Think of Saint Joseph at work with Jesus beside him no more than a boy. It is easy to imagine him saying to Jesus, "Wait here and watch," as he showed Him how to work some tool or carve a bit of wood.
Today's great solemnity honoring Saint Joseph rises amidst the bustle of daily life and the desert of the Lenten fast like a great shining jewel, reminding us also to take a moment to watch and wait. Perhaps in that moment's silence we may learn some great secret of the inner life. Perhaps Saint Joseph will teach us how better to serve our Lord.
As we continue on through Lent, we can think of another time when those same words were used: Wait and watch.
In the garden of Gethsemane, Christ spoke in those words to His disciples. "Wait here and watch with me," He said to them, and not "Pray with me." He only asked them to watch and wait, the simplest of actions, even if sometimes the most difficult.
Why?
Did He know it would be too much for them to attempt to pray? Did He know that they scarcely understood yet how to pray? Or did He merely want them to watch how He prayed in the face of temptation and His coming death that they might learn how to act in the face of trials too?
A disciple is one who sits at the Master's feet and learns from Him, as Saint Joseph must have done in his silent way. We too can sit and watch there, listening to His voice, soft and full of love for us. Watch and wait.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Break our Pagan Hearts
Perhaps on this feast day of Saint Patrick who converted the pagans in Ireland it is fitting to talk about the paganism in our own hearts. We tend to think of paganism as a thing of the past, but often we incorporate it subtly into our spiritual lives without realizing it.
To speak in general terms, the pagans saw the gods as beings to appease. They spoke of submitting to the will of the gods when circumstances turned against them. They gave the gods what was demanded of them and begged for only what they absolutely needed, making sacrifices to obtain it. They tried not to make the gods angry at them. They had their favorite gods and their favorite rituals. Yet even when they kept statues of household gods and burned incense to them, they never really wanted the gods to be part of their daily lives.
Don't we often act the same way with God? We try to appease Him. We speak of accepting His will when things don't go our way. We try to fulfill His demands and not to ask Him for too much and try to bribe Him to say yes. We try not to make Him angry at us. We have our favorite prayers and devotions. Yet we don't really want Him to be part of our daily lives and ask us to change our lives and convert our hearts.
We don't speak to God heart to heart as to our dearest friend. We scarcely even know how to talk to Him at all.
One of the great examples of prayer is Abraham. Think of him beseeching the Lord not to destroy Sodom. He started by asking Him to spare the city from destruction if there were only fifty righteous men. When the Lord agreed, Abraham talked Him down to forty-five and then forty and then thirty and then twenty. Finally, he asked for the city to be spared even if there were only ten righteous men within its walls.
Yet in the end his prayer was in vain. There were not even ten righteous men and Sodom was destroyed.
So what do we learn?
God's will was done as it would have been if Abraham had said nothing. So do we just say: "Stupid Abraham, you should have just accepted God's will in the beginning because He always knows what He is doing?"
No. Of course not.
We respect Abraham's dialogue with God if for no other reason than that God Himself respected it. He could have told Abraham it was futile to bargain for He knew already that there were not enough righteous men to warrant saving the city. Yet instead He allowed Abraham to continue asking. By doing so, He confirmed Abraham in his prayer—a prayer that came from a heart moved with love for others and a heart that loved his Lord and would accept His will however it came.
Do we have that same courage? Don't we rather shy away from asking God too intensely for what we want lest it not be His will?
Let us not be afraid to enter into that dialogue with Him, to ask Him for whatever we need, trusting that He will provide according to His far-seeing wisdom. For if we avoid that conversation with our Beloved Lord, on whom do we rely? Merely upon our own strength? And is not that precisely what the pagans did?
As we journey through the desert of Lent, let us dare ask Him to break our pagan hearts and to give us hearts soft and docile to His voice and leading.
To speak in general terms, the pagans saw the gods as beings to appease. They spoke of submitting to the will of the gods when circumstances turned against them. They gave the gods what was demanded of them and begged for only what they absolutely needed, making sacrifices to obtain it. They tried not to make the gods angry at them. They had their favorite gods and their favorite rituals. Yet even when they kept statues of household gods and burned incense to them, they never really wanted the gods to be part of their daily lives.
Don't we often act the same way with God? We try to appease Him. We speak of accepting His will when things don't go our way. We try to fulfill His demands and not to ask Him for too much and try to bribe Him to say yes. We try not to make Him angry at us. We have our favorite prayers and devotions. Yet we don't really want Him to be part of our daily lives and ask us to change our lives and convert our hearts.
We don't speak to God heart to heart as to our dearest friend. We scarcely even know how to talk to Him at all.
One of the great examples of prayer is Abraham. Think of him beseeching the Lord not to destroy Sodom. He started by asking Him to spare the city from destruction if there were only fifty righteous men. When the Lord agreed, Abraham talked Him down to forty-five and then forty and then thirty and then twenty. Finally, he asked for the city to be spared even if there were only ten righteous men within its walls.
Yet in the end his prayer was in vain. There were not even ten righteous men and Sodom was destroyed.
So what do we learn?
God's will was done as it would have been if Abraham had said nothing. So do we just say: "Stupid Abraham, you should have just accepted God's will in the beginning because He always knows what He is doing?"
No. Of course not.
We respect Abraham's dialogue with God if for no other reason than that God Himself respected it. He could have told Abraham it was futile to bargain for He knew already that there were not enough righteous men to warrant saving the city. Yet instead He allowed Abraham to continue asking. By doing so, He confirmed Abraham in his prayer—a prayer that came from a heart moved with love for others and a heart that loved his Lord and would accept His will however it came.
Do we have that same courage? Don't we rather shy away from asking God too intensely for what we want lest it not be His will?
Let us not be afraid to enter into that dialogue with Him, to ask Him for whatever we need, trusting that He will provide according to His far-seeing wisdom. For if we avoid that conversation with our Beloved Lord, on whom do we rely? Merely upon our own strength? And is not that precisely what the pagans did?
As we journey through the desert of Lent, let us dare ask Him to break our pagan hearts and to give us hearts soft and docile to His voice and leading.
Friday, February 16, 2018
I. Jesus is Condemned to Death
One of my earliest memories associated with church (aside from lying under the chairs to benefit from someone's ability to make origami water bombs and singing "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God" with the rhyming words such as "beast" and "priest" switched) is the praying of the Stations of the Cross and the singing of the Stabat Mater. That memory became all the more precious to me once I discovered that Blessed Jacopone da Todi is credited with writing that beautiful Marian hymn.
The Stations of the Cross remains one of my favorite devotions. What power there is in this meditation on the suffering that we wish to flee at all costs and that our Lord took on solely out of His great love for us.
Because of my attraction to this devotion, and impelled to take up some small Lenten practice here on the Interweb that the Holy Spirit may work through these petty words I scatter about now and again, it seems right to look at each of the stations throughout Lent. So accompany me, if you will, on this journey with our Lord to find whatever insights He will give through these ponderings.
And [Pilate] entered into the hall again, and he said to Jesus: Whence art thou? But Jesus gave him no answer. Pilate therefore saith to him: Speakest thou not to me? knowest thou not that I have power to crucify thee, and I have power to release thee? Jesus answered: Thou shouldst not have any power against me, unless it were given thee from above. Therefore, he that hath delivered me to thee, hath the greater sin.
John 19:9-11
The power of Christ shines so brightly through its human shroud in His words answering Pilate. There are thousands of responses He might have made to Pilate, but the fact that He chose these words must draw our attention to what He means. One phrase in particular stands out in bold assertion:
Thou shouldst not have had any power against Me, unless it were given thee from above.
The Stations of the Cross remains one of my favorite devotions. What power there is in this meditation on the suffering that we wish to flee at all costs and that our Lord took on solely out of His great love for us.
Because of my attraction to this devotion, and impelled to take up some small Lenten practice here on the Interweb that the Holy Spirit may work through these petty words I scatter about now and again, it seems right to look at each of the stations throughout Lent. So accompany me, if you will, on this journey with our Lord to find whatever insights He will give through these ponderings.
The First Station
Jesus is Condemned to Death
And [Pilate] entered into the hall again, and he said to Jesus: Whence art thou? But Jesus gave him no answer. Pilate therefore saith to him: Speakest thou not to me? knowest thou not that I have power to crucify thee, and I have power to release thee? Jesus answered: Thou shouldst not have any power against me, unless it were given thee from above. Therefore, he that hath delivered me to thee, hath the greater sin.
John 19:9-11
The power of Christ shines so brightly through its human shroud in His words answering Pilate. There are thousands of responses He might have made to Pilate, but the fact that He chose these words must draw our attention to what He means. One phrase in particular stands out in bold assertion:
Thou shouldst not have had any power against Me, unless it were given thee from above.
He might have said to Pilate: "I am not afraid of you because I know that My Father has given this power into your hands and it is My will to accomplish all that He desires of Me." He might have said: "The Father's Providence has taken even your small part into account." He might have said it hundreds of different ways. The meaning remains the same: God, the Almighty Father, gives power to men that they may choose to do the most cruel and evil things because through the suffering that results He will work the greatest good any could ever imagine.
So it is in our lives. Many things say to us in one way or another: "Look at the power I have over you. Aren't you going to do something about it?"
Of course we do. We complain. We look for a way out. We try to justify an easier path.
If only we could respond as boldly as our Lord: "No, you have no power over me except what has been given from above. Therefore I will trust in the Father's Providence to arrange for good to come from all the suffering and evil in my life that I have no power over. If I have not the power, He does."
Jesus, give us this grace, we beg You!
My adorable Jesus, it was not Pilate, no, it was my sins that condemned Thee to die. I beseech Thee, by the merits of this sorrowful journey, to assist my soul in its journey towards eternity. I love Thee, my beloved Jesus; I repent with my whole heart for having offended Thee. Never permit me to separate myself from Thee again. Grant that I may love Thee always; and then do with me what Thou wilt. (From the Stations of the Cross according to Saint Alphonsus Liguori.)
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Happy Valentine's Day!
Partly because the feast of the martyr Valentine has been hijacked by our materialistic society as an excuse for excessive consumerism, and partly because his feast is no longer on the regular liturgical calendar (and partly too because there is a certain pleasure in being contrary), I insist upon wishing everyone a good feast of Saint Cyril and Saint Methodius. Today, however, in the face of the strange coinciding of the world's celebration of Valentine's Day with the Church's celebration of Ash Wednesday, I choose to pay more heed to the former than I do typically.
Why, you might ask, would I care more about Valentine's Day when it falls on the first day of Lent than when it happens during ordinary time? Well, because then it corresponds more closely to the true valentine given by the martyr: the gift of his life.
And what is Ash Wednesday then but a valentine from God to us?
So perhaps that isn't quite the sort of cheery valentine you would expect from a God who loves you. After all, a crown of thorns and a cross certainly symbolize more pain than any of us would like to consider. And those chilling words: Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.
Yet for a God who loves you far more than you could ever think of loving yourself and who wants you to let go of these shadows here below in order to find Him, and ultimately to live with Him forever, it is the only suitable valentine to send. If He sends flowers, they have their thorns. He does not want to lull us into a false sense of security, but to shake us from our lethargy, to transform our hearts by shaking out the lies we tell ourselves because it is easier to believe them than it is to believe in a God who works miracles through suffering.
The purpose of His letter of love, though, is not to crush us in suffering. Rather, it is to bring us to perfect joy.
For what greater joy is there than in the truth? And the truth is that we are more than conquerors through Him who loves us. (See Romans 8:37.) We need nothing of this world to make us happy, but only a relationship with our Beloved who speaks to us through every moment of every day, His voice too shrouded in the shadows.
Why, you might ask, would I care more about Valentine's Day when it falls on the first day of Lent than when it happens during ordinary time? Well, because then it corresponds more closely to the true valentine given by the martyr: the gift of his life.
And what is Ash Wednesday then but a valentine from God to us?
So perhaps that isn't quite the sort of cheery valentine you would expect from a God who loves you. After all, a crown of thorns and a cross certainly symbolize more pain than any of us would like to consider. And those chilling words: Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.
Yet for a God who loves you far more than you could ever think of loving yourself and who wants you to let go of these shadows here below in order to find Him, and ultimately to live with Him forever, it is the only suitable valentine to send. If He sends flowers, they have their thorns. He does not want to lull us into a false sense of security, but to shake us from our lethargy, to transform our hearts by shaking out the lies we tell ourselves because it is easier to believe them than it is to believe in a God who works miracles through suffering.
The purpose of His letter of love, though, is not to crush us in suffering. Rather, it is to bring us to perfect joy.
For what greater joy is there than in the truth? And the truth is that we are more than conquerors through Him who loves us. (See Romans 8:37.) We need nothing of this world to make us happy, but only a relationship with our Beloved who speaks to us through every moment of every day, His voice too shrouded in the shadows.
The men marked of the Cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark.
~G.K. Chesterton
Monday, April 17, 2017
To Continue or Not to Continue, That is the Question
After spending Lent in various daily practices it seems strange to discontinue them, particularly the writing each day upon this blog. As I ponder whether to continue, my inclination is to ask you, my readers, whether it is valuable for me to keep writing daily meditations to pass to you through the pixels of your screen.
Is it folly to thus ask for visible fruits?
We are called to give of ourselves, to give without counting the cost, to give without asking for any reward. Surely then it ought to be unnecessary to consider whether my efforts draw you, dear seekers, any nearer to our Lord. Yet I must needs dispense of the time given me wisely.
Discernment of this small piece of the time given me requires thought and prayer just as does every decision of our lives (although the quantity may vary substantially according to the weight of the outcome). Sometimes we are given a clear answer in exterior circumstances or conviction that strikes our heart. Sometimes, though, we have no illumination, but must choose to step forward in faith, hoping that in abandoning ourselves in the darkness we choose the right way, trusting that our Lord will guide our steps.
So I step on, pondering and seeking....
Is it folly to thus ask for visible fruits?
We are called to give of ourselves, to give without counting the cost, to give without asking for any reward. Surely then it ought to be unnecessary to consider whether my efforts draw you, dear seekers, any nearer to our Lord. Yet I must needs dispense of the time given me wisely.
Discernment of this small piece of the time given me requires thought and prayer just as does every decision of our lives (although the quantity may vary substantially according to the weight of the outcome). Sometimes we are given a clear answer in exterior circumstances or conviction that strikes our heart. Sometimes, though, we have no illumination, but must choose to step forward in faith, hoping that in abandoning ourselves in the darkness we choose the right way, trusting that our Lord will guide our steps.
So I step on, pondering and seeking....
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Our Hearts' Desire
How much do you desire God?
That was the question heading the most recent Restoration newspaper I read from Madonna House and it is a good question. Ultimately it is the question that underlies all that we do throughout our lives, but particularly during Lent.
The whole purpose of Lent is to identify our desire for God. We sacrifice goods in order to purify our desire within that we may recognize it as such.
Desire is like a flame; it starts small and it grows.
So Catherine Doherty wrote in the first article I read and I think the simile is so apt. Desire truly is like a flame, which, as we feed it, grows and grows, while when we give it no fuel it dies away into embers, waiting perhaps for fresh kindling and a breath to bring it back to life. The more we feed that desire the larger it grows until it becomes a bonfire and we are set on fire. And then, as Saint Catherine of Siena said:
If you are who you should be, you will set the world on fire.
That conflagration may start from the smallest of flames. It matters little whether you find in your heart only a coldness and emptiness or whether you feel that your desire for things of the world outweighs any desire for God. If you feed the tiniest flicker with prayer and abandonment to God, you will become that burning light.
We exist to desire the Desired One: God. As St. Augustine said, "Our hearts were made for Yourself, O Lord, and they are restless until they rest in You."
Catherine Doherty's words speak so powerfully to the reason for our existence. One of the greatest struggles of our lives is to determine the answer to that question: why do we exist? The Baltimore Catechism answers it simply: To love and serve God in this life and be happy with Him in the next. In that simplicity there is great truth and it is our desire for God that prompts us to love and serve Him.
In order for that desire to grow, however, and in order for that flame to burn, there must be room for it. As Catherine Doherty puts it:
His every act, His every word, must be enclosed in our desire, for if we are to fulfill our desire to see Him when the door of death opens (and even before, for the Kingdom of God begins now), we have to imitate Him whom we are going to look at.
This will require that we empty ourselves of many things, since the kind of fiery desire we have takes a lot of space. It is not just a little kindling that we are going to ignite but huge dry wood.
We must desire to empty every corner of ourselves of everything but this person called Jesus Christ, God and man, who died and resurrected so that we might see the face of the Triune God....
That was the question heading the most recent Restoration newspaper I read from Madonna House and it is a good question. Ultimately it is the question that underlies all that we do throughout our lives, but particularly during Lent.
The whole purpose of Lent is to identify our desire for God. We sacrifice goods in order to purify our desire within that we may recognize it as such.
Desire is like a flame; it starts small and it grows.
So Catherine Doherty wrote in the first article I read and I think the simile is so apt. Desire truly is like a flame, which, as we feed it, grows and grows, while when we give it no fuel it dies away into embers, waiting perhaps for fresh kindling and a breath to bring it back to life. The more we feed that desire the larger it grows until it becomes a bonfire and we are set on fire. And then, as Saint Catherine of Siena said:
If you are who you should be, you will set the world on fire.
That conflagration may start from the smallest of flames. It matters little whether you find in your heart only a coldness and emptiness or whether you feel that your desire for things of the world outweighs any desire for God. If you feed the tiniest flicker with prayer and abandonment to God, you will become that burning light.
We exist to desire the Desired One: God. As St. Augustine said, "Our hearts were made for Yourself, O Lord, and they are restless until they rest in You."
Catherine Doherty's words speak so powerfully to the reason for our existence. One of the greatest struggles of our lives is to determine the answer to that question: why do we exist? The Baltimore Catechism answers it simply: To love and serve God in this life and be happy with Him in the next. In that simplicity there is great truth and it is our desire for God that prompts us to love and serve Him.
In order for that desire to grow, however, and in order for that flame to burn, there must be room for it. As Catherine Doherty puts it:
His every act, His every word, must be enclosed in our desire, for if we are to fulfill our desire to see Him when the door of death opens (and even before, for the Kingdom of God begins now), we have to imitate Him whom we are going to look at.
This will require that we empty ourselves of many things, since the kind of fiery desire we have takes a lot of space. It is not just a little kindling that we are going to ignite but huge dry wood.
We must desire to empty every corner of ourselves of everything but this person called Jesus Christ, God and man, who died and resurrected so that we might see the face of the Triune God....
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Coincidence
It never ceases to amaze me how coincidences happen constantly, demonstrating the Providence of our great Father in heaven. It has become my practice to treat spiritual reading as an opportunity for that encounter, so I open to a random place in a spiritual book and read, taking from those pages whatever my Lord wishes to speak to my heart. Today the page to which I opened in Lui et Moi, the book I mentioned before of our Lord's words to Gabrielle Bossis, happened to have today's date and also to have taken place in a year when that date fell within Passion week:
April 11th
Have faith. Everything becomes simple then. It will be simple to love Me, simple to serve Me, simple to be happy to suffer for Me. Believing is almost the same as seeing. To see Me!... What progress, what riches to exploit, when you speak to Me, when you tell Me that you love Me.
The proof of your love for God is the affectionate care you take of your neighbor. Be sure that you see Me in him, that you charm Me when you charm him. This will keep you humble beside him. Always be the smallest. Think of the size of the Host. Begin today to do your best to speak to Me when you speak to your neighbor. I expect this of you this afternoon when you get together with your friends. You would not want to refuse Me anything this week of My passion, would you?
May these words inspire your own journey this week as we enter into the commemoration of our Lord's passion and death! I pray that all of us may have the humility to be small, to accept our weaknesses, and thereby to open the way for our Lord who is so great to descend into our nothingness and transform us by His presence.
I will leave you again with that last haunting question. Think of it as our Lord speaking so gently and tenderly to your heart, for He longs more desperately for your love than you long for anything:
You would not want to refuse Me anything this week of My passion, would you?
April 11th
Have faith. Everything becomes simple then. It will be simple to love Me, simple to serve Me, simple to be happy to suffer for Me. Believing is almost the same as seeing. To see Me!... What progress, what riches to exploit, when you speak to Me, when you tell Me that you love Me.
The proof of your love for God is the affectionate care you take of your neighbor. Be sure that you see Me in him, that you charm Me when you charm him. This will keep you humble beside him. Always be the smallest. Think of the size of the Host. Begin today to do your best to speak to Me when you speak to your neighbor. I expect this of you this afternoon when you get together with your friends. You would not want to refuse Me anything this week of My passion, would you?
May these words inspire your own journey this week as we enter into the commemoration of our Lord's passion and death! I pray that all of us may have the humility to be small, to accept our weaknesses, and thereby to open the way for our Lord who is so great to descend into our nothingness and transform us by His presence.
I will leave you again with that last haunting question. Think of it as our Lord speaking so gently and tenderly to your heart, for He longs more desperately for your love than you long for anything:
You would not want to refuse Me anything this week of My passion, would you?
Monday, April 10, 2017
Filling the Void
It is amazing how many thousands of things we can use to fill the void. What good is it to give up one if you replace it with any number of these? It seems it would be better to give up everything.
I suppose this is why our Lord withdrew into the desert, fasting for forty days. There was nothing there to fill the void and yet how could He have felt the void, for surely that is the result of man disunited from God? Yet He suffered as we, so He must in some way have experienced it. Elsewise the temptations of the devil would not have been in the least tempting to Him. Clearly He would never have given in to them, but He must have found them alluring at least in His humanity.
The allurement of earthly pleasures is what draws us to them and keeps drawing us to them, even when ultimately we find them unsatisfying. No matter how many times we indulge, we always want more.
Taking forty days to let go of one of those ways of indulging might mean only that we replace it with another. Yet if we are able to replace that pleasure instead with prayer or good works, we may find a new habit that deepens into joy through the struggle. That sacrificial practice forges our souls, forming us into a new creation, and allowing God to work within us.
Then too we take one small step nearer to the God who is already so near to us.
I suppose this is why our Lord withdrew into the desert, fasting for forty days. There was nothing there to fill the void and yet how could He have felt the void, for surely that is the result of man disunited from God? Yet He suffered as we, so He must in some way have experienced it. Elsewise the temptations of the devil would not have been in the least tempting to Him. Clearly He would never have given in to them, but He must have found them alluring at least in His humanity.
The allurement of earthly pleasures is what draws us to them and keeps drawing us to them, even when ultimately we find them unsatisfying. No matter how many times we indulge, we always want more.
Taking forty days to let go of one of those ways of indulging might mean only that we replace it with another. Yet if we are able to replace that pleasure instead with prayer or good works, we may find a new habit that deepens into joy through the struggle. That sacrificial practice forges our souls, forming us into a new creation, and allowing God to work within us.
Then too we take one small step nearer to the God who is already so near to us.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Are You Hungry?
There is this popular motto going around these days regarding how to approach Lent: Don't give up chocolate for Lent. Now that statement is meant to be provocative. Hence I feel perfectly justified in responding with a similarly provocative statement: that is absolute hogwash.
Now of course if you give up chocolate (or any other little pleasure) for Lent and that is all you do, you may be missing the point. If giving up that chocolate leads you to an awareness of God and of how you are seeking Him elsewhere, then it is certainly worthwhile. However, if it merely causes you to substitute something else to fill that hole in your life, it has utterly failed.
Still, the reason I criticize the above statement is primarily because it could lead to a justification for continuing to overindulge simply because you are doing something else for Lent. Asceticism is a necessary part of Lent, whether that means fasting on bread and water or giving up something like chocolate.
If it makes us hungry, that is a good thing. For it is hunger that leads us to God.
Here is a young Franciscan, Brother Casey, meditating on the practical fruit of our hunger with an example from the Scriptures (his longer blog post on the same subject is here):
Our society has turned its back on asceticism in favor of a pleasure-driven search that results in momentary happiness, but no spiritual fruit. Take that influence along with our fallen human nature and we enter a repetitive search for God in all the wrong places, trying to fill our persistent hunger with what will never satisfy.
Yet in the end, as Saint Augustine said: Our hearts are restless, until they rest in Thee.
Now of course if you give up chocolate (or any other little pleasure) for Lent and that is all you do, you may be missing the point. If giving up that chocolate leads you to an awareness of God and of how you are seeking Him elsewhere, then it is certainly worthwhile. However, if it merely causes you to substitute something else to fill that hole in your life, it has utterly failed.
Still, the reason I criticize the above statement is primarily because it could lead to a justification for continuing to overindulge simply because you are doing something else for Lent. Asceticism is a necessary part of Lent, whether that means fasting on bread and water or giving up something like chocolate.
If it makes us hungry, that is a good thing. For it is hunger that leads us to God.
Here is a young Franciscan, Brother Casey, meditating on the practical fruit of our hunger with an example from the Scriptures (his longer blog post on the same subject is here):
Our society has turned its back on asceticism in favor of a pleasure-driven search that results in momentary happiness, but no spiritual fruit. Take that influence along with our fallen human nature and we enter a repetitive search for God in all the wrong places, trying to fill our persistent hunger with what will never satisfy.
Yet in the end, as Saint Augustine said: Our hearts are restless, until they rest in Thee.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
When the Going Gets Tough
...the tough get going.
So goes the expression. Perhaps it is a particularly fitting one as we enter this second week of Lent.
Discipline has always come easily to me—not always to the extent that I wish of course, but certainly far exceeding that of most people. Thus it has always been easy for me to enter into the sacrifice of Lent, which seems of necessity to require the giving up of something; somehow I take that sacrificial aspect for granted as part of the season rather than it being a main focus.
Because of my self-discipline I often find it difficult to relate to those who fail at what they are giving up. Intellectually of course I can relate, but not so much experientially. If I say I will do something, I jolly well will do it.
Consequently, I have found myself able to enter into Lent with a spirit of joy. Certainly there is an element of sorrow in meditating upon our Lord's passion, but how much more joy there is in recognizing His great love for us and in giving up some little things to become united with Him. It is joyful not on account of the sacrifice, though, but rather on account of the freedom. For I always find that when I am able to give up some little things I become more free and less weighted down by the chains of things I must have to be happy. Because I can see so clearly the freedom it brings, the enemy does not even try to tempt me.
Already this Lent, however, I have come to a point of greater temptation. The enemy likes to catch us when we are weak, waiting until sickness and our own efforts have brought us to a place of confusion and darkness. Then he strikes. For he knows that in the clear light and joy shining from the heavens he will have no chance. It is only in failing strength that he has hope of victory.
Yet our victory is in the name of the Lord. By His strength, we shall remain firm in our resolutions to live wholly for Him this Lent. Pray for me in that, as I pray for you.
So goes the expression. Perhaps it is a particularly fitting one as we enter this second week of Lent.
Discipline has always come easily to me—not always to the extent that I wish of course, but certainly far exceeding that of most people. Thus it has always been easy for me to enter into the sacrifice of Lent, which seems of necessity to require the giving up of something; somehow I take that sacrificial aspect for granted as part of the season rather than it being a main focus.
Because of my self-discipline I often find it difficult to relate to those who fail at what they are giving up. Intellectually of course I can relate, but not so much experientially. If I say I will do something, I jolly well will do it.
Consequently, I have found myself able to enter into Lent with a spirit of joy. Certainly there is an element of sorrow in meditating upon our Lord's passion, but how much more joy there is in recognizing His great love for us and in giving up some little things to become united with Him. It is joyful not on account of the sacrifice, though, but rather on account of the freedom. For I always find that when I am able to give up some little things I become more free and less weighted down by the chains of things I must have to be happy. Because I can see so clearly the freedom it brings, the enemy does not even try to tempt me.
Already this Lent, however, I have come to a point of greater temptation. The enemy likes to catch us when we are weak, waiting until sickness and our own efforts have brought us to a place of confusion and darkness. Then he strikes. For he knows that in the clear light and joy shining from the heavens he will have no chance. It is only in failing strength that he has hope of victory.
Yet our victory is in the name of the Lord. By His strength, we shall remain firm in our resolutions to live wholly for Him this Lent. Pray for me in that, as I pray for you.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Moderation
I once played a character whose key phrase was "Moderation, moderation!" much to the annoyance of the other characters, and even myself on occasion—although not when I was fully in character.
That character comes to mind today because moderation has much to do with virtue and thus much to do with Lent. After the fast of Ash Wednesday with which we begin this great season, I cannot help but reflect how much easier it often is to deny oneself entirely than to partake in moderation.
Lent comes around and my spirit rises up at the challenge of denying myself. It is almost too easy. (My Lord is too good to me, but He knows my weakness.)
The rest of the year, however, when self-denial is not required in so dramatic a form, the temptations of excess seem so much harder to resist. Fasting or abstinence for a particular season, a particular intention, seem natural. Paradoxically, moderation, which requires less self-denial, seems unnaturally impossible and requires ever so much more exertion of will. Why should giving up less be so much more difficult?
Perhaps I am alone in this experience—although I doubt it. Somehow once we have tasted of some pleasure, we can find much less reason to deny ourselves its enjoyment....
That character comes to mind today because moderation has much to do with virtue and thus much to do with Lent. After the fast of Ash Wednesday with which we begin this great season, I cannot help but reflect how much easier it often is to deny oneself entirely than to partake in moderation.
Lent comes around and my spirit rises up at the challenge of denying myself. It is almost too easy. (My Lord is too good to me, but He knows my weakness.)
The rest of the year, however, when self-denial is not required in so dramatic a form, the temptations of excess seem so much harder to resist. Fasting or abstinence for a particular season, a particular intention, seem natural. Paradoxically, moderation, which requires less self-denial, seems unnaturally impossible and requires ever so much more exertion of will. Why should giving up less be so much more difficult?
Perhaps I am alone in this experience—although I doubt it. Somehow once we have tasted of some pleasure, we can find much less reason to deny ourselves its enjoyment....
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Go Gaily in the Dark
“The men of the East may spell the stars,
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark.”
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark.”
-The Ballad of the White Horse, by G.K. Chesterton
"Lent comes providentially to reawaken us, to shake us from our lethargy."
For all the comforts and pleasures of this world lull us into a sort of sleep and a false security. Like one who succumbs to anesthesia, we do not realize that we are falling asleep even as we fight it. Wisely, the Church declares a time for us to rise out of that slumber, to deprive ourselves even of that which we consider necessary for a time in order to raise our eyes to the heavens.
"Remember that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return."
Those words shatter our self-assured world of grasping control. For what can dust achieve of itself? Nothing. And all shall return to nothing.
Oh what folly is our seriousness! Our earnest attempts to make eternal bliss here upon earth last but a little while. Someday we must face the truth that all here is temporary. Someday we must face the reality of death.
Yet if we face death now, how lightly we could take ourselves! We would no longer care so desperately for our plans and schemes. We would no longer cling to all that we hold dear which will pass away with this earthly life. We would take such bold risks and dare to love courageously.
"Remember that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return."
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