Category: Dominicana
A Consuming Fire
In the early morning before the liturgy, a sacristan makes his way around the chapel. He walks a few feet, stops momentarily, walks a few more feet, and stops momentarily, making his way through the darkness to light the candles throughout the chapel. When he finishes his work, the whole chapel is pervaded by the peaceful glow of candle-fire. Fire is everywhere: fire surrounds the friars’ choir-stalls, fire illuminates Our Lady above the lectern, fire crowns the altars of the Lord that stand throughout the chapel.
Not all chapels have such elaborate arrays of candles; some have only a single sanctuary lamp near the tabernacle. Yet even so, this holy fire strikes the imagination, for fire is a deeply meaningful symbol. The Lord himself chose fire to communicate his presence to his people; the Lord ratifies his covenant with Abraham through symbolic fire (Gen 15:17–18a), he sends his messenger to Moses by the fire of the burning bush (Ex 3:1-6), and his glory appears as a pillar of fire in the presence of the whole people of Israel (Ex 24:17). Fire is such a powerful image of God’s presence that the Lord commanded that a fire burn continuously in his temple, never to be extinguished (Lev 6:5–6), and faithful men and women paid dearly to keep this fire burning (cf. 2 Mac 10:1–3).
The use of fire to show God’s presence becomes obvious when we consider that fire is both of immense benefit to us, and yet, in many ways, beyond our comprehension. Fire sheds light for us to see in darkness; it warms us by sharing some of its own heat with us; and it enables us to perform actions that lie beyond our natural powers—like cooking food or forging metals. Yet the fire that shares its power with us is also beyond our grasp; it is too hot for us to touch, too dangerous to be left unattended. So too, while the Lord turns “darkness into light” (Isa 42:16), he also consumes the rebellious with fire (Num 16:35).
Of course, the Lord is more unlike fire than he is like fire. One evident way in which the image of fire fails in comparison with the Lord is that fire is in no way personal to us. It is a thing; it has not spoken to us or made any promises to us. Yet the Lord has spoken to us, and has made a promise to us—a promise to be with us always, even unto the end of the age (Matt 28:20). The Lord who led his people to freedom by the light of a fiery column (Ex 13:21), the Lord who promised to be a protecting wall of fire around his people (Zech 2:9), the Lord who longed to kindle a fire on the earth (Luke 12:49)—this same Lord promises to be with his people. In each liturgy, the Lord is with his people—surrounding us and burning within us. He is the true fire that enlightens our minds to know him, and inflames our hearts to love him.
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Image: Photo by Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P. (used with permission)
Originally posted in the Dominicana Journal
Unless Ye Become like Puppies
What if we are like puppies in the eyes of God? If we try reading Scripture—especially the Psalms—through a puppy lens, some remarkable parallels present themselves.
To begin with, God is our master who takes care of us. A puppy is purchased at a price, and thus belongs to its owner. So too, we have been purchased by God (1 Cor 6:20) and we belong to him (Ps 95:3). A puppy looks to its owner to feed it. The psalmist points our trusting gaze to God: “The eyes of all look hopefully to you; you give them their food in due season” (Ps 145:15). God, as the best master, provides for us in all our needs (Mt 6:25-33). A puppy simply wants to be with its master. The psalmist likewise wishes: “One thing I ask of the Lord; this I seek: to dwell in the Lord’s house all the days of my life” (Ps 27:4).
Furthermore, we are happiest when we follow God’s will for our lives. Anyone who’s raised puppies knows that dogs thrive best when they live in accord with their owner, being guided and cherished by him. The image of a faithful hound is one of the warmest images known to man. A puppy wants to be trained by its master. The psalmist asks God: “Lord, teach me the way of your statutes” (Ps 119:33). A puppy just wants to do his owner’s will, as does the psalmist: “I delight to do your will, my God” (Ps 40:9). A puppy is zealous for his master’s house. The psalmist vows to God: “Zeal for your house has consumed me” (Ps 69:10).
Like puppies, we can require a lot of practice to learn a lesson. We easily forget what God has taught us. The psalmist reminds God’s people: “They soon forgot all he had done; they had no patience for his plan” (Ps 106:13). A puppy easily becomes distracted by what others are doing. The psalmist admits: “I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked” (Ps 73:3). Puppies can easily get tuckered out; we too can easily be exhausted by life. The psalmist laments: “My life is worn out by sorrow, and my years by sighing. My strength fails in my affliction” (Ps 31:11-12).
Finally, a puppy must learn how to be patient when it cannot see its owner. We too must be patient and not worry when God seems to be absent. The psalmist begs: “How long will you hide your face from me?” (Ps 13:2). A puppy quickly becomes distressed when its owner leaves, even for a moment. Worry can quickly overcome us when we lose the sense of God’s presence. We can trust, however, that God always watches over us (Ps 91). When a puppy sees its owner, it is overcome with excitement and delight. We should remember that we too are made for a moment of blissful vision, one far more wonderful, when we will see our Master as he is (1 Jn 3:2).
It seems that we can learn some lessons from Man’s Best Friend about how we ourselves can become friends of God (cf. Jn 15:15). Like loyal hounds, we should trust in God’s care of us, delight in following his will, and persevere in service to him, despite our distractions and worries. In this way, we can look forward to a bliss beyond even puppy joy, when, as good and faithful servants, we will share in our Master’s joy (Mt 25:21).
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Photo by Andrew Schultz
Originally published in the Dominicana Journal.
Ad Iesum per Dominicum
2022 Summer Reading Recommendations
True Devotion to Saint Dominic
by Marie-Ètienne Vayssière, O.P.
The Dominican life treats us much better than we deserve. It often showers the sons and daughters of Saint Dominic with blessings—and trials—that far exceed our expectations.
This life also affords us incredible opportunities to see beautiful parts of our Order’s patrimony, such as the stunning Arca di San Domenico in Bologna where our holy founder is buried. I was fortunate enough to visit this beautiful priory recently. It was immediately clear that the grace of the Dominican life has generously filled the walls of this convent and the hearts of its inhabitants. Dominic is clearly at work in his sons as he watches over them.
But the friars in Bologna have no right to boast. They may seem to have privileged access to the grace of living the Dominican life in the presence of Dominic. But this grace is not something unique to the friars in Bologna. It is something that all of Dominic’s children can and should employ. How is this possible? Father Marie-Ètienne Vayssière, O.P. explains in his work, True Devotion to Saint Dominic.
This reflection was written to commemorate the 700th anniversary of St. Dominic’s canonization. The translation by Father Anthony Giambrone, O.P.—included in this edition with his translation of George Bernanos’ biography of Dominic, also worth reading—beautifully expresses what some may consider strange: the capital grace of St. Dominic. As Christ is the unique channel of all graces—the Head giving life to its members—so Dominic is the unique source of grace for our evangelical life. To fully embrace the saving work of our consecration, we as Dominic’s sons and daughters should seek devout union with our holy founder.
The objections may arise, “Isn’t it too much to attribute this kind of grace to a creature like Dominic? Doesn’t this language detract from the honor that belongs to Christ alone?” Vayssière’s response rings loud and clear: No, not at all. If anything, the devotion we give our Holy Father Dominic is often lacking. Asserting the need to temper our devotion would dishonor the legacy of the saint. But, above all, this objection would also offend Christ himself. Our confident flight into the arms of Dominic, where we receive his paternal grace, is prompted by what the Church observes in this man of God. His life, miracles, death, canonization, and the continuation of his work in the world manifest that Christ has come to full stature in him (cf. Eph 4:11–14).
Fathers are first sons, and Christ has made us adopted sons of the Father. In his work of founding the Order of Preachers, Dominic was first himself made perfect in the Image of the Son and he is now in turn rightfully called our Holy Father. We, by the help of his unique graces, are made imitators of Dominic as he is an imitator of Christ (1 Cor 11:1). The Dominicans’ confidence in Dominic, therefore, is founded upon our confidence in Christ. To withhold our filial trust in Dominic would amount to feeble confidence in the work of Christ himself. The same grace at work in Dominic is at work in us, his children, as we likewise bear Christ into the world (cf. Gal 4:19).
The Dominican life treats us much better than we deserve. For Fr. Vayssière, this truth is founded upon the grace entrusted to Dominic as the head of this Order. Our devotion and union with Dominic are intimately tied to our loving union with God. In this way, the reward of the Dominican life is the reward of being fully alive both in Christ and in St. Dominic (cf. Gal 2:20). With this fulness of grace dwelling in the Dominican soul, God’s saving work that he accomplishes through Dominic also becomes our work, and this grace is effective at any time and place. It is as if Dominic’s tomb, containing abundant grace and the sweetest odor, is present in the heart of every Dominican. For anyone, Dominican or otherwise, Fr. Vayssière’s short work is sure to refresh them in their holy endeavors by directing them to this great champion of the faith.
Pray for us, O Holy Father Dominic.
That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.
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Image: Photo by Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P. (used with permission)
Originally posted in the Dominicana Journal.
What is Joy?
2022 Summer Reading Recommendations
Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life, by C.S. Lewis
Joy—What is it? Is it different from happiness, contentment, or pleasure? C.S. Lewis proposes in his autobiography a very particular definition of “Joy” that sets it apart from the others. For Lewis, Joy is an insatiable desire that comes unexpectedly and wounds the heart: something akin to Saint Augustine’s restlessness. Joy can feel much like sorrow, except that those who have tasted Joy will want, more than anything, to be struck by it again. Lewis writes Surprised by Joy in his fifties. He covers his life from childhood to his conversion in his early thirties, and Joy—Joy in his strict sense—is the pervading theme, the golden thread that connects the whole story.
He describes in comic detail characters such as Oldie, Smugy (pronounced “Smewgy”), and Fribble, whose personalities are nearly as interesting as their nicknames. He writes at length about his tutor Mr. Kirkpatrick, dubbed The Great Knock, who was “almost wholly logical” and helped prepare Lewis for the academic career he would eventually pursue. Lewis recalls that, though Kirk was an atheist, he always gardened in his best suit on Sundays. Musing on this oddity, Lewis opines, “An Ulster Scot may come to disbelieve in God, but not to wear his week-day clothes on the Sabbath.” Religious or not, Kirk is the only person for whom an entire chapter is named, and Lewis recognizes how much he owes to this bizarre educator.
Books feature prominently in this autobiography. After all, Lewis was a literature professor by trade and, as we see quickly, a bibliophile by nature. From childhood, good reading was one of the triggers that elicited Joy. He recalls vividly one October evening when he went to Leatherhead to get a haircut and buy a book. He bought Phantasies, a faerie Romance by George MacDonald, and, according to his own testimony, that book irreversibly affected his life. It caused a stab of Joy like none he had felt before, and it helped spur his conversion.
Later, describing the period when Christianity seemed to be invading his world on all sides, Lewis explains how he thought of Christ as the “transcendental Interferer” and expresses the dismay he felt when he realized that so many authors he revered—Plato, Dante, MacDonald, Herbert, Barfield, Tolkien, and Dyson—were urging him toward Christianity. He warns, “A young man who wishes to remain a sound Atheist cannot be too careful of his reading.” As we have seen, even fairytales point to God.
Good friendships point to God too. A neighbor Lewis did not know well, Arthur, was sick when Lewis came to visit him and noticed on his nightstand a book that he cherished dearly. He describes the wonderful discovery of their mutual interest saying, “Next moment the book was in our hands, our heads were bent close together, we were pointing, quoting, talking—soon almost shouting—discovering in a torrent of questions that we liked not only the same thing, but the same parts of it and in the same way; that both knew the stab of Joy.” It turns out that Joy is not only a pointer to some Other, but it also unites those who have suffered its blows.
For anyone who has enjoyed Lewis’s fiction or apologetic writings, I heartily recommend that you allow this master storyteller to tell you his own story. Unsurprisingly, he tells it with all the same wit, perceptiveness, and clarity that characterize his other books. For anyone who has felt Joy, like the young Lewis and Arthur, consider reading Surprised by Joy and hearing firsthand how this deep yearning drew “the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England” to Christ.
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Photo by Prateek Katyal on Unsplash
Originally posted in the Dominicana Journal.
Surprised by Playfulness
Saint Dominic was an austere man. He traveled barefoot, slept on the hard ground, and often fasted on bread and water. This self-denial gave St. Dominic credibility among the townspeople of his time, who were disillusioned with the decadence of the clergy and attracted to the severity of the Waldensian and Cathar heretics. Given his austerity, one might assume that St. Dominic was sour-faced and unpleasant to be around. But this could not be further from the truth!
A contemporary biographer, Blessed Cecilia Cesarini, recounts that St. Dominic “was always joyous and cheerful, except when moved to compassion at anyone’s sorrows” (Lives of the Brethren, 3.14). Another biographer, Blessed Jordan of Saxony, recalls that St. Dominic’s “cheerfulness is what enabled him so easily to win everyone’s affection,” and that “none was more affable, none more pleasant to his brethren or associates” (Libellus, 104).
One evening, when St. Dominic was preaching to a group of Dominican nuns in Rome, Satan himself interrupted the sermon. Having taken on the bodily appearance of a sparrow, the devil fluttered around the church and hopped on the nuns’ heads to distract them. Sensing that his audience’s attention was wandering, how did St. Dominic react? Not with anger or alarm, but with playfulness!
After asking a nun to catch the devil-sparrow, St. Dominic received it from her, identified it as the devil, and (no doubt with a mischievous grin) began to dramatically pluck its feathers, evoking much laughter from the friars and nuns present. Then, to the delight of his audience, St. Dominic took the devil-bird and chucked it out the window, calling theatrically after it: “Fly now if you can, enemy of mankind!” The chuckling nuns then listened once more to the sermon, their attention restored by what Bl. Cecilia called the “laughter-stirring miracle” (Lives of the Brethren, 3.10).
As the devil-sparrow incident illustrates, St. Dominic was a playful man. This playfulness made St. Dominic an effective preacher. He instinctively mastered Cicero’s maxim that “when the audience is weary, it will be useful for the speaker to try something novel or amusing” (quoted in ST II-II q. 168, a. 2, ad 1).
Likewise, St. Dominic’s playfulness brought useful refreshment to his fellow religious. Play and mirth relieve the mental weariness that accompanies the mind’s focus on higher things, refreshing the interior senses so they can be used again in prayer or study (ST II-II q. 168, a. 2). This refreshment is especially necessary for people who hope to persevere in sustained contemplative work—people like friars and nuns.
How weary must the friars and nuns have been on the evening of the “laughter-stirring miracle”! Tired from their studies and prayers, disturbed by seeing the devil-sparrow, perhaps grumbling that the Franciscans probably had better pest control, how many discouraging thoughts must have crossed their mind—until St. Dominic moved them to laughter!
Compare this liberating refreshment with the stifling effect of a boorish man on others. The boorish man, who offers no playful speech to others and actively hinders others from being moderately playful themselves, is burdensome to everyone he spends time with (ST II-II q. 168, a. 4).
Like the Waldensians and Cathars of St. Dominic’s time, boors might offer a “greater outward show of piety” (Lives of the Brethren, 5.12), but they make for impatient teachers and community members, unable to bear or relieve the weariness of their hearers and brethren. In contrast, as St. Dominic shows us, true austerity is compatible with playfulness (ST II-II q. 168, a. 4, ad 3). One goes hand in hand with the other.
Amid widespread clerical scandal in our time, we certainly ought to ask St. Dominic to teach us austerity—to help us pluck our hearts clean of sloth, greed, gluttony, and lust. Perhaps less obviously, in an age of distracting tweets and bitter moralism, we also ought to ask St. Dominic to teach us playfulness, so that we might seize the attention of scattered minds and refresh our weary brethren.
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Photo by Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P. (used with permission)
Originally posted in the Dominicana Journal
Soulful Songs for Sunny Days
Summer is now roughly half way through. We’ve celebrated the Fourth of July. We’ve likely enjoyed our day at the beach or our family vacation. Students can feel the last weeks before school slipping through their fingers, and, although the season and the heat will linger nearly until September ends, we have now entered a quieter, more reflective period of our summer. It is in the spirit of a quiet summer evening that I offer this musical recommendation.
Though it’s been over a decade since the release of Jon Foreman’s EP Summer (an EP or “extended play” is a musical release that is shorter than a full album), his songwriting has lost none of its poignancy and depth. This six-song EP is part of a larger four-EP project, with an EP dedicated to each of the seasons. The other EPs are also filled with gems, especially Fall which was released first, but I offer Summer for your consideration because I think Foreman admirably captures both the energy and the peace of a summer evening.
The EP opens with “A Mirror Is Harder to Hold,” the pleadings of a lover who has looked in the mirror and come face to face with hard truths about himself. He’s been full of himself. He’d much rather hold his beloved than this image of himself. The songwriting is excellent, and the subdued mariachi-style horns and soft backing vocals draw the piece together with a wry sad smile.
The following song, “Resurrect Me,” is a rollicking acoustic jam that demands new life from God. It features some slide guitar work that recalls George Harrison’s sitar playing on The Beatles’ Revolver album—it’s impossible not to start bobbing along. And the chorus contains a plea that we all surely cry out with the same insistence at different points in our lives: “I’ve become an empty shell / of a man I don’t like so well / I am a living breathing hell / Come on and resurrect me!”
In “Deep In Your Eyes (There is a River),” Foreman suggests that the drive for ultimate fulfillment in God can be seen in all of the people we meet—even when they themselves have not yet fully realized it. Musically it is a lovely piece, with a nice cello accompaniment, although it features neither the lyrical sharpness of the first two tracks nor the unique use of Scripture found on the final three songs on the EP.
The fourth track, “Instead of a Show,” is a bit aggressive. It’s a send up of a comfortable Christianity that can be quite common in contemporary America. Listening to it, the song could almost sound like it came from a radical critic of the Church and we might feel offended. But almost the entire song is lifted directly from Sacred Scripture. The bulk comes from the prophet Amos’s condemnation of a corrupt Israel’s worship (Amos 5:21-24). The second verse, while not a verbatim quotation of Scripture, is clearly inspired by Isaiah 1:15, which condemns the kingdom of Judah for the same behavior. The blow is softened ever so slightly in the bridge by the suggestion from Isaiah 1:18 that healing and forgiveness are indeed possible, but the call for repentance and justice remains.
The fifth track is a simple rendition of a familiar passage. It is noteworthy for the way in which it captures the feeling of peace found both in that passage and in a late summer afternoon. Although the lyrics are the well-worn words of Psalm 23, Foreman’s emphasis is not on the “fields” or “valley” of our earthly journey, but rather our destination: “The House of God Forever.”
The sixth track, “Again,” makes use of instrumentation from the Far East and is yet another beautiful prayer. I only realized that it was pulled from 1 Kings 18:36-37 after enjoying the song for several years—suddenly Elijah’s prayer for fire from heaven sounded strangely familiar! What is most striking about Foreman’s song is his expansion on the “this day” of Elijah’s prayer. In his hands, “today” is unfolded into a reflection on God’s providential presence and activity. He is “God of the present tense” and “Father of history . . . present in our human events.” And, as Foreman rightly intuits, God and none other is capable of touching and “turning our hearts back” to him.
I hope that you will enjoy this short ode to Summer by a truly exceptional artist. The EP can nourish the reflections in your heart on these peaceful summer evenings, as we await the more lasting peace of heaven.
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Photo by Susan Lloyd (CC BY 2.0)
Originally posted on Dominicana Journal on August 5, 2022.
On the Threshold of Heaven in Hawthorne
It is an uncomfortable yet fundamental fact that death stands at the center of Christian life. Because of Adam’s sin, we die. Because of Christ’s death, we can live forever. “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord” (Rev 14:13). The question then follows: what are we to do now to be made blessed among men at the hour of our death?
A recent summer assignment with the Dominican Sisters of Hawthorne testified profoundly to the perennial Christian answer: we are to love, as we have first been loved. Founded in 1900 by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, the daughter of American novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, the Sisters dedicate their entire lives to caring for those who are indigent and ill with terminal cancer. They pursue a life of consecrated holiness—attending Mass, chanting the Divine Office, fulfilling convent duties—and spend the remainder of their days ministering to the physical and spiritual needs of their residents, who live in a large wing attached to the convent.
One might imagine working with those who have been dealt a certain death sentence to be a macabre experience. But the light of faith and the fire of love—which pervade Rosary Hill Home in Hawthorne, NY—instruct and impel us otherwise. The fact of the matter, oblivious though many of us be, is that we all have been dealt a certain death sentence from the moment of our conception. The human mortality rate is 100%. The charge of the Sisters, then, is to assist those whose sentence has been rendered specific and imminent: “you will die by cancer, and it will be soon,” their residents have been told. The Sisters’ vocation is thus a continual memento mori, which, because of their life in the Resurrection, is also a memento vivere (i.e. “remember [that you have] to live”): “if we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him” (Rom 6:8).
For all of the physical afflictions endured by the residents at Rosary Hill, the greatest drama occurs within. Each resident must make the personal, affirmative choice to prepare him or herself for death. This always entails what is, for many, the most difficult step: admitting—usually after an odyssey of treatments and facility transfers, not to mention an often turbulent life before the diagnosis—that this really is my last stop before I meet the Lord, and it is in fact a great stop en route to an even better destination.
Assisting the residents along their via crucis are the Sisters, who act on the pattern of Veronica, the Holy Women of Jerusalem, Mary Magdalene, and of course, the Mother of God, whose name every Sister receives as part of her religious name. The deep beauty of the Sister-resident dynamic is the mutual surrender that lies at its core. On the one hand, each Sister strives to surrender daily—to die to her weakness and offer her poor, chaste, and obedient love to the Lord, and to his beloved ones in the ward. For the Sisters, this surrender is never imposed but rather desired; these women sought out and continue to seek this sacrifice and the unique intimacy with the Lord that it yields.
The surrender of the residents is different, for it comes by way of their response to an imposition. The residents are poor in health and funds, chaste by circumstance, and helplessly obedient to their mortal nature. They did not ask for the evangelical counsels, yet they have in a manner received them—albeit as a hard yoke and heavy burden. God, however, refuses to abandon them to such a fate: day after day, his merciful love flows through the labors of the Sisters and their staff—from the perpetual patient care to the scratch-off lottery prizes at Bingo, from simple human conversations to the liturgies and Eucharistic processions. Residents, in choosing to receive this love, find their once stony hearts enfleshed, and typically in the precise measure that their mortal flesh fades. They become meek and humble, and the yoke of the counsels becomes voluntary—and so easy and light. Baptism or Confession is often sought, and the soul is sustained thereafter by holy oil and heavenly bread.
In this mutual effort of sanctification—Sister ministering to resident, and resident purifying Sister—the pangs of the present age still perdure: the sacraments do not relieve pain, end suffering, or make family strife and past wounds vanish into thin air. But the sacraments in fact do more—much more. They reroute an entire life toward a heavenly horizon, redeeming all that came before Rosary Hill and super-naturalizing all that happens therein. This in turn effects an astounding peace in the midst of trial, which is the surest proof that “beating cancer” is principally a spiritual war fought on a bodily battleground, for “it is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is of no avail” (Jn 6:63).
An arresting vocation video recently released by the Sisters asks the question, “if death is at the end of it all, why try?” Because even—indeed, especially—at death’s door, we are loved by an eternal love made cruciform, which “deep waters cannot quench” (Sgs 8:7) nor death sting (1 Cor 15:55). On this truth hangs the Sisters’ whole reason for being, which one Sister expresses in the same video: “I hope that in those last moments, they can know that they are loved.”
Only acts of love—of God’s own unquenchable divine love—can convince someone that he is loved, yes, thirsted for by the crucified Christ. Everything at Rosary Hill boils down to this. So that when the last breath comes, and now becomes the hour of death, each resident might make Christ’s last words his own: “Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit,” and so hear in reply: “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
Image: Screenshot from “Hawthorne Dominicans Vocation Video” (used with permission)
Originally posted on Dominicana Journal on August 2, 2022.
My Grace is Sufficient for You
“All of this is because a fisherman died here,” said my then friend, now fellow Dominican Brother, as we stood atop St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. It is true. The fisherman from Galilee, buried 450 feet below us, was certainly not wise by human standards, powerful, nor well born. (1 Cor 1:26). He was not preserved from serious sins like Mary, John the Baptist, or John the Evangelist. This was the disciple who denied Our Lord three times (Luke 22:54–61). Nonetheless, our Lord still called Simon son of Jonah. He built his Church on him and gave him the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven (Matt 16:17–18). He told him to feed his sheep and foretold his martyrdom on the Vatican hill (John 21:15–19). This calling and the grace our Lord gave to this weak fisherman turned him into a strong fisher of men, and shepherd of souls.
From the top of St. Peter’s we could also see another massive basilica down the Tiber. This one does not house the bones of a fisherman. Rather, it is built over the tomb of a radical first century pharisee (Phil 3:4–6). A man not even fit to be called an apostle because he persecuted the Church of God (1 Cor 15:9). A man who consented to the execution of St. Stephen (Acts 8:1) and tried to destroy the Church (Gal 1:13). Yet this man, this sinner, was chosen by God’s grace. This man was struck down on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:1–9), and encountered the Risen Lord (Gal 1:12). These two men, one uneducated and ordinary (Acts 4:13), and the other an enemy of God (Rom 5:10), were reconciled to God! They became Peter, the rock on which the Church is built (Matt 16:17) and Paul, God’s chosen instrument (Acts 9:15).
These two sinners-turned-saints are useless on their own. Peter is not the rock of his own Church; he is the rock on which Christ builds his Church. So too Paul, as a chosen instrument of grace, is nothing without someone to use the instrument, namely Christ. These two men remind us that without God we can do nothing (John 15:5). For these men are apostles only because Jesus is “the apostle and high priest of our confession” (Heb 3:1). They are bishops and shepherds only because Jesus is “the shepherd and bishop of our souls” (1 Pet 2:25).
Despite their sins, despite their mediocrity, God did amazing things with these two men. God made them like Jesus. God used their suffering to “fill up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church”(Col 1:24). He made them a spectacle to the world, being hungry and thirsty, naked, roughly treated, homeless, and toiling (1 Cor 4:11–12). He made them like Jesus who had nowhere to rest his head (Matt 8:20). God took these men and conformed them to Jesus Christ, using them to bring his gospel to the ends of the earth (Ps 19:4). This conformity to Jesus went deep; he even gave Paul his marks on his body (Gal 6:17).
In the end this transformation, begun on the beach in Galilee and on the road to Damascus, ended in Rome. Peter was so configured to the cross of Christ, that he, like the savior, was crucified. So too Paul was executed in the same city by beheading. However, their martyrdom was not merely the result of their work in the Lord’s vineyard. The grace of final perseverance was a gift, but it was not only a gift for these blessed Apostles. This final grace given to Peter and Paul extends to you and me! The same grace God used to save them, he now uses through them to save us. So that just as their voices went out through all the world in their earthly life, their prayers in heaven now bring us the graces of Jesus Christ!
Tomorrow the Church celebrates the principal feast of these heavenly patrons. Let us turn to them as our fathers and sources of Sacred Scripture and the Tradition of the Church. But more than that, let us turn to them because they are reigning in heaven! The rock still supports the Church, and the chosen instrument still intercedes for men.
Photo by David Iliff (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Originally posted on Dominicana Journal on June 28, 2022
Offering it up for Others
“Offer it up” is a phrase well-known to Catholics both young and old. It is a phrase that we often use to satirize stern teaching-sisters and good Catholic mothers alike. But, despite its worn familiarity, it is a phrase that has not yet lost its use! In Spe salvi Pope Benedict XVI said that “offering it up” is a way that “even the small inconveniences of daily life could acquire meaning and contribute to the economy of good and of human love” (Spe salvi, 40). Furthermore, he suggested that “maybe we should consider whether it might be judicious to revive this practice.” Especially during this month dedicated to the remembrance of the deceased, we can make an effort to offer up our suffering on behalf of those souls in Purgatory.
The reality of human suffering in a world ruled by “a God gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in love and fidelity” (Exod 34:6) is a profound mystery. St. Thomas Aquinas writes that God’s allowance of suffering is part of God’s infinite goodness so that out of that suffering he can produce immense good (ST I, q. 2, a. 3). From blind beggars and sick servants to the crucifixion of Christ, the Gospel is filled with examples of Jesus transforming sickness and suffering into prosperity and joy. This transformation is also possible in our lives. When we realize that God permitting our suffering is a part of his goodness, we are able to sanctify it by “offering it up” to God.
When faced with suffering, we can do one of two things. We can reject that our pain has any meaning or purpose, or we can offer up our daily struggles. By offering it up, we accept our suffering and acknowledge that God can bring good out of it. Our suffering can open the door to our sanctification. When we offer up these moments, we hand them over to God, and he transforms them into acts of love. “Offering it up” can be as simple as praying:
Dear Lord, I offer you my suffering today
For the conversion of sinners,
For the forgiveness of sins, and
For the salvation of souls. Amen.
All suffering, from mild discomfort to profound miseries, can be offered to God. When I was a child, my parents told me to “offer up” small paper cuts, childhood disappointments, lack of desserts, and other seemingly inconsequential discomforts. Even with small struggles like these, God can produce substantial good because, in them, we find an opportunity to unite ourselves to Christ’s suffering. By accepting our suffering, we take up our crosses, where “Christ’s sufferings overflow to us” (2 Cor 1:5). By handing over our suffering to Christ, we join ourselves to the suffering he endured for us, “sharing of his sufferings by being conformed to his death” (Phil 3:10). It is by joining ourselves to Christ’s suffering that we can make expiation for our own sins and more perfectly conform ourselves to God’s will.
In addition to being sanctified ourselves, we can offer our suffering for the sanctification of others—especially for those in Purgatory. The souls in Purgatory cannot help themselves; they rely on our prayers for relief. (ST II-II, q. 83, a. 11) We can and should always pray for them. By turning to prayer during moments of suffering, joining ourselves to Christ’s cross, and offering our sufferings for the souls in Purgatory, we can say with St. Paul, “I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church” (Col 1:24).
Image: Photo by Fr. Lawrence Lew, O.P. (used with permission)
Originally posted on Dominicana Journal
She Who Received
Addressing the Father, Saint Catherine of Siena said in her Dialogue, “I am she who is not. . . . You alone are he who is; my being and every other grace that you have given me beyond my being I have from you, which you gave and give to me through love, and not because it was owed to me” (Ch. 134; cf. Exod 3:14). Since only God exists by his own power and because everything else exists only because he created, Catherine recognized that everything she was and had came from God. To sin—to turn away from God and towards oneself—would be to turn toward nothingness.
What we are apart from God is an abyss of nothingness. The more we retreat from God to follow our own whims and desires, the lesser and lesser we become. God owes us nothing; everything he gives he gives out of love. If someone wants to be or become anything, she must totally deny herself—she must become she who is not—in order to cling entirely to God: he who is. She must make herself completely dependent on his love.
No one recognized this more than the Immaculate Virgin Mary, whom God joined to himself from the instant she was conceived in the womb. Her Immaculate Conception might have been fitting, but God did not owe her anything. Nor was it absolutely necessary for him to do this in order to redeem the human race. What he did for her he did out of sheer love. He did it out of love for her, whom he loved above all creatures. He did it out of love for himself since, aside from Christ’s human nature, Mary glorified him more than any other creature (Luke 1:46). He did it out of love for us, her children.
For Eve was the mother of all the living who later die and turn to nothingness (Gen 3:20). At her instigation, our first parents sinned when they tried to be something apart from God. From them, we inherited original sin. But Mary, the new Eve, became the Mother of all who live by grace (Rev 12:17). She emptied herself of her will and accepted the will of God announced by the angel (Luke 1:38). Her soul “magnified the Lord,” who, she said, had favored her “lowliness.” For it was he who “scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts” and “cast down the mighty from their thrones” in order to “lift up the lowly”—those who count themselves nothing before God (Luke 1:46–55). It was Mary who instigated her Son to begin his ministry when she commanded the servants at Cana to be obedient to Jesus, to be nothing before her Son, he who is (John 2:5). Just as the first Adam had done when—after he first turned the human race away from its Creator—he named the first Eve “Mother of all the Living,” so the new Adam—once he turned the human race back to the Father—named the new Eve our Mother when he gave her to his beloved disciple (John 19:25–27). All of us who turn, not toward ourselves and to nothingness but to he who is (cf. John 18:6), are her children.
But the foundation for Mary’s Motherhood began with the grace God gave her at her conception. This was what the angel acknowledged first: “Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you” (Luke 1:28). She received the human nature that God first gave to Adam and Eve, but not original sin. Through her Immaculate Conception, God gave Mary grace to receive everything from him and from him alone. By giving her this grace, he prepared her to receive he who is. By his power alone, she would receive everything that she was. By his power alone, Mary would later conceive he who is in her womb. By his power, she who is not would hold he who is in her arms.
Image: Image: Carlo dell’Orto, La Presentazione di Maria al Tempio (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Originally posted on Dominicana Journal