Recognizing the Risen One

Does this scenario sound familiar? A person walks up to you, says hello, and begins speaking to you like an old friend. They look familiar, but you can’t quite place them. After a while, maybe because of something they said or because you had to ask, you realize who they are: maybe a friend from your school days, or a colleague from an old job, or a relative from a different city or state. The reason you didn’t recognize them right away is that you weren’t expecting to encounter them in that particular place or time.

In today’s Gospel story, the two disciples on the road to Emmaus don’t recognize Jesus. Although they spend a considerable amount of time in his presence, although their hearts are “burning” within them as they realize later, they can’t place him until the very end of the story. This isn’t the only time this has happened. In fact, in the Gospel stories of Jesus’s appearances after his Resurrection, it happens three different times. The first time is when Mary Magdalene sees Jesus on Easter morning near the tomb on but doesn’t recognize him; she thinks maybe he’s the gardener. Then later, in the Gospel of John, Peter and John and some of the other disciples are back in Galilee fishing; Jesus asks them if they’ve caught anything, and they don’t recognize who is speaking to them.

In between those two stories is today’s Gospel. We should ask ourselves: why do all of these disciples not recognize Jesus? After all, this was their Master, the one for whom they had given up everything to be his disciples. Did Jesus look so different? Well, perhaps he did – after all, his body had died and was now risen, so that “death no longer has any power over him” (Rom 6:9). But while the glorified and risen body of Jesus might have looked different in some way, perhaps we could also say that part of the explanation is the disciples themselves. Like the scenario I described at the beginning, we don’t always recognize someone we’re not expecting to encounter.

Maybe the simple answer is that the disciples didn’t recognize Jesus after the Resurrection because they thought he was dead. Even after hearing that maybe somehow he was risen they still believed wholly or in part that he was dead. It took an encounter with a person truly alive to help them to see – a person truly alive who made them, in turn, come alive. The Emmaus story is about the reality of the Resurrection – and what that change means for us, not for Jesus. As we heard, these disciples are so radically changed – so filled with joy and faith – that after Jesus disappears from their midst, they go straight back to Jerusalem – despite the fact that they had just left there, afraid or dismayed, despite the fact that apparently it’s late in the day, and it’s a seven mile journey one way. No matter – they go right back to the apostles in the Upper Room to tell them what has happened to them. The disciples recognized the one who had been changed, who had been dead but now was alive, and having encountered him, *they* are changed as well.

Lelio Orsi, Road to Emmaus (c. 1565)

So, friends, perhaps we should ask ourselves, “Well, what about me? Do I feel changed in this Easter season? Is my faith strengthened? Have I been relieved in some way of my fears and troubles in light of Jesus’s Resurrection? Have I encountered the Risen Lord in a new way?” I hope the answer for all of us is, “Yes.” But if not, ask yourself, “Why?” The pandemic has made things tough, and we don’t have the opportunity to come to the Mass right now. That’s a big loss, but it’s too simple to blame everything on that. Instead, if we aren’t feeling enlivened right now – if we are lacking in faith, giving in to fear and dismay – then perhaps we first need to acknowledge that we aren’t really looking for the Risen Christ. Maybe we’re seeking distraction or fulfillment in something else, something earthly, with our faith becoming not much more than lip service. Maybe we are like those on the road to Emmaus, running away from events that we don’t understand.

And if that’s where we find ourselves – if we stop to recognize that it is we who are in need of being changed – then surely the Lord is also already there in our midst to help us to recognize him, in turn. Perhaps he is opening again the Scriptures, so that we can encounter him in a new way in the pages of God’s written Word. Perhaps he helps us to realize his Real Presence in the Eucharist, the breaking of the sacrificial bread, for which our hearts should grow fonder in this time of absence. Perhaps he accompanies us in the quiet journey of prayer, where he helps us to realize that – of all events in the world, past and present, of all the things of time and history – his Resurrection stands above all. Do we realize that? Or are we still looking for him among the dead?

Friends, this Emmaus story is our story. In the breaking of the bread of this Eucharist, let us look with new recognition on the Risen Lord present to us. The great challenges of this time need not fill us with fear or dismay if we see that Jesus has come to be in our midst. Instead, with hearts burning with faith, let us go and announce to others just Whom we have come to recognize along our way.

Living Proof

Proof can be a tricky thing. We depend upon it for many things, but it can be hard to come by. Just take the current pandemic, for instance. Scientists and researchers are searching hard for both a cure for the disease and for a vaccine, but they have to prove such measures would be effective before they can prescribe them. Some people are trying to find proof of the disease’s origin. There are efforts underway to prove who might have been infected without becoming symptomatic. We all *want* to do something to end this pandemic, but we need hard proof before we can act.

The same can be true in our personal lives too. Every relationship is built on trust, and when that trust is violated – by rejection, betrayal, disappointment, etc. – a new proof must be given for how the relationship can continue. But proving things at the level of personal trust is even harder than proving something scientifically. Friendship requires living proof, you might say, to have the possibility of reconciliation.

Today’s Gospel is all about reconciliation. The end of the Gospel focuses on the figure of Thomas, who comes to believe in the Resurrection only after doubting and insisting on living proof. Perhaps Thomas doubted because he was unwilling to be hurt again ­– because he was caught off guard by the fact that Jesus suffered and died, despite the fact that the Lord had told his disciples that was exactly what was going to happen.

More likely, I think, is that Thomas was deeply aware of his own betrayal – of his abandonment of Jesus in his hour of need. So aggrieved was he by this failure of friendship, that he resisted believing that the Lord was risen again. He needed living proof, in other words, to believe that it was possible to be forgiven of his sin. Thomas, of course, is not alone in this. All of the disciples must have been deeply aware that they had betrayed and abandoned the one who had called them his friends, who had washed their feet in service, who had given them his own Body to eat and Blood to drink at the first Eucharist. But in his hour of need, they let him down, and so they resisted believing, instead hiding in fear behind locked doors.

Giovanni Serodine, Doubting Thomas (c. 1620)

Perhaps this time of pandemic has given us some insight into how they must have felt. In a certain sense, we too are living with fear, quarantined behind locked doors, filled with uncertainty with what has happened to the world. Things that we took for granted are now uncertain; the world holds dangers that we had not before conceived of. This time has also given us an awareness of our own flaws and limitedness. We can’t fix the world; we can’t even fix ourselves. And maybe that realization also affects our faith, and our relationship with God. Perhaps it makes us believe that God isn’t really there to take care of us. Or maybe it’s given us a deeper awareness of how we have put too much trust in the passing things of this world – in our possessions, our pleasures and past-times, in ourselves – and not in him, the One who sustains us in every moment.

And into all of this doubt and uncertainty – whether in the Upper Room two millennia ago, or today in our own circumstances – the Risen Jesus steps into our midst. If Thomas needed living proof of why he could believe, if the disciples needed hope for the possibility of reconciliation, if we need assurance that God still is present despite difficult circumstances, we need not look beyond this very Gospel. Jesus himself is the living proof of God’s power being stronger than all of those failures on our part, our sins and betrayals and doubts. “Peace be with you,” Jesus says. His peace replaces fear, his mercy replaces division, and his Risen Life replaces even the fear of death. But all of it begins with authentic faith in the Lord's Resurrection; faith is the precursor to receiving the fuller gifts that God wants to give to us, like peace and mercy and even a deeper faith than we yet have.

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday, a day to focus on how the Risen Christ has given us his mercy in the past and even more how he wants to give it to us anew. We can ask for this mercy in all sorts of ways: “Lord, be merciful and keep my family safe in this dangerous time.” “Lord, be merciful and help me to be healed of this sin that weighs me down.” “Lord, be merciful and allow me to not to give in to fear or doubt or hesitancy in trusting you.” Thomas had a lot of flaws, as we do, but at least he knew where his weakness was, and he was bold enough to ask for he wanted the Lord to give to him.

Divine Mercy (1934) by Eugeniusz Kazimirowski

Friends, in many ways, we have a chance to live out an Easter very close to the circumstances of that first Easter that the disciples knew. In the midst of great uncertainty and great disruption, they came to believe anew in that One who could not be defeated by death or betrayal or hardheartedness – and with whom their friendship endured, despite their own failings. While our world may feel turned on end right now, the Risen Jesus is living proof that God allows the disordering of our lives at times only to bring forth a greater peace and renewed opportunity for faith. May we all call upon the Divine Mercy of the Lord to not remain unbelieving but to believe, and so have life in his name.

An Easter Allegory

For too long now, we have awoken to the same tired reality. We are anxious, isolated from each other, weighed down by fears and distress, yearning for an end to the great suffering under which our society labors. For what feels like ages we have been waiting and hoping for some good news about the terrible disease that plagues us. Though not all of us have yet fallen ill, in a sense, we are all infected by its consequences.

And yet, on this new morning, a glimmer of hope has dawned. There are reports of Good News – that there is One who has found a cure for this terrible disease. How, exactly, is mysterious – but surely we can say the hand of God is at work. This sickness overcame him too, but now he has been raised up and made whole. And what’s more, all who draw near to him are themselves cured as well, healed and restored to life. Even death itself has no power in the face of the healing this One gives.

Let us then rejoice! All around us, there still remain the signs of the disease which ravaged humanity and distorted our way of life. But let us no longer cower in fear or doubt, hidden away within ourselves, unable to see the world as it has been remade. A cure for our ancient illness has been found; the One who gives it can heal all that troubles us.

Let our hope then remove our hesitancy! May we run forth to receive for ourselves this eternal medicine from the One who can give it to us. In praise of God Almighty, in gratitude for this salvation, may we celebrate the newness of life we have found in Him. May we stride confidently onward in our journeys, whole and hale, to share with others the Good News we have received – witnesses to what this One has done for us.

* * *

Friends, this little Easter allegory is in no way intended to minimize the current danger of the coronavirus, or the suffering it is causing, or the importance of continuing to safeguard against it. But it is intended to remind us that there is no disease more devastating than the ancient foe of sin and death, and in his Resurrection, Jesus has given us the cure for that – indeed, He is Himself the Cure. What Good News that is, indeed. Happy Easter!

Henrick de Clerck, The Resurrection of Jesus Christ (Rottenhammer Resurrection) (c. 1590)

Our Eucharistic Identity

By my count, it’s been a little over three weeks since the faithful last had the chance to receive the Eucharist at Mass. Do you miss the Eucharist yet? I hope so. All of us – even we priests who still get to celebrate Mass – should feel a great sorrow at the current conditions, and a renewed longing for the Eucharist. If we don’t feel that, if we are not hungering for the Body and Blood of the Lord, then perhaps that’s an indication that we haven’t really come to appreciate the gift of Jesus’s Real Presence in the way we should.

I imagine that many of us feel particularly saddened today, on Holy Thursday, to not be able to receive the Lord in the Sacrament which he instituted on this day. But the Eucharist still has great power to nourish us, even if we can’t receive it right now. I remember when I was in the second grade, preparing for First Holy Communion, the teacher told us: “Normally, when we eat food, the food becomes part of our bodies. But with the Body of Christ, it’s different; when we receive the Eucharist, we become part of his Body.”

Meister des Hausbuches, Christ Washing the Feet of the Apostles [detail] (1475)

There’s a great truth in that. The Body of Christ is not just something we receive. It’s an identity and a reality we live out. The presence and the power of the Eucharist can nourish us even when we can’t receive it – indeed, perhaps especially then. How? Through loving service. Jesus symbolized that loving service in the washing of feet, but he showed its fullest extent in laying down his life on the Cross. Every day we are offered chances to lay down our lives for each other: spouses for their spouses; parents for their children; children for their siblings; teachers for their students; doctors and nurses for their patients; the contented for those who are brokenhearted; the privileged for those who are needy; the peaceful for those who are in distress. Even when we are in need, there is always someone in even greater need than us, and when we lay down our lives for them, even in some small way – even if only by offering up our sufferings and inconveniences as a prayer to God – whenever we do that, we are reflecting the Eucharistic heart of Jesus. We are living out the Mass, despite the fact we can’t come to it right now.

Friends, Jesus has given us a model of love to follow. In the washing of feet, in the sacrifice of the Cross, we see the meaning of the Eucharist made clear for us. Whether priest or people, we all await the chance to participate together in this Holy Sacrifice. In the meantime, though, let’s look for ways to live out our Eucharistic identity as the Body of Christ, laying down our lives in loving service to those around us.

Not Forsaken

Crucifixion (c. 1665) [detail] by Gabriël Metsu

“My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” The question of the psalmist today is one that we can relate to in any suffering or trial, but perhaps especially right now. Outside of wartime, it’s rare that there’s some particular crisis which gives so much common cause for pain and sorrow. And yet that’s what our world faces in the corona virus.

That question of Psalm 22 is heard again in the Gospel: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” It’s certainly easy to see why Jesus is crying out. He had entered into Jerusalem just a few days before, acclaimed as the Messiah, the son of David, the rightful king of Israel. And only a few days later, betrayed and abandoned by his closest friends, he hangs now upon a cross – almost completely alone, certainly in agony, waiting for his death. It seems like “forsaken” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

And yet, is Jesus really forsaken? Is he really alone? This One who said, “He who sent me is with me; He has not left me alone because I always do the things that please him.” (Jn 8:29)? This One who said, “The hour has come - Father, glorify your Son that he may glorify you?” (Jn 17:1)? Could it be that, in this case, the appearance doesn’t tell the whole story?

That is indeed what the Church believes. When Jesus cries out, he does so not because he feels as if his Father has forgotten about him, or turned his back on him, but because as the Incarnate Son of God he is uniting himself to all of the sorrows of history, all of the pain and dysfunction of the human heart, all of the burden and isolation that comes from human sinfulness. He unites himself to it, and he puts it all to death, there on the Cross, and in doing so redeems us from it. Rather than be abandoned by his Father, he was at that moment carrying out the very purpose for which he had been sent. And at the deepest level of his soul, even in the midst of his suffering, that brought him joy.

The Church Fathers taught that while the Gospels only tell us Jesus spoke the first two lines of Psalm 22, it is very likely he would have gone on to recite the whole thing. That psalm that begins so starkly – with a cry of abandonment – in the end concludes by proclaiming God’s fidelity: "future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn." (Ps 22:30b-31a). And after all, that is what we are commemorating this week, is it not? The reason we call this week “Holy” – the reason we remember at all that agonizing death 2000 years ago – is because we believe that that suffering was not meaningless but the very means by which sin is taken away, the very manner of deliverance from death for us and for all peoples of all times. And when his Son rose again after three days in the tomb, God showed us that our sufferings also can have value. Even in the most dire of straits, they are not meaningless, unseen and unheard by God – no, they too can be part of our redemption wrought in Christ. If we unite ourselves to him in what we suffer, then we too can find hope, and yes even joy, in knowing that we are accomplishing – somehow – the Father’s will.

So friends, in this difficult time, let us not think that God has forsaken us. Instead, let us be aware of how God is sustaining us in what we do, and what we suffer, helping us to unite ourselves anew to his Son, giving meaning to what – apart from him – might feel meaningless. In suffering, we too can feel the closeness of God’s presence; we too can grasp the nearness of heavenly glory.

Power Over Death

At one time or another, everyone wishes they had the power to change reality – to escape from a difficult conversation, perhaps, or to disappear from an awkward encounter. In fact, some time in the last few weeks we all have probably thought, “If I could just snap my fingers or say the magic word to make this whole corona virus thing go away, I would do it!”

There are times as a priest when I sincerely wish I had the power to change reality. In fact, I feel that way most often in the face of grief, when trying to console someone whose loved one has passed away. It’s hard to not feel somewhat helpless in the face of this terrible thing that has occurred, this thing that they and I wish we could somehow undo. If I could snap my fingers or say the magic word to bring back their loved one, I’d do it.

The Gospel today presents us with a similar scenario. A man named Lazarus has died, and the family comes up to Jesus to ask, “Why did this happen? Where was God when we needed him?” In fact, Lazarus’s sister Martha puts it a little more pointedly: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Martha knows that Jesus could have healed Lazarus, as he had healed so many others before him. And yet, he didn’t — in fact it seems, he chose not to, since he was delayed in getting there. Now, it is too late, it seems – Lazarus is not just dead, but definitively so, four days in the tomb.

Jesus Wept (c. 1896) by James Tissot

What exactly is going on here? Why did Jesus let his one friend die and his other friends go through the profound grief of death if he had the power to prevent it? We get an insight from the first reading from Ezekiel. God foretells through the prophet how he will raise his people to new life – to open their graves, and breathe his Spirit into their dry bones. God hates death, just like we do – in fact, as the Author of Life, it is completely foreign to him. Recall that the Church teaches that we humans would not experience death, nor pain, violence, disease, suffering – all of the hateful things in life – except for the fact of our sins. Sin altered God’s creation – the first sin of Adam and Eve, and our sins as well. But God was not thwarted in his plan. Rather than hand over humanity to the eternal separation of death, he promised instead to save us – to open the grave, and bring back to life what had been dead.

Now, all of this sounds great as a promise. But how do we know it could really happen? Now we can see the reason for the Gospel story. Jesus allowed his friend Lazarus to die, and the sisters of Lazarus to experience the weight of grief that comes with death, not because he was uncaring but because he wanted to show through them that he has the power to change reality – a power over even that final reality, our greatest enemy, death itself. In doing so, Jesus shows us that he has the power to raise us to life as well – not just another life to end in death, as Lazarus’s did, but a life that cannot die, a share in his own risen and eternal life. As St. Paul said, when the Holy Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead dwells also within us, then we too have firm and sure hope in eternal life.

Friends, over the next few weeks, as the Church we will recall Jesus’s own death. We will see how the one who raised Lazarus from the dead allowed himself to die – indeed, we will hear the jeering crowd say “He saved others but he could not save himself.” Because Jesus did not save himself, because instead he chose as Lamb of God, our High Priest, to enter into our death in order to heal and transform it, in order to overcome it, then we can say now with faith and hope that there is no pain or sorrow in this life that is not redeemable – that despite what we might have to suffer at times, or what grief we might endure, or even what terrible death we might experience, it is all fundamentally redemptive if we remain connected to Christ. Death is not a sign of God’s absence; in the death of Christ, it becomes the very means by which he saves us. With the presence of the living Spirit within us, we too wait for the day when he will give new and everlasting life to our mortal bodies.

In these difficult days, when we feel intensely the desire to change much about the way things are, may we not lose sight of the fact that God has altered that most terrible reality, and has overcome even death itself and transformed it into something life-giving. In these coming weeks, may we allow our hearts to cry out to God, not out of grief or despair, but in faith, with hope, with eager joy at the gifts that he has promised to us.

Gaining New Sight

Like many of you, I have been very tuned into the news this past week. In one way or another, everything seems to be about the corona virus and the health crisis in which our world now finds itself. It’s a challenging time.

Even as we have much cause to be concerned, we should look for levity, and even reasons for hope. Amid the distressing stories in the news this week, there was one hopeful one that caught my eye. Perhaps you saw it, too – the lieutenant governor of Washington state announced that he will not seek reelection to his office but instead will enter the Society of Jesus. Mr. Cyrus Habib has accomplished impressive things in his 38 years, especially considering the fact that he has been permanently blind since childhood as the result of cancer. But he feels a call to do something more, and that’s why he wants to be a Jesuit. He said, “I have come to believe that the best way to deepen my commitment to social justice is to reduce the complexity in my own life and dedicate it to serving others.”

That inspiring story came to mind again as I reflected upon today’s Gospel. The story is about another blind man, one who like that lieutenant governor was destined for greater things than his disability might suggest. In the ancient world, blindness wasn’t just a physical problem; it was a social one, even a spiritual one – a stigma that cut one off from respectable society. But as Jesus tells the disciples, the man’s blindness is not the result of his own sin or the sinfulness of his parents, but “so that the works of God might be made visible through him.” In other words, in God’s divine wisdom, he allowed that man to be born blind specifically so that Jesus could heal him in that moment. And by giving him sight, the Lord also took away the blindness of all those who came to believe in him.

Duccio di Buoninsegna, Jesus Healing the Man Born Blind (Maestà altarpiece) (1311)

The current moment presents us with a similar situation, if we have the spiritual eyes to see. Perhaps we feel as if we too have lost the use of one of our senses at this moment – we feel disoriented by all that’s happened and what may still happen, saddened to not be able to come to Mass, perhaps greatly troubled and even afraid by what we see on the news. There is a temptation to focus on what we have lost, on what we still might lose – to ask ourselves unanswerable questions like, “Why has God permitted this terrible thing to happen?” There is a real danger of doubting God, of losing sight of him in this crisis.

Or, as people of faith, we can resist giving into darkness and despair, and ask God to grant us new sight to see. If God allowed the blind man to be born with his malady in order for Jesus to heal him – and so make visible the power of God through him – then can you imagine what God might wish to do through us, in this moment? How powerful a witness our faith will be to the world if we don’t abandon it when things are difficult! In our homes, workplaces, and other permitted spaces, we may be separated physically from each other but we can be more united than ever spiritually – fervently pouring out our prayers to God. Now is the time for us to pray, and for you who are parents and grandparents to lead your families in prayer, to teach your children why our faith must be our most precious possession, especially in times like this.

How great an opportunity we also have to make “visible” the charity we say we have for each other, by utilizing our time now to help our neighbors in need, by reaching out to those who are sick and suffering, by making sure that despite our physical distancing no one feels isolated or cut off from each other. This week, call that person you’ve been thinking of – reach out to that neighbor or acquaintance that came to your mind out of the blue. It might well be that the Holy Spirit inspired you to think of them, prompting you to be the means by which they will not lose hope in this moment. It’s ironic, but now more than ever, we have a real opportunity to make a difference in the life – and the faith – of each other.

Friends, as we heard in the first reading, “Not as man sees does God see.” As strange as it may seem in this time, the Church’s liturgy bids us to be joyful today, on this “Laetare Sunday” – not because all is right with the world but because we have come to know and to believe in a Savior, Jesus Christ, who helps us to see with spiritual sight. Perhaps we could all stand to pull back from watching the news a bit, and rather than focus on what's wrong or on what we lack, instead we could ask ourselves, like that man who wants to be a Jesuit, “How best can I serve others right now?”

No one wants to be in the situation we are in, but much like the blind man in the Gospel today, perhaps the Lord desires to use this tragedy for purposes we cannot know. By our faith, by our love for one another, the Lord will help us to gain new sight in this difficult time so that, in turn, we can make visible his goodness to the world.

Water from the Rock

Change can be uncomfortable. We are in a moment of change, right now: our state, our country, and indeed the whole world is trying to adapt the health crisis surrounding the corona virus. Maybe you are convinced of the seriousness of this crisis, or maybe you think things have been overblown, or maybe you’re just sick of hearing about it. But we can all agree that life is a little uncomfortable right now.

There is no doubt we are also in a moment of change in our church. I shared with you before Mass the decree by Bishop Taylor mandating some serious changes to how we will practice our faith in the coming weeks. Like many of you, I feel at a loss; what do we do now? We haven’t had to resort to measures like this in more than a hundred years. It feels frightening and disorienting.

In today’s first reading, the Israelites are also frightened and disoriented. They were afraid for their lives, in fact – not because of a virus, but because of thirst. Their sojourn in the desert was taking its toll. Notice though how they reacted – they grumbled against Moses, and they doubted the Lord. They asked, “Is the Lord in our midst or not?” They were so desperately bewildered that they even began thinking it would be better to be back in slavery in Egypt. Madness! In turmoil, sometimes we seek comfort in all of the wrong places.

The upcoming changes in our church schedule may leave us feeling much like the Israelites in the desert. While we should rightly feel sorrowful at what we will lack for a time, we also need to resist giving in to grumbling and distrust, as the Israelites did. There may well be a temptation for us find consolation in things apart from God – temptations to fear and panic, to take comfort in certain vices or worldly pleasures, to think “Welp, I’m on my own now, I got to make do for myself.” These thoughts are not from God!

We don’t know what the future holds. But the Lord will never stop providing for us – we do know that, just from the reading from Exodus. God commands Moses to strike the rock and so brings forth water for the people. This even has a spiritual significance deeper than just satisfying thirsty Israelites. Beginning with St. Paul (1 Cor 10:4), the Church has long understood this episode as a foreshadowing of our redemption: Jesus, the New Moses, is also the Rock which is struck on behalf of the people, whose suffering and death has brought forth the living water of the Holy Spirit to quench the dryness of God’s people. In other words, the Lord’s living water is his grace, his own life and love shared with us, and nothing earthly can take that gift away.

Nicolas Poussin, Moses Striking Water from the Rock (1649)

Yes, for a while we will not be able to partake of some of the ways we most commonly receive the Lord’s grace: by being present at Mass, by receiving the Eucharist, by gathering together as a parish community. But I think amid these changes, the Lord is inviting us to enter into Lent in a new way – to experience the temporary lack of what we so often take for granted, to allow ourselves to hunger and thirst for him in a new way, a way that helps us appreciate more fully the spiritual gifts we so often take for granted. And amid our hunger and thirst, we will see that he will still provide for us – the Lord’s living water will flow to us in new ways.

Perhaps we will discover anew the grace and the power of the sacrament of reconciliation, which I’ll be offering much more frequently in these next several weeks. Perhaps it will come in a new devotion to Eucharistic Adoration, which we will have on Wednesdays, Fridays, and on Sundays when we would usually have been here in church. Perhaps the Lord will nourish our spirits in some other way: by helping us to care for the poor, to check in on the sick and the elderly, to unite ourselves in spirit with those suffering in our state, our nation, and our world. I’ll continue to offer the Mass here in our parish church, and I invite you to join spiritually with me as I do so, for the protection of health of all of our friends and loved ones, for an end to this crisis, and for a deeper love in the end for the great spiritual blessings of the sacraments that we often take for granted.

Friends, in this moment of great change and disruption, perhaps Jesus is looking for a display of faith from us, just like the woman at the well. With her, let us ask the Lord, “Sir, give me this water, that I may not be thirsty!” And let’s not doubt him, or look for comfort in the wrong places. Instead, let us renew our confidence in God and our faith that he will provide for us from Christ the Rock, for his grace is certainly still present in our midst. While this desert experience will be challenging, the Lord will see us through, and even more importantly he will continue to nourish us all the while, quenching our thirst with his living water.

Heavenly Homeland

Recently, I have been reading a book that my brother gave me last Christmas. It about the history of Stuttgart. I have always been a bit of a history nerd, and so as I continue to feel more and more at home here, I have enjoyed the chance to learn more about the history of our town.

One of the things that has stood out to me from the book is how choices made in the long-ago past continue to have great significance today. Just take, for example, the choice of Reverend Adam Buerkle, who decided to pick up and leave where he was living – first his native Germany and then later Michigan and Ohio – to come out here to the Grand Prairie and found a settlement. He came in search of a new life, to give his descendants a better future. Few if any of us are descended from that original group of Stuttgart settlers, but the choices they made back then continue to affect us now. The community we live in, the very identity we have, was shaped by their decisions long ago.

In today’s first reading, Abram picks up and leaves the land of his fathers and sets out for a new land. Why? Well, because like Reverend Buerkle, or any number of our ancestors, he wanted a better future for himself and his descendants. For Abram this better future was something more than just a hope or a dream. He had received a guarantee from God himself: “I will make your name great,” God tells him. Did you notice though that God promises Abram something else? Not only does he promise to bless him; he also promises to make him a blessing: “All the communities of the earth shall find blessing in you.” This Abram will become Abraham, “the father of many nations;” we even call him “our father in faith,” because all of us who believe in the one God in a sense are his descendants. When Abram obeyed God's command, he won God's blessing, not just for himself but for all of us as well.

Jacopo Bassano (workshop), The Departure of Abraham for Canaan (c. 1590)

In today’s Gospel, Jesus reveals to Peter, James, and John his own divinity – the divine glory that he has as God’s Son. He is more than just a prophet or a great teacher – he is the Eternal Word become Flesh, the one who has come to deal for all time with the problem of sin and death that began with Adam and Eve. In Jesus, God’s relationship with humanity reaches its culmination: he is the fulfillment of the Law, symbolized by Moses, and the prophets, symbolized by Elijah. Just as Abram trusted in God and so won blessing for himself and all of his descendants, so too Jesus’s obedience to the will of his Father brings blessing upon all of humanity. In fact, the promise of blessing given to Abraham long before is fulfilled in an astounding way in Jesus – all of humanity, all of the descendants of Abraham the “father of many nations” now can become sharers in the divine glory of the Son of God. When he is transfigured upon the mountain, Jesus unveils the ultimate blessing that God wishes to give to all of us – heavenly glory, eternal life with him.

To reach that heavenly homeland though, we have to make the journey. And Jesus is clear about the road that he will take, and the road that we must follow. It is the Way of the Cross. If our reading from Matthew today had began just a few verses earlier, or continued for a few afterward, we would have seen this even more clearly. Both before and after his Transfiguration, Jesus tells his disciples that he will have to suffer and die, in order to then rise from the dead. This is the basic message of our Christian faith – a truth at once so familiar and yet also so extraordinary and strange that it deserves to be reflected on again and again. I think that’s why we have these readings today, in this Lenten season: to remind us that heavenly glory is the fate that God wishes to share with each of us, and the one way to get there is the Cross.

What does to embrace the Cross – to take it up and carry it, as the Savior did? Does that mean we too will be crucified ourselves? Well, that may not be completely out of the question, at least in some parts of the world. But it’s much more likely that for us embracing the Cross means to not shy away from suffering, as it presents itself to us. Life offers no shortage of opportunities to suffer; probably, we could all think right this moment of one particular reality in our life that causes us pain – some reality that we don’t want to accept or endure, but which we have to or we know we need to. Maybe it is illness or infirmity, old age, financial difficulties, social pressures, a moral conflict between our faith and our culture, family troubles, a disagreement with friends or coworkers, a fear or anxiety or a discontentment. Whatever it may be, suffering is no fun – it is inconvenient at best, truly heartbreaking at worst. But if we look at that fearful, painful thing as a spiritual labor – if we take it up as a cross, and seek to endure it, perhaps even to bear it with patience and joy? Then we will find new strength to carry on – a "strength that comes from God" (2 Tm 1:8b) – learning how to suffer not just for our sake but for the sake of others. We will be like Abram, who made the difficult journey from his homeland to a foreign land because he carried in his heart God's promise of blessing. We will be like Jesus, who took the weight of the Cross upon his shoulders out of love for us, because he wanted to share with us his Transfigured glory.

Jacopo Bassano, The Way to Calvary (c. 1538)

Friends, wherever the Cross presents itself to you in this Lent season, don’t shy away from it in fear. Instead, take it up in faith – and yes, even joy. Like our ancestors before us, especially our ancestors in faith, we can do what is difficult now with an eye toward a future goal – a spiritual destiny, in the end. It might just be that the cross we embrace now, this very Lent, will be the one that will finally win for us the future Resurrection – that divine legacy Jesus wishes to share with us, that heavenly homeland to which he calls us.

Wanna Get Away?

Several years ago, a popular airline ran a series of commercials depicting individuals in unexpectedly awkward, difficult situations — the kind where you want to just sink into the ground. The tagline for each of them was “Wanna get away?” and then a discounted price on airfare to popular vacation destinations.

Sometimes the season of Lent makes us feel the same way. Lent is a time of penitence and sacrifice – but who wants to do that? It would be much easier to fly away for a nice holiday for the next six weeks, and avoid this season altogether. We could come back just in time for Easter, rested and refreshed, having gotten away from it all for a bit.

In the Gospel today, Jesus gets away from it all. But he doesn’t buy a plane ticket for the beach or the mountains; instead he heads out into the desert. This is no holiday he’s taking – Jesus is heading out into the starkness and isolation of the desert not for a vacation but to confront the devil. No doubt, it probably wasn’t exactly what Jesus wanted to do at the beginning of his ministry, right after his baptism in the Jordan; he was probably anxious to begin healing and teaching and proclaiming the Good News. But he also knew that facing the devil was what was most pressing – it was the urgent task at hand. By facing the devil’s temptations, Jesus is able to begin undoing the long curse of slavery to sin that had begun with Adam and Eve. Where they had fallen short in trust and confidence and God, he holds firm; where they had disobeyed, he is obedient – an obedience that continues all the way until Calvary. His freedom is stronger than the devil’s temptation – his commitment to his Father’s will deeper than the allure of what is offered. In the starkness of the desert, Jesus confronts evil and defeats it.

He Was in the Desert (1909) by Vasily Polenov

The season of Lent is given to us for just the same reason: to help us look at those things in our spiritual lives that need to be faced, and with God’s help, to deal with them. I know it’s probably not your favorite season of the year; it’s not mine either. But as much as it may not be the kind of escape we might dream of, the Church knows that it’s just the kind of break from the status quo that we need. Too often we are dissuaded in our course by earthly allures, and too often do we fall short of God’s plan because of the devil’s temptations. Lent, then, is a chance to change the narrative – to appreciate anew the freedom that comes from Christ’s grace, if we use this season well.

There is always a temptation, I think, to resist really Lent taking seriously. Maybe, as I mentioned, we are tempted to just sort of check out mentally and spiritually for the next month and a half. Or maybe we are willing to make some surface-level changes, to give up some small thing or two as a token gesture toward the ideal of Lent. Or maybe we fall victim to the secular mindset that can sometimes creep into Lent: of trying to better ourselves in some concrete way – our physiques, our habits, our attitudes – but doing so totally apart from God, without any awareness of the spiritual benefit. Improving ourselves is okay, but without a spirit of conversion as the motivation, we run the risk of simply giving in to self-worship. In Lent, we should be centered on God, not on ourselves.

Lent offers us a great chance to get away from our normal routine. It may not be a vacation, but it can be a kind of spiritual retreat. Perhaps in this season we can pull back from certain responsibilities that aren’t absolutely mandatory, or if we can’t, at least we can do them with a willing spirit of prayer and penance. Perhaps we can try to detach from some of the noise that fills our lives – watch less TV, turn the car radio off, perhaps limit the time we spend on our devices, put our phones in grayscale so they aren’t as attractive to look at. Maybe we can use some of that newfound time for prayer – perhaps a family rosary, or Scripture reading, or keeping a spiritual journal for our daily conversation with God. Perhaps we could consider trying to get to a daily Mass during the week once in a while, or to come to adoration on Wednesday or Saturday afternoons to adore the Lord in the Blessed Sacrament.

For others of us, those efforts may seem too daunting this Lent; we’re being tested too much at the moment. In that case, find some time soon to be refreshed spiritually, to clear away some of the clutter that weighs you down. Perhaps you are in a sort of spiritual desert, distant from God, not feeling his presence, or perhaps knowing you’ve given into temptation and having sinned, separated yourself from God’s grace. If that's so, remember that the answer is never to hide from God, like Adam and Eve did. We need not fear him or run away from him. Jesus has already defeated the devil, and he wants to share that victory with us. If we’re feeling spiritually dry, we can say a prayer for reliance on the Lord, and for a feeling of his renewed presence. If we have sinned, what we need is to have a good heart-to-heart with Jesus, in the context of the sacrament of reconciliation, so that he can share with us the grace and freedom and peace that come with his victory.

Finally, some of us – like yours truly – just need something tangible to do during Lent. That’s why I want to offer you a gift, of sorts, to help you do just that. In your pews, you’ll find a folded piece of cardboard – it’s a CRS Rice Bowl. Catholic Relief Services is the international aid arm of our Church here in the United States and each Lent, this little box is their way of helping us help others in this season. Obviously, it’s a great way to give alms – to put a few dollars in each week as we go through Lent – and perhaps also to fast as well, giving up some pleasure we would normally buy for ourselves and using that money instead to help others. The Rice Bowl also is a visible reminder to enter into prayer – to pray for those less fortunate than ourselves, perhaps even to learn more about them and how we as the Church in America can make a real difference in their lives. Take a Rice Bowl home this week and use it throughout Lent. I guarantee it will make your Lenten season a more meaningful one.

Friends, whatever you may need to face in your spiritual life this Lent, do it with Jesus, not apart from him. We can all benefit from a change of scenery, at times, but we should never seek to get away from the liberating embrace of his mercy, from the reliance that comes from his loving presence. In Lent, those gifts are offered to us anew. If we accept them, we can meet the trials and temptations of these forty days not with fear but with confidence, for with the Lord by our side they will be overcome.