"And where sin abounded..."

"...grace did more abound." (Romans 5:20)

My heart grieves the scandals that have recently come to light within the Church, but also for some of the responses that reveal a similar issue.  If the bishops have been remiss in not bringing sin to light and have tried to cover it up for the sake of what the world may think, the faithful may also care too much for the world's opinion and therefore attack vociferously those who stand in the place of Christ who have failed us.

We too fail.  We too are sinners.

It is easy to stand outside and say what must be done.  It is easy to believe that we would act rightly in their situation.  But would we?

There but for the grace of God go I.

How do we know until we have faced the pressures that have worn them down and twisted them into believing they did what they must?  For rarely do people act wrongly for reasons that they do not themselves perceive as good in some way, even if only by the twisting lies of the enemy.

He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone. (John 8:7)

By all means, let us call for an end of silence, but let it be without condemnation.  Our bishops are already under so much attack for their positions from within and without.  If the devil tries to come after us and turn us away from serving our Lord, how much more do you think he goes after those who shepherd so many souls?

Let us not forget in our outrage against the unthinkable evils committed that these were done by part of the Body of Christ.  I think of the words of Father John Corapi that touched my heart so deeply before he too wandered off the path: "Never abandon a fallen comrade." These men are our fallen comrades. They are our brothers. Let us never abandon them. Let us rather pray and sacrifice for them until they repent of their sins and turn back to God.

And when we call upon the Church's hierarchy to take a strong position against those who have committed these grave sins, let us not stand outside as an angry mob or treat them as merely worldly leaders who must fulfil administrative responsibilities.  Let us remember that this is a spiritual battle.  Let us assure them that we will stand with them in the brink.

For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places. (Ephesians 6:12)

We must therefore fight with more than earthly means.  We must take to our side all the spiritual resources at our disposal and beg our Lord for the grace He wishes to bestow upon us.  Then we shall be more than conquerors, for:

...in all these things we overcome, because of Him that hath loved us.  For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor might, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37-39)

VIII. Jesus Consoles the Women of Jerusalem

And there followed him a great multitude of people, and of women, who bewailed and lamented him. But Jesus turning to them, said: Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not over me; but weep for yourselves, and for your children. Luke 23:27-28

The title of this station has always struck me. Of course it is often rendered in another less confusing fashion, but it is the strangeness of this particular title that draws my attention, and therefore my reflection.  How is it that Jesus consoles the women by telling them to weep for themselves and their children?  For surely that would not be cause for consolation, but rather desolation.  How could He intend to console them by telling them to weep at all?

So often He overturns our expectations.  We want Him to tell us that everything will be okay and by okay we mean that we and our loved ones will not have to suffer.

Yet He does not tell us that.  Rather, He tells us to weep for ourselves and for our children—He tells us we may grieve for the sins that we commit and will commit, lament our failings, and even mourn our losses.

The women did not need to weep for Him.  He knew perfectly well why He suffered: to bring us salvation.  It is only we who do not know why we suffer that deserve such pity. We deserve those loving women's tears—and our own tears—because we have no concept of the numinous quality of suffering and cannot grasp its salvific effect.  Only He could truly understand such a mystery.  Only He could bear all our sins in the cross, carrying us to the Father and pouring out the last drop of His blood for us.

Let us take consolation in that love then.  For that is the only place where we can find true consolation, especially when the way before us seems dark and those about us struggle mightily with sufferings that seem beyond their strength to bear.

We may weep for them and for ourselves.  Yet let those tears not be in vain: let our weeping be united with His sacrifice that they may bear fruit in abundance.

My Jesus, laden with sorrows, I weep for the offences I have committed against Thee, because of the pains they have deserved, and still more because of the displeasure they have caused Thee, who hast loved me so much.  It is Thy love, more than the fear of hell, which causes me to weep for my sins.  My Jesus, I love Thee more than myself; I repent of having offended Thee.  Never permit me to offend 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.)

V. Jesus is Helped by Simon

V. We adore Thee, O Christ, and we bless Thee.

R. Because by Thy holy Cross, Thou hast redeemed the world.

And they forced one Simon a Cyrenian who passed by, coming out of the country...to take up his cross. (Mark 15:21)


Why was Simon of Cyrene chosen to be the one to help Christ when He grew so weak that the soldiers feared He would die before He reached the place of crucifixion?  The man was chosen apparently at random from the crowd.  He did not wish it.  Perhaps he even averted his gaze and tried to hide behind others to escape notice when the soldiers sought a man to help this seeming criminal.

Yet our Lord had chosen him from all eternity.  By His will, Simon came forth from the crowd, forced by the soldiers, to help Him with the weight of the cross and thereby with the weight of all our sins.

So too it is with our own cross.  Although we may hide or avert our eyes, we are forced to bear the weight of suffering whether we recognize in it our Lord's cross or mistake it for a punishment or something to avoid at all costs or to remove at the earliest opportunity.

Did Simon grudge those moments carrying the cross with Christ?  Perhaps He saw in Christ's gaze a look of such gratitude that he felt embarrassed for his reluctance.

If only we could see Christ look at us as we shoulder our burdens and bear our sufferings.  Then it would seem a light yoke indeed to lift our end of the cross and spare Him some pain by our loving gift.  If only we desired more the salvation of souls—if only we desired it more than our own comfort.  If only we loved Him more than we love ourselves.

My most sweet Jesus, I will not refuse the Cross, as the Cyrenian did; I accept it; I embrace it. I accept in particular the death Thou hast destined for me; with all the pains that may accompany it; I unite it to Thy death, I offer it to Thee. Thou hast died for love of me; I will die for love of Thee, and to please Thee. Help me by Thy grace. I love Thee, Jesus my love; I repent of having offended Thee. Never permit me to offend 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.)

Offer It Up

Have you ever been told to offer something up? Chances are, if you are like most Americans, your immediate response is resentment at being told what to do and a mental block against the idea—especially if it came from one of your parents.  It matters little whether you may have told others precisely the same thing when you had nothing to suffer.

Well, despite whatever emotional baggage you may carry regarding this idea of offering something up, it does have the power to transform your life. But the enemy will do his best to prevent your realizing it.

“Offer it up,” is such a vague thing to say anyway. We humans do not deal well in vagueness, even when it presents universal truth. We need the concrete specifics that turn that universal truth from something out there into something that penetrates to the deepest recesses of our hearts.

As I mentioned in my last post, sacrifice is a part of our baptismal priesthood. That means that we are called to offer sacrifice to the Father on behalf of others. Unlike the ministerial priest who offers the sacrifice of Christ upon the cross through His role in persona Christi, acting in the person of Christ, we have only the substance of our lives to offer in sacrifice. However, there is certainly enough substance there and it too may be transformed by Christ, if not transubstantiated.

In the sacrifice of the Mass, the priest has the tradition of centuries behind the weight of his words directed toward a specific offering. We need that same specificity in our lives. Although we can simply sacrifice in general for souls or for the world, unless we have a burning zeal like the great saints, we will soon grow lukewarm in our efforts.

We need specific intentions. We need to pray for particular people, for particular situations, for particular healings.  If I say in a moment of suffering that it is for my friend who is struggling, for my godmother, for someone who is going through surgery, or for anyone else for whom I have promised to pray, I have somewhere to direct my pain.  Instead of struggling within myself and wanting to escape, I have a means to bring fruit from my suffering because it is for another.

Even when the suffering seems impossible to offer up because it is too much to endure, we can make that effort of the will.  Then offering it up means transforming it into a prayer moment by moment. Instead of an obstacle to remove, it becomes a sacrifice of love as we lift up to the Lord the name of a loved one, repeating again and again that the suffering is for that one so dear to us.

Good Friday

I continue with the aforementioned character's meditation for Good Friday:

A sacrifice that goes beyond life—beyond death. Who of us can fathom such an absolute self-giving, a gift of love that holds nothing back, that suffers all for love, even the gibes and scorns heaped upon His head. They called Him a lamb because they thought He did nothing, suffering Himself to be led wherever they desired, and yet there was nothing passive in this, for it was a most active gift of self from the Lord who rules the universe.

With His death the world as we know it was rent asunder—is still rent asunder—because the veil that hides the mystery was torn away. We can no longer pass our lives outside the temple, awed at the mystery, gazing toward things beyond us as if they meant nothing to our lives, marveling at a God who reigns over us, ruling from the heavens above.

Nay, now we find ourselves face to face with Him, our Lord and Brother. We see His face, bruised and bleeding, disfigured almost beyond our recognition, a criminal. How oft we turn away! For who could bear to gaze long on that much love concealed in blood and grime? Who could recognize the King of the Universe in a man condemned to die?

And so it is, we turn away, seeking a God who better fits our mind, whom we can bind within the chains of our expectations. And so it is we find ourselves hiding from His face, ignoring the love with which He gazes gently upon us and speaks our name, calling us to Himself. And so it is we find ourselves taking charge more and more, forcing all circumstances to conform themselves to our will, and in the end trying to become God unto ourselves, not only to rule our own destinies, but also that of all the world.

Yet somehow His love will never bear that we escape Him for ever. Somehow whispers come to us, so gently it is easy to ignore them, to forget, but never to escape forever the gentle touch upon our hearts.

In the end we have to face Him. Something comes to bring us to Him and we can no longer avoid the searching judgment of our lives. At that moment we are taken into His death. It is then that we must humble ourselves and unite our pain to His or else spit upon His face and turn away, knowing that His gaze of love follows us still and if we will allow it, converts our hearts and brings us back to Him at last.

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....

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.

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.