book!!!“
“My favorite confirmation Saint is Saint Caius. He was a pope and martyr.”
“Oh, could we please play the martyrdom of St. Ignatius of Antioch? And then we can play my canonization party!”

Really. All in one day. He doesn’t sound real.

So you’d think, given how much he prays, that he’d be less…well…awful. I mean, I know he’s four and life is just hard. I don’t fault him for tantrums over toys and television. What gets me are the tantrums he throws while praying. Yes, while praying. Not, of course, because he doesn’t want to pray. Because he wants to do it his way.

This week, we’ve prayed morning and evening prayer together every day. His idea. And while he’s been praying the Office with me since he was only just three (I’m telling you, he’s not real!), suddenly he can’t do it right. No, it’s not that he can’t do it right. He just won’t.

"We're traveling to Bethlehem!" Riding a leopard. Pregnant with a baby doll. Maybe that's from the Gospel of Thomas. Note John Paul's outfit: a purple "dalmatic" which was our compromise when he screamed and screamed "I want a chasuble now! I want a chasuble today!!" — “We’re traveling to Bethlehem!” Riding a leopard. Pregnant with a baby doll. Maybe that’s from the Gospel of Thomas. Note John Paul’s outfit: a purple “dalmatic” which was our compromise when he screamed and screamed “I want a chasuble now! I want a chasuble today!!”

He insists on praying the Magnificat during morning prayer or he screams “NOOOO” when I read my part (because he wanted to read it) or he starts whining about praying daytime prayer before we’re halfway through morning prayer. I’m mostly happy to ignore or to allow just to keep the peace, but he doesn’t want to keep the peace. So he keeps pushing and pushing–grabbing the breviary, starting a hymn in the middle of a canticle, insisting on starting the whole psalm over so he can be side A–until he feels justified in throwing a tantrum. While praying. Over whether or not to read the italicized text or how to pronounce a word.

No joke, I’ve had to interrupt our prayer to talk about not screaming and punching during the Office every day this week. The other day he kicked me (softly, because the sweet thing is gentle even when he’s enraged) for having the audacity to finish the concluding prayer. Last night he head-butted me in the face (again, so gently it wasn’t even uncomfortable, but it’s the intention we’re concerned about) because I folded the novena pamphlet to read the back instead of turning the whole thing around.

Basically, despite all this time in prayer, he’s obsessed with himself and getting his own way. But you know what? He has an excuse. He’s four.

What’s my excuse?

Because I do the same thing. I do good things but I’m so consumed with doing them the “right” way that I end up doing more harm than good. I get so frustrated at liturgical abuses that I make the Mass about me–my desires for good liturgy–instead of about Christ. I’m so intent on orthodoxy that I forget compassion. I turn everything into evidence to support my ideology or an opportunity to feel persecuted. I do acts of charity and vilify those who work with other populations. I do good for my own ends–either to be impressive in the eyes of men or just to show off to God.¹

James Tissot: The Pharisee and the Publican

You see, I’m a Pharisee. The problem with the Pharisees wasn’t that they wanted to follow the rules. Their problem (okay, one of their many) was that they had to be right. They had to have their own way–they were fine with it being the Law’s way as long as they had chosen it. And anyone who wasn’t doing things their way was wrong. And bad. And deserved to be crucified.

There wasn’t anything wrong with following the Law. God gave it to them, after all. And there’s nothing wrong with living the liturgical year or admonishing sinners or spreading the Gospel or feeding the hungry. But if you’re anything like me, it’s not always about love of God and love of neighbor. Often it’s just self-love–if you can call it love at all.

Pope Francis described one manifestation of this pride motivating good works in his recent apostolic exhortation:

“A supposed soundness of doctrine or discipline leads instead to a narcissistic and authoritarian elitism, whereby instead of evangelizing, one analyzes and classifies others, and instead of opening the door to grace, one exhausts his or her energies in inspecting and verifying.” (Evangelii Gaudium 94)

Our desire to be faithful can be distorted–as can our desires for social justice, transcendent liturgy, compassion, and all things true, good, and beautiful–when we, like the Pharisees, act out of self-love instead of love of God.

Satan’s a clever one. And when you start doing good, he can work with that. He can take your good intentions and twist them so you start resenting people who interrupt your prayer or judging people who serve differently. I think this is particularly dangerous during Advent–we start out buying gifts to please people and end up getting mad at people in the mall or the people we’re shopping for or the whole internet because things aren’t going the way we want them to. We decide to have a quiet, prayerful Advent and want to smack the sweet carolers we pass on the street corner. We go to confession so we can feel superior. We mean so well but it’s so easy to get caught up in ourselves and forget love of God and love of neighbor: the reason for the season, yes, but also the reason for everything.

God saw this in our little fallen hearts, this self-obsession, and knew that redemption alone wouldn’t be enough. Even brought back to him, we would still be so tempted to curve in on ourselves, so painfully inclined to make even selfless acts selfish. So he came down to show us what humanity was made to look like. He became man in an act of complete selflessness. The world actually does revolve around him and yet he lived as though he was nothing.

Via Maria Pureza Escano. — St. Anne and the Young Mary, by Maria Pureza Escano.

This humility begins at the Annunciation: the God whom heaven and earth adore chose to be conceived under shadow of scandal, most likely rejected by friends and family before he was even born. He was laid in a feed trough, worshiped by outcasts, and chased into exile. Each moment was a gift, each instance of pain or persecution accepted purely out of love.

Jesus didn’t use people. He didn’t heal them only to make a point–it was always about them. His conversations teach us something, yes, but they spoke far more deeply to the hearts of those he encountered. The one man in all of history who deserved to be wrapped up in himself quite simply wasn’t. When he spoke about himself–he who is the meaning of life–he was always leading us back to the Father, giving himself in love.

The reason the Gospels are so compelling even to those who don’t believe in the God they describe is that Jesus lived as we were made to: his entire life was about others. All the healings and the preaching and even the resurrection would have meant nothing if they hadn’t been selfless. If Jesus had preached to gain fame or worked miracles to demonstrate his superiority, he would have been a sham and a failure.²

Are you?

It’s a harsh question, I know. I ask it because I’m asking myself. How many of my “good works” are done out of honest love of God and man and how many are done out of pride or veiled selfishness?

John Paul is a fantastic kid, but his piety doesn’t necessarily correlate to holiness.³ I wonder how many of us are living lives of empty piety or charity. Oh, it’s better than giving up and embracing our baser inclinations. But is it everything the Lord is asking of us, this God who desires obedience rather than sacrifice? Is it really his will or have we canonized our own desires?

This nativity scene at Franciscan University has a cross as its focal point. It's all one mystery. — This nativity scene at Franciscan has a cross as its focal point. It’s all one mystery.

We don’t worship a God who merely loves. We worship a God who is love. God in his very essence is self-gift and while that’s supremely true in the dance of love that is the Trinity, it’s nowhere more obvious than in the Incarnation, the ultimate act of love that encompasses all the discomfort and tedium and ignominy and rejection and failure and suffering and death that God willingly embraced for us. Our God gave himself in love every moment of every day–and continues to do so in the Eucharist–that we might be strengthened to do the same.

So can I issue a challenge in the midst of all your shopping and creating and praying and practicing? Could you take a minute to ask yourself why you’re doing what you’re doing? Are you writing or decorating or speaking out of a desire to be more like that fragile God in swaddling clothes? If not, don’t quit necessarily. Just recognize it, repent, and ask for the grace to love. God became weak–there’s no shame in weakness. But a failure to love: that’s true failure.

If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing. (1 Cor 13:1-3)

15 years ago I did a minor good deed and didn’t tell anyone about it. I’m still proud of myself for that. [↩]
And not God…. [↩]
It doesn’t need to. He’s awesome. I’m just making a point. [↩]

Advent Boot Camp: A Spiritual Workout Plan

“It is not particularly difficult to find thousands who will spend two or three hours a day exercising, but if you ask them to bend their knees to God for five minutes of prayer, they protest that it is too long.”-Fulton Sheen

When I first came to know Christ, I was as eager as any other woman in love. I was going to read the whole Bible, I decided, and the Catechism. I was going to go to daily Mass once a month¹ and watch Touched by an Angel. Clearly I was all in.

On top of that impressive list, I was also going to do something that I felt was almost saintly: I was going to pray for 10 minutes a day. To that point in my life, I’d prayed very little. In the few previous years, you could probably add up all my prayer time and not get ten minutes. So ten minutes was a pretty good goal.

The trouble was, I had no idea how to pray. So I collected a litany of prayers and maybe asked for some stuff. If you had asked me at the time to spend an hour with Jesus, I might have wondered if you were on drugs. A whole hour? I would have had no idea what to do.

In fact, it wasn’t until twelve years later–when I entered the convent–that I realized that regular silent prayer was an essential component of the Christian life. I’d been praying in all kinds of ways, but I only sat still with the Lord when I had something to say. It’s hard to grow in a relationship when you only talk to a person every once in a while when you feel like it. And when I finally started praying in silence, it was hard. I had no attention span. None. I would literally pray for 3 of my intended 30 minutes and check my watch.

You may be in the same boat. Maybe you try to spend time in adoration but you just get antsy–or bored out of your mind–and leave. If you’ve got the discipline to stick it out, that’s great. But some of us need a little more direction. So I put together a spiritual plan for those of you who want to step up your prayer game this Advent but aren’t quite sure how to.

This “Advent Boot Camp” is a guideline, not a foolproof plan. Feel free to substitute anything. What’s essential is that you’re spending time in silent prayer–not just prayer but silent prayer–and that you’re easing into it.

Each day’s prayer starts with a 5 minute warmup. It’s hard just to snap from all the noise of the world into prayer, so take some time to slow down, talk to the Lord about what’s weighing on you, and get quiet. Then see what God has to say to you through his Word, his Saints, and the prayers of his Church. Finally, spend some good time in silence, either processing what you’ve read, talking to God, or trying to be still in his presence. If your prayer life has consisted solely of grace before meals and Mass on Sunday, this might be tough. But it will get easier. And what better time to seek silence than in the mad bustle leading up to Christmas?

Week 1: Begin each day with 5 minutes of prayer, make one chapel visit

Day 1: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 40; 5 minutes silence
Day 2: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 9:1-6; one decade of the rosary, 5 minutes silence
Day 3: 5 minute warmup; the Office of Readings²; 5 minutes silence
Day 4: 5 minute warmup; Catechism 522-526; one decade of the rosary; 5 minutes silence
Day 5: 5 minute warmup; Luke 1:26-38; 10 minutes silence
Day 6: 5 minute warmup; Chaplet of Divine Mercy; 5 minutes silence
Day 7: 15 minutes of prayer: your choice

Week 2: Begin and end each day with 5 minutes of prayer, attend one extra Mass

Day 8: 5 minute warmup; reading from St. Bernard of Clairvaux; 10 minutes silence
Day 9: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 11; two decades of the rosary; 5 minutes silence
Day 10: 5 minute warmup; Luke 2:1-21; one decade of the rosary; 10 minutes silence
Day 11: 20 minutes of prayer: your choice
Day 12: 5 minute warmup; the Office of Readings; 10 minutes silence
Day 13: 5 minute warmup; Stations of the Cross
Day 14: 5 minute warmup; “In the Bleak Midwinter”; 1 John 4; 10 minutes silence

Week 3: Begin and end each day with 5 minutes of prayer, attend two extra Masses

Day 15: 5 minute warmup; John 1:1-18; reading from St. Gregory Nazianzen; 10 minutes silence
Day 16: 25 minutes of prayer: your choice
Day 17: 5 minute warmup; “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”; 15 minutes silence
Day 18: 5 minute warmup; the Office of Readings; 15 minutes silence
Day 19: 5 minute warmup; full rosary (joyful mysteries); 5 minutes silence
Day 20: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 61-62; 15 minutes silence
Day 21: 5 minute warmup; memorize Isaiah 9:5 (“A child is born to us…”); 10 minutes silence

Week 4: Begin and end each day with 5 minutes of prayer, make two chapel visits

Day 22: 5 minute warmup; Jeremiah 31; 15 minutes silence
Day 23: 5 minute warmup; Isaiah 35; reading from St. Augustine; 20 minutes silence
Day 24: 5 minute warmup; Matthew 1:18-2:23; G.K.Chesterton “The House of Christmas”; 20 minutes silence
Day 25: Half an hour of prayer: your choice

I’ve compiled the non-Biblical readings here if you want to print them in advance: Advent Boot Camp readings

This is going to max you out at 30-35 minutes of prayer at one time. If you feel like you can do more than that, go for it. But if you’re a beginner when it comes to non-liturgical prayer, this might be a good way to get started. Whether you’re interested in this approach or not, do spend some time praying about how you’re going to try to grow closer to the Lord this Advent. But don’t stress about it–it’s supposed to be a time of preparation and peace, not frantic anxiety, despite what the mall might do to you this time of year. You might consider starting to read the Bible through in a year using this schedule. Or read Caryll Houselander’s The Reed of God. Just be sure you do something more than bake and shop to prepare for Christmas this year. The Christ Child is coming, after all. Offer him your heart.

Give me a break–I didn’t have my driver’s license yet. [↩]
Click the Office of Readings tab [↩]

50 Ways to Talk to God

I know there are people out there–lots of them–who show up Sunday morning and call it good for the week. I know there are people who check Catholic on forms but don’t have any kind of a relationship with Christ. I guess I just figured there was a solid core of believers who were in love with Christ–or at least trying to be.

But I’m reading Sherry Weddell’s Forming Intentional Disciples and it’s breaking my heart. Almost half of Catholics, she says, don’t believe God is a personal God. They don’t even believe it’s possible to have a relationship with him. Most of us don’t pray beyond what’s required and when we do it’s not about love so much as a sense of duty. We might be committed to the Church, but we’re not really committed to Christ.

I hope this shocks you as much as it shocked me. I hope you’re living for Christ and seeking him every day in prayer. But if you’re one of those people checking off the boxes, one of those people doing the bare minimum and longing for more, I’m calling you out. Please go deeper. Christ is so much more than you think he is and you can be so much more, too. It’s great that you’re going to Mass, but I know he wants more from you. He wants more for you. He wants you to know him, to love him, to follow him and be fulfilled by him. He wants your prayer to be more than just lip service. He wants you to want him.

Maybe that’s too abstract, so I’m not staying up in my ivory tower on this one. I’m getting practical. You want to know where to start? Here are 50 ways to approach prayer like it’s more than just something to get through so you can get on with your week. Try one, try them all, but try something. You have nothing to lose. You have everything to gain.

Close your eyes and just repeat the name of Jesus.
Write a letter to God every night for a month. Promise yourself you won’t let anyone read them so you can forget the fancy language and get real.
Read the Song of Songs like Christ is the bridegroom and you’re the bride. Because you are.
When things get crazy, go to adoration at night.¹ Don’t try to stay on topic–just talk through all the mess in your life. Talk in circles and get frustrated and pull out your shopping list and process until your mind finally slows down. Work through it all and then just let yourself be. It’s a very loud silence, that.
Pray the news. Beg mercy for sinners, healing for the infirm, justice and peace and God’s will in all things.
Go somewhere beautiful (I recommend Montana) and revel in the majesty of God.
Hold a crucifix while you pray.
Pick a small but regular sacrifice (no sugar in your coffee, no condiments, no added salt). Thank Jesus for his sacrifice every time you make yours.
Pray the Our Father slowly. Take ten minutes to pray it once.
Ask the Blessed Mother to hold your hand and walk you to Jesus.
Tithe your free time–if you work eight hours a day and sleep eight hours a day, spend 48 minutes in prayer over the course of the day.
Think of how your small children tell you they love you–over and over, at any opportunity, with deep feeling and deep beauty even when it’s deeply awkward. Talk to God like you’re a little child.
Sit in a circle with your closest friends and take turns talking out loud to God.
Pray the Mass like it’s the Last Supper–because it is. Listen to Jesus like it’s your last night with him.
Pray the Mass like it’s Calvary–because it is. Look at his body stretched out, lifeless for you on the Cross. Receive his body broken for you in the Eucharist. Ask for the grace to live a life that’s worthy of that love.
Pray the Mass like it’s the heavenly banquet–because it is. Look for what’s true and good and beautiful. Thank God for the gift of the liturgy.
Go to a church and sit in silence until you just can’t stand it any more. Then sit for another five minutes.
Listen to an Ignatian Meditation. (More here.)
“For everything that has been, thanks. To everything that will be, yes.” -Dag Hammarskjold
When you kneel before the priest in confession, be mindful of the fact that you’re kneeling at the foot of the Cross accusing yourself before the God who hangs dying to save you. Hate your sin but let him love you just the same.
Memorize a Bible verse first thing in the morning. Make it your theme for the day.
Every night, write down every sin you committed that day. Do it until you just can’t take the weight of all those sins, then go experience the sweet release of absolution. After your confession, burn the list.
Pray the Litany of Humility until you mean it. Ouch.
Read Psalm 136, which describes everything God has ever done as being done because of his love. Go through your life from the very beginning and list everything that’s happened to you. Follow each event–good or bad– with “for his love endures forever.” Let him show you how he used every single thing for your good.
Jules Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc. Look at her. She’s attentive and determined but somehow already exhausted. Do you listen for God? Do you act when he says to even if you don’t think you have the strength?

Meditate on sacred art.
Talk to a friend about your relationship with Jesus. Sometimes talking about God becomes talking to God.
Remember: “[God] will give us feelings of love [toward Him] if He pleases. We cannot create them for ourselves, and we must not demand them as a right. But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.” -C.S. Lewis²
Read the day’s readings each day. Write down five things you learn.
Some time when you’re not tired, lie down in the sun and try to be still with the Lord. You may drift in and out of sleep but you may also surrender your mind and actually manage silence.
Pray over pictures of starving children. Ache for them as Christ aches for you.
Do something mindlessly physical while you pray–run or crochet or paint a wall. Engaging your body can make it easier to surrender your mind.
Jesus falls the third time. Source.

Meditate on the Stations of the Cross. Don’t just read the prayers in some book–ponder the prayers, look at the pictures, put yourself in the scene. Walk the Via Dolorosa with your Lord.
Make a list of everything you love about the Lord–who he is, what he’s done, how he loves you.
Pray for an image of your relationship with Christ–lovers, knight and squire, father and child, king and slave, comrades at arms–and learn through that.
When you can’t take it any more, drive to the middle of nowhere and let God have it. It’s not the nicest prayer, but it’s some of the most real.
Hit your knees first thing in the morning and thank God for everything that’s coming at you that day. Think through everything you’re expecting to deal with and thank him for the good, the bad and the ugly.
Offer each day–all prayers and sacrifices and blessings–for a specific person.
Do 15 minutes of spiritual reading. Spend 15 minutes talking to God about it.
If you speak another language, try praying in it. It’s harder to daydream in a foreign language.
Do lectio divina.
Rock out to some passionate praise music–“Lord I Need You,” “How He Loves,” “Amazed.”
Pray some intense hymns–“Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent,” “It Is Well,” “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” “Come Thou Fount.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T5WWy-uk0U
Pray some intense poems–John Donne’s “Sonnet XIV,” Francis Thompson’s “Hound of Heaven,” Bl. John Henry Newman’s “The Pillar of the Cloud.”
Do a daily examen.
When you’re suffering, thank God for all he suffered for you. Ask him to use your pain for his glory and the salvation of souls.
“Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Over and over until you mean it.
Pray a scriptural rosary.
Treat the Mass like the sacrifice it is. The whole thing is about Jesus giving himself completely for you, so listen to the readings like a challenge to surrender. Then offer your joys to him when the priest offers the bread. Offer your sorrows when he offers the wine. Offer your whole self when Jesus gives himself to you in the Eucharist. Come out changed.
At the end of the day, talk to Jesus about everything that happened that day. Thank him, beg his forgiveness, ask for strength for tomorrow.
Go through the motions if it’s the best you can do. It’s better than nothing.

Maybe none of these will fit you. I’m writing as an uber-emotional, academically-oriented woman. If you try these–multiple times–and you’re still not feeling it, try something else. Ask your priest, your best friend, the random lady at Mass who seems so pious. Share your suggestions and struggles below. Part of the problem is that we so often don’t talk about any of this so nobody realizes that nobody has it together. Then we decide that we’re just not one of the lucky few chosen to be saints and we settle for the bare minimum–a handful of obligations with no heart.

Christianity is so much more than a list of rules and pious practices, friends. It’s a relationship, a love like none you’ve ever known before. It’s the meaning of life, the God of the universe made man for you. Please don’t be content with empty prayer and an unabandoned heart. Ask for more. He always answers that prayer.

I don’t know what it is about the dark but it makes adoration so much more powerful. [↩]
via my dear friend The Evangelista [↩]