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The Holy Spirit: Gift, Counselor, Advocate, Helper

On the Readings for May 5, 2013, the Sixth Sunday of Easter | Carl E. Olson

Readings:
• Acts 15:2-2, 22-29
• Ps 67:2-3, 5, 6, 8
• Rev 21:10-14, 22-23
• Jn 14:23:-29

“A gift is freely given,” wrote St. Thomas Aquinas, “and expects no return. Its reason is love. What is first given is love; that is the first gift. The Holy Spirit comes forth as the substance of love, and Gift is his proper name.”

The Holy Spirit is the gift given by the Father, Jesus told the disciples in the Upper Room. This gift given in Jesus’ name is called Parakletos, which is translated in various ways: Counselor, Advocate, Helper. It means, literally, “one called alongside of” to aid, exhort, and encourage. He is, remarked the Jesuit priest and poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, one “who stirs up, urges forward, who calls on … what a trumpet is to a soldier, that a Paraclete is to the soul…”

The name appears five times in the New Testament: once in 1 John, where it refers to Jesus as the advocate before the Father on the behalf of sinners (1 Jn. 2:1), and four times in the Gospel of John, referring to the Holy Spirit. Those four references are in the Last Supper discourse (Jn. 13-16), during which Jesus prepared his closest companions—the future leaders of his Church—for his death, his Resurrection, and the sending of the Gift. That sending, of course, took place on Pentecost, and today’s readings help prepare us for Pentecost by having us contemplate the work of the third Person of the Trinity.

The Greek word was used in legal settings to refer to an attorney making a defense in court on behalf of someone accused. The Holy Spirit strengthens those who belong to Christ, standing beside them in support as they battle temptation, endure the trials of this world, and rebut the accusations of the devil, “the accuser” (Rev. 12:10).

But the Holy Spirit is not just beside us, but resides within those who have been baptized; he is, as the Creed states, the “giver of life.” The life he gives is the divine life of God, who is perfect love—an eternal exchange of divine love: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. “Whoever loves me,” Jesus told his disciples, “will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.” Filled with the Trinitarian life, we are made temples of the Holy Spirit. “Do you not know,” St. Paul asked the Corinthians, “that you are God's temple and that God's Spirit dwells in you?” (1 Cor. 3:16; cf. CCC 782, 1197)

The Holy Spirit would be sent, Jesus explained, to teach and to remind. This was a specific promise to the apostles, who were granted definite authority from Jesus, including the authority to teach, to govern, and to forgive sins in his name and by his power (cf. Jn. 20:22-23). Today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles is a significant example of this authority, a description of the Council at Jerusalem, which convened in A.D. 49, some fifteen years or so after the Resurrection. The Council consisted of “the apostles and the elders” who had gathered together to look into the dispute over the necessity of circumcision for Gentile converts, and come to a solution regarding the growing tensions between Jewish and Gentile believers.

The key phrase written by the apostles—in reflecting here on the power and work of the Paraclete—is this: “It is the decision of the Holy Spirit and us…” There was no conflict between the apostles and the Holy Spirit, for they had been given the Paraclete in order to teach, to lead, to guide, and, when necessary, decide.

In making a decision involving the relationship between the old covenant and the new covenant, the Apostles were participating in Christ’s work of love and peace. Granted authority by the head of the Church, they protected the Church from division—not due to their natural abilities, but because of the One who counsels, consoles, and advocates. He is Gift, who comes to guide “into all the truth” (Jn. 16:13).

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the May 9, 2010, issue of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Apocalypse How?

The central "Adoration of the Mystic Lamb" panel, painted by Hubert and Jan van Eyck in the early 1400s.

Carl E. Olson | On the Readings for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, April 17, 2016

Readings:
• Acts 13:14, 43-52
• Ps 100:1-2, 3, 5
• Rev 7:9, 14b-17
• Jn 10:27-30

Pop quiz: which book of the Bible describes black helicopters, high-tech warfare involving Russia and China, and computer chips embedded in human flesh?

Hopefully you answered, “None.” But you may know that some Christians believe the Book of Revelation, or The Apocalypse, describes soon-to-transpire, end of the world events in harrowing detail. And most people—even many Catholics—believe that the final book of the Bible is an unremitting work of doom, gloom, and bloodshed.

John the Revelator’s book undoubtedly contains images of doom and gloom, but not for those who stand for and with Christ. And while there is plenty of bloodshed in the Book of Revelation, the good news is that the blood of the Lamb, shed for the sins of the world, cleanses those who faithfully follow the Shepherd.

In other words, today’s reading from The Apocalypse is filled with joy. It proclaims that God will not only overcome evil, He will—at the end of time as we know it—bring together all of those who love Him. The great multitude witnessed by John consists of those who have been saved through suffering, just as Savior, the slain Lamb (Rev. 5:6), brought salvation through suffering and death. “The Church will enter the glory of the kingdom,” explains the Catechism, “only through this final Passover, when she will follow her Lord in his death and Resurrection” (CCC 677).

Those in the great multitude, from every nation, race, people, and tongue, are the Church. They make up the New Israel, which has gone through a New Exodus. While the first Exodus involved the people of Israel being saved from the tyranny of Egyptian slavery, this final Exodus consists of the people of the new covenant being saved eternally from the domination of sin and death. As Jesus states, in the reading from today’s Gospel, “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish” (Jn. 10:28). The salvation of a multitude too large to be counted is a fulfillment of the great covenant made with Abraham: “I will make of you a great nation … All the communities of the earth shall find blessing in you” (Gen. 12:2, 3; cf. Gal. 3:7, 29).

Overcoming death and establishing eternal life is a constant theme in The Apocalypse. This can be seen in the imagery throughout the book, which is bursting with allusions to the Old Testament, especially the Pentateuch and the Prophets. The idea of being made “white” through perseverance in faith is drawn from Daniel, a book used often by John: “Many shall purify themselves, and makes themselves white, and be refined” (Dan. 12:10). White robes symbolize holiness and endurance. Priests in the time of Christ were examined for purity; if they passed, they were dressed in white robes, as was the High Priest. In the new covenant, those who have been baptized into Christ, the High Priest, and who endure to the end will be saved through the sacrifice of the Lamb on the Cross.

The palm branches allude to the feast of Tabernacles (cf., Lev. 24:39-40), which celebrated the harvest of crops and commemorated God’s divine protection during the Exodus. Palm branches were also used as symbols of victory (1 Macc. 13:51; 2 Macc. 10:7). In The Apocalypse they stand for God’s victory over evil, His protection of the Church throughout the time of tribulation, and the restoration of right relationship with God, as evidenced by the songs of praise before the heavenly throne.

John’s vision is also filled with a liturgical and sacramental perspective. The great multitude worship God in His temple, which ultimately is the Person of Christ (cf., Jn 2:19-22). Being washed and made white suggests the bath of Baptism, and the lack of hunger or thirst is Eucharistic in its promise of complete joy in the presence of the Lamb.

Thus, in the end—The End!—the apocalyptic truths of the Book of Revelation don’t involve helicopters and top secret technology, but the salvation of God’s flock, His people, through the death and Resurrection of the Lamb.

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the March 30, 2007, issue of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Divine Mercy Sunday: Preparation, Proclamation, Perseverance, and Purpose

 

Divine Mercy Sunday: Preparation, Proclamation, Perseverance, and Purpose | Carl E. Olson | On the Readings for Sunday, April 3, 2016

Readings:
• Acts 5:12-16
• Ps 118:2-4, 13-15, 22-24
• Rev 1:9-11a, 12-13, 17-19
• Jn 20:19-31

It is fitting that on this second Sunday of Easter, decreed in 2000 by Pope John Paul II to be Divine Mercy Sunday, that the readings provide a biblical blueprint of how divine mercy and grace would spread in the months and years immediately following the Resurrection.

During the Easter season, leading up to the great Feast of Pentecost, readings from the Acts of the Apostles take the place of Old Testament readings. In this way the connection between “all that Jesus did and taught” (Acts 1:1) and all that the apostles did and taught can be clearly seen and reflected upon. The Evangelist Luke portrayed Jesus as The Prophet who would do great signs and wonders (the greatest being His death and resurrection) and in the Acts of the Apostles he depicted the early Christians—especially the apostles Peter and Paul—as doing “many signs and wonders among the people” (Acts 5:12).

The blueprint of mercy can be summed up in four words: preparation, proclamation, perseverance, and purpose.

The preparation began during the ministry of Jesus, as He spent countless hours, days, and months with His disciples, teaching them by both word and example. Christ’s Passion and the Resurrection took that preparation to a place the disciples could barely begin to fathom prior to those dramatic events. Today’s Gospel reading highlights, in the well-known story of doubting Thomas, that the process of preparation was not a quick or easy one. As the disciples hid behind closed doors, they were often filled with fear and confusion. But the appearance of the Risen Christ in their midst was a source of peace and joy. And so they received their instructions: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” Then, later, in response to Thomas’s famous cry—“My Lord and my God!”—Jesus further prepared the disciples for their divine mission by pointing them toward the many souls in need of the Gospel: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”

The proclamation of that Gospel is seen all through Acts, including in today’s reading. The signs and wonders performed by Christ were soon being performed by the leaders of His Body, the Church, and that Body grew quickly. Luke emphasized the “signs and wonders” throughout his Gospel to present Jesus as the New Moses. Those marks of prophetic activity are mentioned many times in Acts, notably in Peter’s sermon on Pentecost and his recitation of the prophet Joel (2:17-22), and in today’s reading, which describes the proclamation of God’s word by the apostles (cf., 4:29-30), especially the head apostle, Peter.

In addition to Acts, the readings during Easter include selections from the final book of the Bible, the Revelation of Jesus Christ. One reason is to show the perseverance of the early Christians—including the author, John—in the face of persecution. John the Revelator referred to both when he wrote of the “endurance we have in Jesus”; he explained that he had been exiled to the island of Patmos (about 37 miles southwest of modern Turkey) “because I proclaimed God’s word and gave testimony to Jesus.” While celebrating the Lord’s Day—likely in the course of the Liturgy—John saw the risen and victorious Christ standing among the lamp stands, representing the Church. The Son of Man, “the first and the last,” assures John that the perseverance of the saints is not in vain, but will be rewarded by eternal life: “Once I was dead, but now I am alive forever and ever.”

We return to today’s Gospel to find a perfect summation of the purpose of these many actions of preparation, proclamation, and perseverance. John explained that much more could have been written about Jesus in his Gospel, but that “these are written that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that through this belief you may have life in his name.” By God’s mercy and grace, may we believe more deeply and experience more fully the life of the Risen Lord!

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the April 15, 2007, issue of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

In His Rising is Our Hope: Art and the Resurrection

Detail from “Resurrection” (c. 1460) by Piero della Francesca (WikiArt.org)

In His Rising is Our Hope | Sandra Miesel | Catholic World Report

A short history of how Christians throughout the ages have depicted the mysterious and transforming event of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

In him, who rose from the dead,
our hope of resurrection dawned.
The sadness of death gives way
to the bright promise of immortality.

— Preface for Christian Death I

Sacred images do not instantly spring from the pages of Scripture to gauzy forms on gilt-edged holy cards. Traditional Christian art, like Christian theology, developed slowly as the Church’s understanding of the Gospel deepened and the cultures around her shifted. For instance, today’s Catholics probably picture our newly Risen Savior as nude save for a fluttering wrap and carrying a banner blazoned with the cross. Such an image would have shocked ancient Christians. Although well aware that “If Christ has not been raised…faith is futile” (1 Cor 15: 17), they did not try to represent that rising. Artists experimented for centuries to find appropriate ways to depict the climax of Our Lord’s redemptive work.

The Gospels are silent about the exact moment when Jesus was restored to new life. Instead they give four unique accounts of holy women and apostles finding the tomb empty on Easter morning (Mt 28:1-10, Mk 16:1-8, Lk 24:1-12, Jn 20:1-18). Afterwards, the risen Christ appears to his followers with convincing proofs of his identity: his transformed body is still his own body, neither a delusion nor a ghost.

Early Christian artists did not presume to supplement Scripture. Perhaps they feared to invade God’s privacy, as it were. Rather than attempt direct illustration of Our Lord’s emergence from the tomb, they painted catacombs and sculpted tombs with scenes from the Book of Jonah. Jesus himself had used the Sign of Jonah as a veiled prophecy of his death and resurrection (Mt 12:40). As the prophet spent three days inside the whale, so would the Son of Man spend three days buried in the earth. 

Another way to avoid the delicate moment when Jesus rose was to replace his figure with his cross-shaped standard that bears a Chi-Rho within a victory wreath. This is planted between the grave guards on Roman sarcophagus carvings of the fourth century. The same tactic was applied to early Crucifixion scenes: a sign takes the place of physical reality.

But Christ’s sepulcher itself became the preferred element in depictions of Easter. The oldest known example of this image was painted about 230 AD on the baptistery wall of a church in the Syrian town of Dura-Europos.  Here the three “Myrrh-Bearing Women” bring spices to anoint Jesus (Mk 16:1). They approach a huge, plain sarcophagus, not the hollow rock chamber that the Gospels describe. The empty tomb was an appropriate—and popular—baptismal motif because receiving the sacrament is a spiritual dying and rising with Christ (Rom 6:3-4).

Coincidentally, a mural of Ezekiel’s vision of the dry bones reanimating (Ez 37:1-14) adorned the synagogue in the same town. Christians had inherited the Jewish belief in a general resurrection of the dead at the end of time attested by Mary of Bethany before the raising of her brother Lazarus (Jn 11:24). As a creature of body and soul, mortal man will need both reunited to participate fully in the life of the world to come. Human resurrections, past and future, often complement the Resurrection of Jesus in Christian art.

A century after those murals appeared in Dura-Europos, the Emperor Constantine aligned himself with Christianity and built churches over sacred sites all over the empire. Among these was the Anastasis Rotunda in Jerusalem, begun in 337 AD. Its conical canopy sheltering the tomb of Christ influenced later depictions of the Easter tomb. For instance, it appears on a Roman ivory plaque made circa 420 AD as part of a small box. (Another side of the box has the earliest known Crucifixion scene.) Here one door of the elaborate open tomb depicts the Raising of Lazarus and a mourning woman. As in Mt 28:1, 4, two holy women and two stupefied soldiers flank the tomb.

More elements were added to Resurrection scenes: angels, extra guards, women prostrate before the Risen Lord. Subjects were combined to give a panorama of salvation that collapsed time and space. The Resurrection might be juxtaposed with the Crucifixion or Ascension or other biblical episodes.

Although the holy women at the empty tomb would long remain a popular image, by the end of the seventh century, the Church wanted to show Christ’s own victorious power in action. “Material figurations” were judged especially useful for forming faith in the Savior who was both True God and True Man. This new confidence in theology made visible also permitted artists to picture what preceded the Resurrection—death and entombment.

Thus arose a new visual formula called the Anastasis.

Continue reading on the CWR site.

The Easter Triduum: Entering into the Paschal Mystery

The Easter Triduum: Entering into the Paschal Mystery | Carl E. Olson

The liturgical year is a great and ongoing proclamation by the Church of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and a celebration of the Mystery of the Word. Through this yearly cycle, the Catechism of the Catholic Church explains, "the various aspects of the one Paschal mystery unfold"(CCC 1171). The Easter Triduum holds a special place in the liturgical year because it marks the culmination of the yearly celebration in proclaiming the Passion and Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

The Latin word triduum refers to a period of three days and has long been used to describe various three-day observances that prepared for a feast day through liturgy, prayer, and fasting. But it is most often used to describe the three days prior to the great feast of Easter: Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday and the Easter Vigil. The General Norms for the Liturgical Year state that the Easter Triduum begins with the evening Mass of the Lord's Supper on Holy Thursday, "reaches its high point in the Easter Vigil, and closes with evening prayer on Easter Sunday" (par 19).

Just as Sunday is the high point of the week, Easter is the high point of the year. The meaning of the great feast is revealed and anticipated throughout the Triduum, which brings the people of God into contact – through liturgy, symbol, and sacrament – with the central events of the life of Christ: the Last Supper, His trial and crucifixion, His time in the tomb, and His Resurrection from the dead. In this way, "the mystery of the Resurrection, in which Christ crushed death, permeates with its powerful energy our old time, until all is subjected to him" (CCC 1169). During these three days of contemplation and anticipation the liturgies emphasize the sacrificial death of Christ on the Cross, and the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist, by which the faithful enter into the life-giving Passion of Christ and grow in hope of eternal life in Him.

Holy Thursday | The Lord's Supper

The Triduum begins with the evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Holy Thursday, which commemorates when the Eucharist was instituted at the Last Supper by Jesus. The traditional English name for this day, "Maundy Thursday", comes from the Latin phrase Mandatum novum – "a new command" (or mandate) – which comes from Christ’s words: "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another" (Jn 13:34). The Gospel reading for the liturgy is from the first part of the same chapter and depicts Jesus washing the feet of the disciples, an act of servitude (commonly done by slaves or servants in ancient cultures) and great humility.

Three gifts offered by Jesus on His way to the Cross

Ecce Homo ("Behold the Man"), Antonio Ciseri's depiction of Pilate presenting a scourged Jesus to the people of Jerusalem, painted in 1871.

Three gifts offered by Jesus on His way to the Cross | Carl E. Olson

On the Readings for March 20, 2016, Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion

Readings:
• At the procession with palms, Gospel: Lk 19:28-4
• Is 50:4-7
• Ps 22:8-9, 17-18, 19-20, 23-24
• Phil 2:6-11
• Lk 22:14—23:56

"It is done. We have judged our God and have ordered Him slain.
We will not have Christ with us more—He is in the way.”

Those lines open Paul Claudel’s poem, “The Way of the Cross”, a lyrical, moving reflection on the fourteen Stations. Claudel, who is one of my favorite poets, had a profound love and knowledge of the Bible (he wrote a book titled, The Essence of the Bible). His poetry has often opened up new and wonderful perspectives in my study of sacred Scripture.

In writing that Christ “is in the way,” Claudel emphasizes the two choices before each one of us: to embrace Jesus as The Way or to try to remove him from our way.

Those choices are evident throughout today’s reading from St. Luke’s Gospel. There is, in this reading, a series of gifts offered by Jesus as he, the King of kings, makes his way to his throne, the Cross. These gifts involve choices, not only on the part of man, but also on the part of the God-man. 

In the Upper Room, reclining with the apostles, Jesus took the bread and blessed it, and said, “This is my body, which will be given for you…” He took the cup, and said, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which will be shed for you.” This, of course, is the gift of the Eucharist, “the source and summit of the Christian life,” the Body and Blood which nourishes the sons and daughters of God. This gift was offered along with the gift of the priesthood, through which this perfect and holy sacrifice has been perpetually offered (CCC, 611). 

Yet one of the Twelve rejected the gifts. Judas—grasping and greedy—had spitefully judged Jesus and believed he was now in the way. Judas refused to accept and be part of a kingdom rooted in self-sacrifice, suffering, and redemptive love. “But woe,” said Jesus, “to that man by whom he is betrayed.”

The gift of the cup of the New Covenant, the Catechism remarks, “is afterwards accepted by him from his Father's hands in his agony in the garden at Gethsemani…” (par. 612). This gift of Jesus—offering himself, his fears, and his horror of death—is a profound mystery, for it is bound up in mystery of the Incarnation. The second person of the Trinity, St. Paul states in today’s Epistle, had “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave” and had “humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death…” The first Adam had failed the test of love in the Garden of Eden when faced with the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. But the new Adam, whose sweat in the Garden of Gethsemani “became like drops of blood,” humbly embraced the torturous trial of the tree of Golgotha. The anguish endured in private prayer in the Garden would soon be a public lamentation: “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”

The third gift is that of love, redemption, salvation, reconciliation. It is the gift of the Cross, the gift of the Incarnate Word who did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. “The shame of his passion was not the fruit of his own will,” wrote St. Cyril of Alexandria, “but he still consented to undergo it that he might save the earth.” Arms stretched wide, Jesus embraced the world. He embraced the thief, who asked to be remembered in Paradise. He embraced the centurion, who gloried God. He embraces each one of us as we kneel in silence and contemplate those humble words of trust and filial devotion: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

Jesus, for many people, is in the way. But for those who gaze upon the gift of the Cross, Jesus is the Way. In the beautiful words of Claudel:

“There is no cross of our living where His body will not fit.
There is no sin of ours for which He has not a wound.”

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the March 28, 2010, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Zeal for the Law and Casting the First Stone

"Christ and the Woman taken in Adultery" (1565) by Pieter Bruegel the Elder [WikiArt.org]

Zeal for the Law and Casting the First Stone | Carl E. Olson | A Scriptural Reflection on the Readings for March 13, 2016, the Fifth Sunday of Lent

Readings:
• Is 43:16-21
• Ps 126:1-2, 2-3, 4-5, 6
• Phil 3:8-14
• Jn 8:1-11

Imagine being caught in a most serious and embarrassing sin, then taken into a crowded public area and placed before the man who will, apparently, determine your fate. You stand in the middle, between your accusers and your judge, like someone walking a tightrope with doom, perhaps death, waiting on either end.

You are lost, alone, damned. And you know you are guilty of the sin of which you have been accused. The only unsettled matter is the exact form of your punishment. You only hope it isn’t death.

We all have something in common with the woman caught in adultery: we are sinners in desperate need of mercy, without argument or alibi, completely at the mercy of a righteous judge. Lent, of course, is meant to remind us of this need for God’s mercy and forgiveness, not in order to make us feel enslaved, but to recognize anew the joy of salvation. “Those that sow tears,” today’s responsorial Psalm states, “shall reap rejoicing.”

A word that stands out to me in the story of Jesus and the adulterous woman is “caught.” The woman had been caught in adultery—probably through devious means, based on the absence of the guilty man. The scribes and the Pharisees hoped Jesus would be caught in their legal snare. Their trap was simple and seemingly airtight. The Law was clear about the punishment for sins such as adultery: “If a man is found lying with the wife of another man, both of them shall die, the man who lay with the woman, and the woman; so you shall purge the evil from Israel.” (Deut. 22:22; cf. Lev. 20:10). If Jesus allowed the woman to live, he would be accused of acting contrary to the Law. But, as St. Bede noted, if Jesus “determined that she was to be stoned, they would scoff at him inasmuch as he forgotten the mercy that he was always teaching.”

Jesus’ response was brilliant on both the legal and spiritual levels. First, he bent down and began to write on the ground, the only instance of Jesus writing that is recorded in the Gospels. What did he write? Speculation abounds. Perhaps the sins of some of the accusers? Perhaps something from the Law, such as, “You shall not join hands with a wicked man, to be a malicious witness” (Ex. 23:1)?

Whatever the words were that Jesus traced on the ground, they set up his stunning riposte: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” This turned the rhetorical thrust of the scribes and Pharisees back into themselves. In so doing, Jesus presented the accusers with difficult options: if any of them did throw a stone, he would have outrageously declared his moral perfection. And if anyone threw stones, they likely risked being severely punished by the Romans (cf. Jn. 18:31). If none of them threw a stone, they would admit implicitly their sinfulness. They were caught.

It wasn’t just that the scribes and Pharisees were sinners; it was the fact that Jesus had exposed their unjust and sinful use of the woman as a pawn. “He recognizes that,” observed Fr. Raymond Brown, “although they are zealous for the word of the Law, they are not interested in the purpose of the Law…” Beaten at their own game, the accusers melted away. “The two were left alone,” wrote St. Augustine in a memorable description, “the wretched woman and Mercy.”

Now you are standing face to face with the righteous teacher and merciful judge. You know your sins; you are well aware of what you deserve. Further, you know that Jesus has not overlooked your sins. “Therefore the Lord did also condemn,” insisted Augustine, “but condemned sins, not the sinner.” And so, while rejecting your sin, he accepts you. He invites you to a radical life of discipleship, liberated from sin and free from being precariously balanced between accusation and damnation.

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the March 21, 2010, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Hardships and Sonships

Detail from "The Return of the Prodigal Son" (1669) by Rembrandt [WikiArt.org]

Hardships and Sonships | Carl E. Olson | On the Readings for March 6, 2016, the Fourth Sunday of Lent

Many people today believe God wishes to deny them happiness, fulfillment, and love. The Gospel reading of the well-known parable of the Prodigal Son offers a very different perspective.

Readings:
Jos 5:9a, 10-12
Ps 34:2-3, 4-5, 6-7
2 Cor 5:17-21
Lk 15:1-3, 11-32

“How could a loving God send people to hell?” 

It’s a question I’ve heard many times from people who balk at the claims of the Catholic Church because they believe she worships a supernatural despot intent on punishment, not love. Years ago the founder the local  “Freethinkers and Atheists’ Society” sent me a letter filled with angry attacks on the Christian God. “It must be comforting,” he wrote, “thinking that you’re going to heaven where you can look down at the billions of souls screaming and writhing in pain … consumed by flame for all of eternity, but never dying; all this courtesy of your all-compassionate and loving friend Jesus. . . ."

"Do you find this condemnation the act of a moral god?" he asked, "Why would such a creature bother creating an entire system where the vast majority of his creation will spend all eternity burning in flames?”

Sadly, this is the case for many people who, for various reasons, believe God wishes to deny them happiness, fulfillment, and love. Today’s Gospel reading of the well-known parable of the Prodigal Son offers a very different perspective, which flows from the knowledge the Son has of both His Father and man’s fallen, sinful state. Seemingly simple, the parable is rich with meaning and conviction, for it captures the tension and love at the heart of human relationships while illuminating the difficulty we sometimes face in correctly understanding the mercy, justice, and love of our Heavenly Father. 

Part of the great power of Jesus’ story of the father and his two sons is how it brilliantly captures the viewpoint of each of the three men without ever losing any moral clarity. And I think that most readers can relate in some way to the desires of each man, even while recognizing that some of those desires are sinful and others are holy. For instance, we know what it is like to be rebellious and to think that God is hindering us from enjoying our lives on our terms. This is what the Catechism calls “the fascination of illusory freedom,” (CCC 1439) the belief that we can find meaning, joy, and peace apart from God. 

We also know what it is like to begrudge the joy of others, as the brother does, understanding our relationship with God in purely legalistic terms while failing to the embrace the sonship given to us in baptism. In his encyclical Dives in Misericordia, Pope John Paul II highlighted what this parable teaches about the dignity of the son who dwells in the father’s house. He points out that when the one son leaves, his greatest loss is not material, but the loss of familial life—the “tragedy of lost dignity, the awareness of squandered sonship” (par 5). Yet the son who never left had also squandered his sonship, having failed to see himself as a son first, not just an heir to material possessions. 

The prodigal son, upon recognizing how far he had fallen and how he had wasted his life—his very being—on sinful pleasures, rediscovers his sonship, paradoxically, by recognizing that he is not worthy to be called a son: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I no longer deserve to be called your son.” His brother’s failure is shown not just in his anger at the feast prepared by the father, but by his refusal to address as “Father” the one who gave him life.  

Many who believe that God desires to punish them have confused the alienation caused by their rejection of God with divine anger. In exercising their free will, they miss that their freedom is a gift of love given by a merciful Father. He will not force anyone to come home; He will not make anyone embrace the gift of sonship. But He does wait, longing for the return of every lost soul “to the bosom of his family, which is the Church.” (CCC 1439).

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the March 18, 2007, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

From Temptation to Transfiguration

Apse mosaic of the Transfiguration from Saint Catherine's Monastery, Sinai, 565-6. (Wikipedia)

From Temptation to Transfiguration | Carl E. Olson | On the Readings for Sunday, February 21st, 2016, the Second Sunday of Lent

Readings:
• Gn 15:5-12, 17-18
• Ps 27:1, 7-8, 8-9, 13-14
• Phil 3:17—4:1
• Lk 9:28b-36

What a difference a week makes! From temptation in the desert to Transfiguration on the mount; from supernatural battle with Satan to supernatural glory before the disciples. It is a striking contrast between the respective Gospel readings for last Sunday and today. But while the temptation in the desert is obviously Lenten—in fact, it is the inspiration and foundation of this season—why is the Transfiguration a part of the Sunday readings during Lent?

Of course, the actual time between the temptation in the desert, which preceded Jesus’ public ministry, and the stunning event on the mountain was about two years or so. But just a week prior to the Transfiguration, Jesus had asked the disciples, “Who do the multitudes say I am?” (Lk. 9:18). After Peter, the head apostle, made his famous declaration, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matt. 16:16; Lk. 9:20), Jesus began to tell them that he would soon suffer many things, be rejected by the rulers, killed, and then “raised up on the third day” (Lk. 9:22). In Matthew’s account, the intrepid Peter, stunned by this revelation, rebuked Jesus, only to be rebuked, in turn, in no uncertain terms: “Get behind me, Satan!” (Matt. 16:23).

In sum, in the days leading up the Transfiguration, Jesus had directly confronted and demolished any false notions the disciples might have had about the nature of his mission. He strongly expressed the unwavering commitment he had to offering himself as a sacrifice for the world. His kingdom was not of this world, and he was not a political leader or a military warrior; he was not promising comfort and wealth. On the contrary, Jesus was promising a cross: “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me” (Lk. 9:23). 

We can only try to imagine how disorienting and confusing this had to be for the disciples. Suffering, rejection, and rapidly approaching death were not parts of their plan! In the midst of this confusion and anxiety, Jesus took Peter, John, and James, the inner circle of the disciples, up to the mountain to pray, ascending, as it were, toward the heavenly places. There, above the tumult of the world and an ominous future, Jesus revealed his glory and gave them a dazzling glimpse of their eternal calling.

But the glory witnessed by the three apostles was not just about the future. “The Transfiguration,” notes Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis in Fire of Mercy, Heart of the World (Ignatius Press, 2003), “is the experience of the fullness of divine Presence, action, communication, and glory now, in our very midst, in this world of passingness and disappointment.” It is about the fullness of life now—not ordinary, natural life, but extraordinary, supernatural life. The Transfiguration is about the gift of divine sonship, which comes from the Father, who says of Jesus, “This is my chosen Son; listen to him.”

St. Thomas Aquinas, in considering whether it was fitting that Jesus should be transfigured, observed that since Jesus exhorted his disciples to follow the path of His sufferings, it was right for them to see his glory, to taste for a moment such eternal splendor so they might persevere. He wrote, in the third part of the Summa, “The adoption of the sons of God is through a certain conformity of image to the natural Son of God. Now this takes place in two ways: first, by the grace of the wayfarer, which is imperfect conformity; secondly, by glory, which is perfect conformity…”

Peter and the disciples had to learn that Jesus’ death was necessary so his life could be fully revealed and given to the world. “On Tabor, light pours forth from him,” writes Leiva-Merikakis, “on Calvary it will be blood.” A week ago we entered into the desert of Lent; today we get a glimpse of the glory given to every son and daughter of God—glory conforming us to the Son.

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the February 28, 2010, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Confirmation and Evangelization

A 2014 photo of the late Cardinal Francis E. George blessing a boy during confirmation at St Clement Church in Chicago. (CNS photo/Karen Callaway, Catholic New World)

Confirmation and Evangelization | Bishop Robert Barron | CWR's The Dispatch

It is sometimes said that Confirmation is a sacrament in search of a theology; in fact, it provides strength for the baptized to defend and spreads the faith.

Just a few days ago, I had the enormous privilege of performing my first confirmation as a bishop. It took place at Holy Cross Parish in Moor Park, California, a large, bustling, and bi-lingual parish in my pastoral region. I told the confirmandi - and I meant it - that I would keep them in my heart for the rest of my life, for we were connected by an unbreakable bond. In preparation for this moment, I was, of course, obliged to craft a homily, and that exercise compelled me to do some serious studying and praying around the meaning of this great Sacrament.

It is sometimes said that Confirmation is a sacrament in search of a theology. It is indeed true that most Catholics could probably give at least a decent account of the significance of Baptism, Eucharist, Confession, Matrimony, Holy Orders, and the Anointing of the Sick, but they might balk when asked to explain the meaning of Confirmation. Perhaps they would be tempted to say it is the Catholic version of a Bar Mitzvah, but this would not even come close to an accurate theological description.

A survey of the most recent theologizing about Confirmation - the Documents of Vatican II, the Catechism of the Catholic Church, the 1983 Code of Canon Law, etc. - reveals that this is the sacrament of strengthening, as the term itself ("confirmare" in Latin) suggests. First, it strengthens baptized people in their relationship with the Lord Jesus and then it further strengthens them in their capacity to defend and spread the faith. The roots of it, of course, are in the great day of Pentecost when, through the descent of the Holy Spirit, eleven timorous and largely uneducated men became fearless evangelists, ready and able to spread the Gospel far and wide. Keep in mind that to proclaim Jesus publicly in that time and place was to take one's life in one's hand - and the disciples knew it. And yet, on the very day of Pentecost, they spoke out in the Temple and in the public squares of Jerusalem. With the exception of John, they all went to their deaths boldly announcing the Word. I told those I confirmed that they are, in a certain sense, successors of those first men upon whom the Holy Spirit descended and that they have the same fundamental task. Their Confirmation, I further explained, is therefore not really for them; it is for the Church and the wider world.

Now what makes this transformation possible is the third person of the Holy Trinity, who comes bearing a variety of powers, which the Church calls the gifts of the Holy Spirit. These include wisdom, knowledge, understanding, fortitude, counsel, piety, and fear of the Lord. In order to understand these more fully, we must keep in mind their relationship to evangelization and apologetics, to spreading and defending the faith. As I have argued often, a dumbed-down, simplified Catholicism is not evangelically compelling. We have a smart tradition, marked by two thousand years of serious theologizing by some of the masters of Western thought: Origen, Augustine, Jerome, Anselm, Bonaventure, Thomas Aquinas, John Henry Newman, G.K. Chesterton, and Joseph Ratzinger. If one is going to defend the Catholic faith, especially at a time when it is under assault by many in the secular culture, one had better possess (and cooperate with) the gifts of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding.

In order to be an effective evangelist, one also needs the spiritual gift of fortitude or courage. Will the defense of the faith stir up opposition?

Continue reading on the CWR site.

The Great Lent

(us.fotolia.com | rghenry)

The Great Lent | Dr. Thomas Howard | From Evangelical Is Not Enough

Lent, like Advent, is a time of penitence. Here we identify ourselves with the Lord's fast and ordeal in the wilderness, which He bore for us.

Editor's note: The following is excerpted from Evangelical Is Not Enough.

Presently Lent arrives. This is the forty days leading up to Easter, which also recall the forty days of Christ's temptation in the wilderness. There is a telescoping of things here, since His temptation did not in actual fact immediately precede His Passion, but "liturgical time" is such that spiritual significance may override chronological exactness.

Lent, like Advent, is a time of penitence. Here we identify ourselves with the Lord's fast and ordeal in the wilderness, which He bore for us.

This raises a point worth noting in passing. There are some varieties of Protestant theology and spirituality that so stress "the finished work of Christ" and the fact that He accomplished everything, that they leave no room at all for any participation on our part. Such participation, encouraged by the ancient Church, does not mean that we mortals claim any of the merit that attaches to Christ's work, much less that we can by one thousandth particle add to His work. Nevertheless, the gospel teaches us that Christians are more than mere followers of Christ. We are His Body and are drawn, somehow, into His own sufferings. We are even "crucified" with Him.

My own tradition stressed this, but it was taught as a metaphor that meant only the putting to death of sin in our members. There was very little said about the sense in which Christ draws His Body into His very self-giving for the life of the world and makes them part of this mystery. Saint Paul uses extravagant language about his own filling up "that which is behind of the afflictions of Christ." We had succinct enough explanations as to what he might have meant here, but these explanations allowed no room for any notion of our participating in Christ's offering. This was looked upon as heresy, violating the doctrine of grace in which all is done by God and nothing by us. We are recipients only. That the gracious donation of salvation by God could in any manner include His making us a part of it all, as He made the Virgin Mary an actual part of the process, and as Saint Paul seems to teach, was not the note struck.

The ancient Church, in its observance of Lent, once more asks us to move through the gospel with Christ Himself. The most obvious mark of Lent to a newcomer is the matter of fasting. I had own about this practice all my life. My Catholic playmates would give up chocolates or Coke or ice cream for Lent. I also knew that a few devout people in my own tradition of evangelicalism practiced fasting now and again for special purposes—a time of especially concentrated prayer, for example.

I myself thought of Lenten fasting and also of the old Catholic practice of refusing meat on Fridays as being legalistic, and perhaps even heretical, since it seemed to entail some notion of accruing merit. Since Christ had done all, why should we flagellate ourselves this way? Was it not a return to the weak and beggarly elements condemned by Saint Paul? Was it not to be guilty of the very thing that the apostle had a sailed the Galatian Christians for?

I discovered that the ancient Church teaches just what the New Testament teaches on the point, namely, that fasting is a salutary thing for us to undertake. Jesus fasted and assumed that His followers would. "When ye fast," He said, not "if." Saint Paul both practiced it and taught it. It seems to constitute a reminder to u that our appetites are not all and that man shall not live by bread alone. Furthermore, if we may believe the universal testimony of Christians who do practice it, it also clarifies our spiritual vision somehow. Lastly, it is a token of the Christian's renunciation of the world. There is no thing that a Christian will insist he must have at all costs. Fasting supplies an elementary lesson here.

Lent asks us to ponder Christ's self-denial for us in the wilderness. It draws us near to the mystery of Christ's bearing temptation for us in His flesh, and of how in this Second Adam our flesh, which failed in Adam, now triumphs.

Lent also leads us slowly toward that most holy and dread of all events, the Passion of Christ. What Christian will want to arrive at Holy Week with his heart unexamined, full of foolishness, levity, and egoism? To those for whom any special observances hint of legalism or superstition one can only bear witness that the solemn sequence of Lent turns out to be something very different from one's private attempts at meditating on the Passion. To move through the disciplines in company with millions and millions of other believers allover the world is a profoundly instructive thing.

Lent begins with Ash Wednesday. The first time ashes were imposed on my forehead, I found a cacophony of voices inside me: "Come! Now you have betrayed your background! This is straight back to the Dark Ages. Fancy Saint Paul's doing this!"

I knew it was not so when the priest came along with the little pot of damp ashes and with his thumb smudged my forehead—my forehead, the very frontal and crown of my dignity as a human being!—and aid, "Remember, O man, that dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return."

I knew it was true. I would return to dust, like all men, but never before had mortality come home to me in this way. Oh, I had believed it spiritually. But surely we need not dramatize it this way....

Perhaps we should, says the Church. Perhaps it is good for our souls' health to recall that our salvation, far from papering over the grave, leads us through it and raises our very mortality to glory. We, like all men, must die. I felt the strongest inclination to wave the priest past as he approached me in the line of people kneeling at the rail. Not me—not me—like Agag coming forth delicately, hoping that the bitterness of death was past. Yes, you. Remember, O man....

I was beginning to learn that when we encounter some "spiritual" truth in our bodies, it is brought home to us. We can meditate on suffering all day long, for example, but let us have migraines, and we know something we could not have known through merely mulling over the doctrine of suffering. We can meditate on love all day long, but let us kiss the one we long for, and we know immediately something we could not have known if we had thought about love for a thousand years. Nay—our very salvation came to us in the body of the incarnate God. "O generous love! that He who smote/In Man for man the foe,/The double agony in Man/For man should undergo," says Cardinal Newman's hymn. The ashes effected something in me more than a smudge on my forehead. I had felt, if only for a moment, the thing that I wished most earnestly to be exempted from: death.

Why We Need Lent

Detail from “Christ in the Wilderness” (1872) by Ivan Kramskoy (WikiArt.org)

Why We Need Lent | Fr. George William Rutler | CWR

Lent is a small familiarity with the inexhaustible drama of redemption in which eternity transfigures mortality.

Editor's note: This essay appears in He Spoke to Us: Discerning God’s Will in People and Events, by Father George William Rutler. It was originally published in Crisis Magazine, March 1, 2001.

Lenten days bring two images immediately to mind, at least to my own idle mind. The first is of the bishops’ gathering that first established Lent in 325 during the great ecumenical council in the Turkish town of Isnik—then called Nicaea. Some of the bishops there had been mutilated in the persecutions of the emperors Maximin and Licinius. A dubious record says there were 318 bishops in all, but we do know that their fifth canon ordered a time of fasting and penance lasting forty days, which we now call Lent, presumably because Moses, Elijah, and Christ had fasted forty days. There are bishops maimed like those Nicaean bishops today in China, though our government and many corporations have not advertised them. When one of them, Ignatius Cardinal Kung, was released in 1985 after thirty years in prison, he was surprised to learn that the Church’s Friday meat abstinence had been changed. Evidently he did not think this an improvement. While his internment had been a perpetual Lent, he thought the mortifications of his brethren in the West had been sustaining him. In fact, it had been the other way around.

The bishops of Nicaea knew the consequences of mortification, the grief of it when inflicted, and the grace of it when voluntarily assumed. So they extended to forty days what first had been a penitential period of three days before Easter. The season was catechetical as well as penitential, preparing catechumens for baptism and collaterally instructing all the faithful. Over the years, the nature of the Lenten fasts and penances varied, and not until the seventh century in the West was Ash Wednesday added so that Lent might last the full forty days if Sundays were exempted. As early as the time of the Council of Nicaea, however, the Church in Jerusalem had kept Lent for eight five-day weeks. The word “Lent” comes from the Old English lencten, after the season of spring with its lengthening daylight. Christians, bringing to fulfillment an instinct of most religions, have known that some period of mortification as a “prayer of the senses” serves as a prelude to a spiritual rebirth.

The second image that comes to mind when I think of Lent is that of the Church of Saint George in Velabro along the Roman Forum. Unlike the Church in Jerusalem, whose own altars fasted on the weekdays of Lent by forgoing the liturgy, the Church in Rome celebrated Mass every day of Lent and with special ceremony. At the end of their workday, the faithful would gather around the bishop of Rome and his deacons in procession to a church appointed for the day. The Church of Saint George was the station church for the first day after Ash Wednesday, and since Saint George is the patron of soldiers, the traditional gospel reading for that Thursday was about the centurion who asked Christ to heal his servant. To that church in the course of his tumultuous pontificate during the eleventh century, Pope Urban II brought a portion of the skull of the great martyr George. Others of his relics are entombed outside what is now the entrance to the Ben Gurion Airport in Israel.

When I was living in Rome some years ago, it fell to my lot to preach each year at Saint George on the Lenten station day, beginning when I was a deacon. By then, George’s official status on the Church calendar had been reduced in the neuralgic spirit of the late 1960s, though he continues to be the most honored saint—except for Mary—in many Christian nations. And of course, like the Nicaean bishops in their endurance, the survivors of Soviet Russia have restored Saint George to their banners, and a new Church of Saint George the Mega-Martyr shines in the sun across Red Square from the sullen tomb of Lenin the Martyrer. Ostpolitik is gone, and Saint George remains.

Lenten lightweights

All this is by way of saying that Lent is not for the fey. That is because Christianity is not for them, either.

Continue reading at www.CatholicWorldReport.com.

We are called to be fishers of men

"Gennesaret fishing" (c. 1935) by Nicholas Roerich [WikiArt.org]

We are called to be fishers of men | Carl E. Olson | A Scriptural reflection on the Readings for Sunday, February 7, 2015

Readings:
Is 6:1-2a, 3-8
Ps 138:1-2, 2-3, 4-5, 7-8
1 Cor 15:1-11 or 15:3-8
Lk 5:1-11

God initiates. Man responds. Jesus calls. Man answers.

Such is the dynamic relationship at the heart of salvation history and at the center of human existence. “Through an utterly free decision,” the Catechism explains, “God has revealed himself and given himself to man. This he does by revealing the mystery, his plan of loving goodness, formed from all eternity in Christ, for the benefit of all men.” Today’s readings offer a challenging view of God’s revelation of Himself, His call to specific men, and His desire for all Christians to be “fishers of men.” 

Let’s take a brief look at three men caught up in the divine drama: the prophet Isaiah, the apostle Paul, and Peter, the head of the Apostles and the first Pope. In many respects they were quite different from one another. Isaiah was likely from an upper-class family, was apparently well educated, and was married to a prophetess (Isa 8:3). Paul was also highly educated, the prize student of the great rabbi Gamaliel (Acts 22:3), and, prior to his conversion on the Damascus Road, a fervent enemy of the budding Church. Peter was certainly fervent as well, but was a fisherman and a blue-collar businessman. Yet, however different they were from one another, each man was called, in dramatic and personal fashion, to proclaim the Word of God in difficult, harrowing circumstances. 

Some seven centuries prior to Jesus and the apostles, the prophet Isaiah had a dazzling vision of the throne room of the Lord of hosts. Yahweh, the Holy One of Israel, initiated contact with the prophet and called him to the task of proclaiming the glory of God and exhorting Israel and Judah to repent of their sins. Isaiah recognized and confessed his own sinful state: “Woe is me, I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips…” 

As the Catechism says so well, “Faced with God’s fascinating and mysterious presence, man discovers his own insignificance” (CCC 208). When man sees himself in the light of God’s holiness and recognizes his desperate plight, he can then admit his sinful state and be given the grace needed for the work of God. “See,” Isaiah was told by the seraphim, “now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged.”

Paul was also transformed and purified by a heavenly vision. Having held the cloaks of those who stoned Stephen, the first martyr, the young Saul was intent on persecuting the Church in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas (Acts 7:58; 8:1-3). Then, while traveling to Damascus in search of more Christians to arrest, “a light from the sky suddenly flashed around him” (Acts 9:3). As he wrote to the church in Corinth, in today’s Epistle, “Last of all, as to one born abnormally, he appeared to me. For I am the least of the apostles, not fit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God.” Whereas Isaiah’s sinful lips were purified by fire, Paul’s blinded eyes were healed by the prayer and hands of Ananias, a disciple of Jesus Christ.  

Paul eventually spent time with Peter (cf. Gal 1:18), whose life contained more than a few instances of dramatic response to God’s call. Luke’s account of the miraculous catch of fish sets the stage for one such moment; it begins with the note that the crowds following Jesus were eagerly “listening to the word of God.” Some of the early Church Fathers, such as Ambrose and Augustine, saw this event as both historical and metaphorical: the boat of Peter represents the Church in history, going forth to catch men through the guidance of Christ, the head of the Church. Peter, who would eventually be the Vicar of Christ (Matt 16:16-18), accepted by faith the command of Jesus. Upon witnessing the miracle he responded with the same humility as Isaiah and Paul: “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” Yet Jesus does not ask only Peter and the apostles to be fishers of men; He asks it of every son and daughter of God. 

God is calling. How will we answer? Jesus tells us to cast our nets. Will we?

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the February 4, 2007, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

The motive and mission of the true prophet

Detail from "The Prophet Jeremiah" (1512) by Michelangelo, in Sistine Chapel [WikiArt.org]

The motive and mission of the true prophet | Carl E. Olson | A Scriptural reflection in the Readings for Sunday, January 31, 2016

Readings:
• Jer 1:4-5, 17-19
• Ps 71:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 15-17
• 1 Cor 12:31—13:13 or 13:4-13
• Lk 4:21-30

The nineteenth-century poet Thomas Moore once observed: “The prophet ill sustains his holy call/Who finds not heav’n to suit the tastes of all.” There have long been false prophets who have sought to tickle the ears of the people in order to acquire money, power, and fame. In our day and culture, we can easily point to televangelists as heirs to false prophets, but such sophists and con men come in many forms. The words of the Apostle John are as true today as they were in the first century: “[M]any false prophets have gone out into the world” (1 Jn 4:1).

But what is a prophet? What does a true prophet do? Yes, often says things about the future; the Old Testament prophets frequently spoke about future events. But most prophecy had as much to do with the moral choices of ordinary people as it did with earth-shaking events. Prophetic utterances were often exhortations to holiness, to authentic worship, and to zealous love for God and neighbor. Prophets such as Jeremiah and Elijah (both part of today’s readings) were called to tell the truth about God and to proclaim God’s Word to the people. Thus, the false prophet lies about God and leads people away Him.

Young Jeremiah, not even thirty years old, began to prophecy during a time of extreme political turmoil and overt apostasy. The people of Judah had turned away from the worship of Yahweh and were worshiping Baal. Jeremiah was told three things: he was chosen before birth by God to be a prophet, he would suffer persecution for his witness, and he would be sustained by the Lord. In a similar vein, the responsorial Psalm praises God for His sustaining salvation: “On you I depend from birth; from my mother’s womb you are my strength.” The mission of the prophet is summed up well in the refrain: “I will sing of your salvation.”

The reading from Paul’s first letter to the church at Corinth provides a perfect theological bridge to the event described in today’s Gospel. 1 Corinthians 13 is a well-known passage, nearly poetic in nature, about the theological virtue of love. The relationship between prophecy and love is not commonly remarked upon, but Paul, himself an apostle and prophet, states, “And if I have the gift of prophecy, and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.”

Love first; all else follows. Why? First, because God is Love, the perfect and eternal communion of three Persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (cf. I Jn 1:5; 4:8; CCC 214, 218-221). Secondly, because the greatest commandment is to “love the Lord, your God, with all of your heart, with all of your soul, and with all of your mind” (Matt 22:34-40; CCC 2055). Third, because the true prophet is a child of God who loves God and others and who speaks the truth about God. Love, Paul wrote, does not seek its own interests, “but rejoices with the truth.”

The reading from Luke’s Gospel demonstrates that those who seek their own interests and do not love the truth will despise the true prophet. At first the people were taken with Jesus and His message. But when Jesus made it clear—by comparing His mission to that of Elijah—that He came to reach the Gentiles as well as the Jews, matters turned ugly. Jesus was no longer accepted in His own country because He made it clear that His work of salvation is meant for all men, even those beyond His country. 

By virtue of being baptized into Christ, all Christians, including the laity, are called to participate in the prophetic work of their Savior (CCC 904-905). “By virtue of their prophetic mission,” states the Catechism“lay people ‘are called . . . to be witnesses to Christ in all circumstances and at the very heart of the community of mankind’” (CCC 942; cf CCC 871). Like Jeremiah, every child of God is known by his heavenly Father before he is born. Being a prophet means evangelizing however we can, by both word and deed, proclaiming the truth about God no matter the tastes of the listeners.

 (This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the January 28, 2007, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

“Today this Scripture passage is fulfilled in your hearing.”

Detail from "Jesus Unrolls the Book in the Synagogue" (1894) by James Tissot [WikiArt.org]

A Scriptural Reflection on the Readings for Sunday, January 24, 2016 | Carl E. Olson

Readings:
Neh 8:2-4a, 5-6, 8-10
Ps 19:8, 9, 10, 15
1 Cor 12:12-30 or 12:12-14, 27
Lk 1:1-4; 4:14-21

The books of Ezra and Nehemiah tell the story of the restoration of the Jews to the promised land following the Babylonian exile (c. 587-538 B.C.). The many years spent by the dislocated people of God in Babylon had a profound effect on the attitude and identity of the Jewish people. It is estimated that of the two to three million Jews given permission to return home, less than 50,000 took up the offer. 

As Peter Kreeft notes in his book, You Can Understand the Bible, “We usually prefer comfort to freedom. Life in Babylon had been comparatively easy, but the trek to Jerusalem was 900 miles long … Not only that, but once they arrived, they faced a ruined land, city, and temple, along with the formidable task of rebuilding” (Ignatius Press, 2005; p. 68). 

As today’s reading from Nehemiah describes, it was not just a physical rebuilding; in fact, the heart of the restoration was spiritual, religious, and liturgical. The people had to hear anew the book of the law and relearn the meaning and purpose of the law. The law shaped and defined the Jewish people, for it oriented them toward God and showed who they were in relation to him. Hearing the words read by the prophet Ezra, the people gave their assent and praise: “‘Amen, amen!’ Then they bowed down and prostrated themselves before the LORD.”

Fast forward a few hundred years to a small synagogue in Nazareth. The setting was significant. The exact origin of the synagogue (meaning “house of assembly”) as a regular place of Jewish gathering is unknown, but some scholars believe it can be located in the Babylonian exile, when synagogues were needed as places of worship for Jews so far removed from the Jerusalem temple. During the time of Christ, the synagogue was an established place for reading and teaching the law and the prophets. 

St. Luke describes, in today’s Gospel, how Jesus “went according to his custom into the synagogue on the sabbath day.” The young man appeared to be just one of many ordinary, devout Jews. To those who heard Jesus read from the prophet Isaiah, he was simply the son of a carpenter (Lk. 4: 22). But he was not long removed from being baptized in the Jordan and being tested in the desert; he was ready to embark upon his public ministry. And that ministry began and was marked throughout by the proclamation of God’s word—after all, every utterance of Jesus was a proclamation of that word by the Word, the Incarnate logos. 

Like Ezra, he was a priest and he spoke as a prophet. Like Ezra, he unrolled the scroll and he read from the law and the prophets. Yet, whatever the similarities, the essential differences are summed up in his concluding words: “Today this Scripture passage is fulfilled in your hearing.” Ezra, Isaiah, and all of the other prophets told the people to worship, love, and obey God; Jesus said the same, but also made it known that he was God (cf. Jn. 8:54-59). His priesthood was singular; his words were uniquely authoritative. The passage from Isaiah was fulfilled because the word of God had gone forth—not merely from the mouth of a human prophet, but into the world as the word who had assumed human nature: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth…” (Jn 1:14). 

The ministry of Christ—the anointed one—was to proclaim glad tidings to the poor, grant liberty to captives, give sight to the blind, and free the oppressed. This is true restoration from the ancient exile of both Jews and Gentiles in the land of sin and darkness. Every man is invited by the Messiah to leave the land of sin and enter the promised rest. “He set the captives free,” wrote Cyril of Jerusalem, “having overthrown the tyrant Satan, he shed the divine and spiritual light on those whose heart was darkened.”

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the January 24, 2010, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Cana, Signs, and Sacraments

"Marriage at Cana" [c. 1304] by Giotto di Bondone (WikiArt.org)

Cana, Signs, and Sacraments | Carl E. Olson | On the Readings for Sunday, January 17, 2016

Readings:
• Is 62:1-5
• Ps 96:1-2, 2-3, 7-8, 9-10
• 1 Cor 12:4-11
• Jn 2:1-11

The Gospel of John contains some seventeen direct references to signs (semeia), which is St. John’s term for the miraculous deeds of Jesus. St. John is especially interested in how these various signs are manifestations of God’s new and transforming intervention in human history through the Word, the Logos. His Gospel is a profound reflection on the fact and mystery that God became man and dwelt among us, “full of grace and truth” (see Jn 1:1-14).  

Chapters 2 through 12 of John’s Gospel are sometimes called collectively “The Book of Signs,” for they contain seven signs, or miracles, performed by Christ. These signs include the healing of the official’s son (Jn 4), the healing of the paralytic (Jn 5), the multiplication of the loaves (Jn 6), walking on water (Jn 6), the restoration of the blind man (Jn 9), and the raising of Lazarus (Jn 11).

The first sign, however, is the miracle at the wedding at Cana, proclaimed in today’s Gospel, which is found only in the Fourth Gospel. The exact location of Cana is unclear, but it was probably just a few miles north of Nazareth. The identity of the bride and groom are unknown, although a later tradition from about the third century states that Mary was the aunt of the bridegroom.

What is known, for it forms the crux of the story, is that something embarrassing had taken place: the wedding party ran out of wine. Mary, ever attentive to the needs of others, intercedes on behalf of the bride and groom, telling her son, “They have no wine.” She prays—that is, entreats—in faith, for the needs of those gathered for the feast. This foreshadows her prayers, as “Mother of all the living” and Mother of the Church, at the foot of the Cross, the saving way to the marriage feast of the Lamb (cf.Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2618, 1335, 963).

Jesus’ response is puzzling, perhaps even perplexing: “Woman, how does your concern affect me?” But the term “Woman” is not an insult, as some have argued incorrectly; it is actually a formal title of respect (cf. Matt 15:28). What is unusual is how Jesus, in speaking to his mother, uses the term without any qualifier. It indicates a changed relationship between son and mother (cf. Jn 19:26). Further, in using it, Jesus identifies Mary as the new Eve, whose obedience and faith will be an essential part of the new creation and a new family, the Church.

Jesus stated that his hour—the time of his passion, death, resurrection, and ascension (Jn 13:1)—had not yet arrived. Mary does not question him, or protest. Her words to the servers are words of invitation to all of us: “Do whatever he tells you.” She trusts her son, knowing he will do what is right and necessary. “The Mother of Christ presents herself as the spokeswoman of her Son's will,” observed Blessed John Paul II in Redemptoris Mater, “pointing out those things which must be done so that the salvific power of the Messiah may be manifested. At Cana, thanks to the intercession of Mary and the obedience of the servants, Jesus begins ‘his hour.’” (par 21).

The Church sees the miracle at Cana as a “confirmation of the goodness of marriage” (CCC 1613). But there is also a connection to baptism, for the jars used in the miracle were for ceremonial washings, for ritual purification from defilement. In the waters of baptism, we are cleansed by God’s grace and transformed by his power. Through baptism we become members of the Church, the bride of Christ, and are invited to partake of the blood of the bridegroom (CCC 1335).

“Now we all partake at the banquet in the church,” wrote the sixth-century saint, Romanus Melodus, “For Christ’s blood is changed into wine/And we drink it with holy joy/Praising the great bridegroom.”

First water, then wine; first baptism, then Eucharist. By these sacraments, perceptible signs, we are changed, cleansed, fed—and wed.

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the January 17, 2010, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Mary, Mother of Us All in the New Year

Pope Francis visits the Nativity scene in St. Peter's Square after vespers New Year's Eve in St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican Dec. 31. (CNS photo/Paul Haring)

Mary, Mother of Us All in the New Year | Dr. Randall B. Smith | CWR

When Mary said her “yes,” it changed everything. This should give us hope in the coming year that if we too say “yes" then this too can make all the difference in the world—the real world that God knows and loves

The Church recently celebrated the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God — a wonderful way to begin the New Year. Some might be inclined to fault the Church for placing this solemnity on New Year’s Day when the holy day of obligation is likely to be viewed with some displeasure by those who have been up late enjoying the festivities of the previous night. I disagree—this is the perfect day for such a feast.

Although the origins of the celebration of Mary Mother of God on the first day of the year can be traced back to the Council of Ephesus in 431, it was only relatively recently, in 1974, that Pope Paul VI placed it back on the calendar of the universal Church. Although the universal Church has not always celebrated the Solemnity of Mary on the first day of the year, great preachers throughout history have often taken the occasion of New Year’s Day to challenge the faithful to gain a deeper appreciation of the things that are truly important in life.

Celebrating the spiritual feast
St. John Chrysostom, to take but one example, a man so eloquent it earned him the sobriquet “Chrysostom,” Greek for “golden-mouthed,” chose to begin the New Year in 388 or 389 A.D., with an eloquent series of homilies on the Parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man. As in our own day, when there is much drinking and drunkenness associated with the celebration of the New Year, so too in the ancient world, the first day of January would have marked the end of their biggest festival, the Saturnalia, the most popular holiday of the Roman year. The poet Catullus described it as “the best of days,” while the Stoic philosopher Seneca complained that the “whole mob has let itself go in pleasures.” The sober, careerist magistrate Pliny the Younger tells us he would simply retreat to his room while the rest of the household celebrated.

As in the modern world, there were church services on the 1^st of the month to — how shall we put it? — attempt to dissuade Christians from partaking in too much revelry of the sort so many others seemed to have given themselves over to. Thus St. John began his homily by rallying his flock:

Yesterday, on the festival of Satan, you celebrated a spiritual feast, receiving with all favor the word we addressed to you; spending a great portion of the day in thus drinking in that rapture which is full of sobriety, and rejoicing in company with St Paul. In this way you gained a twofold benefit, since you were both separate from the disorderly throng of feasters, and rejoiced in a spiritual and decorous manner. You also partook of that cup, not overflowing with unmixed wine, but filled with spiritual instruction. While others were following the festive companies of the evil one, you, by your presence in this place, prepared yourselves as instruments of spiritual music, and surrendered your souls to the Divine Spirit that He might influence them, and breathe His own grace into your hearts. Thus you gave forth a melody of perfect harmony, pleasing not only to men but also to the heavenly powers. Let us, therefore, today, take up arms against inebriety, and expose the folly of a drunken and dissolute life.

When Chrysostom called it “the festival of Satan,” he was using that term somewhat metaphorically. Strictly speaking it was the festival of Saturn, so he was likely making a subtle play on words. And yet, on the day of “Saturn,” to what extent were people in town not acting as though they were celebrating “Satan”? His point was that while everyone else was out partying, his congregation was in church at Mass, so they celebrated, not a physical feast, but a “spiritual feast.” Instead of getting drunk, they—“full of sobriety”—drunk-in not wine, but the wisdom of the Scriptures. Instead of getting drunk on “unmixed wine” (wine unmixed with water, to cut its potency), they were drinking from another cup: the Word of God in the Scriptures and present in the Eucharist.

While others were out playing loud music in the public square (undoubtedly disturbing more contemplative souls like Seneca and Pliny), Chrysostom’s congregants were making themselves “instruments of spiritual music.” While others were out “tooting their own horns” (so to speak), Chrysostom’s congregants were perfecting themselves as an instrument, so that the breath of God, the Holy Spirit, might blow through them beautifully with his own sacred music. When men are inspired by this Spirit, they do not make a disorderly and riotous mob, in which all the minds of the individuals are given over to the crowd; rather they become a “symphony” of different voices, all working together in “perfect harmony,” pleasing to both God and man.

This context is not unimportant for appreciating the rest of the homily.

Continue reading at www.CatholicWorldReport.com.

The Magi and the Indescribable Glory of the Incarnation

"Adoration of the Magi" by Sandro Botticelli (1445-1501) [WikiArt.org]

The Magi and the Indescribable Glory of the Incarnation | Carl E. Olson

On the Readings for Sunday, January 3, 2016, the Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord

Readings:
• Is 60:1-6
• Ps 72:1-2, 7-8, 10-11, 12-13
• Eph 3:2-3a, 5-6
• Mt 2:1-12

"You have revealed Yourself to the world today, and your light, O Lord, has shined upon us,” declares one of the Byzantine kontakions, or hymns, for the Feast of the Epiphany (called the Feast of the Theophany in the Eastern churches). “You have come and revealed Yourself, O Inaccessible Light.”

As is common in many of the Eastern hymns and prayers, there is joyous reveling in the great mystery and paradox of the Incarnation. God is inaccessible, yet has made himself accessible in the most surprising way: by being born in a cave to a Jewish virgin. “Behold,” states the Christmas Vespers, “the image of the Father and his immutable Eternity has taken the form of a servant!” The Creator has become creature; the Eternal has become man; the Divine has taken on flesh.

Today’s feast celebrates the epiphaneia—that is, the appearance and manifestation—of God in the form of a man, Jesus of Nazareth. Down through time, between the East and the West, the feast has focused to varying degrees on three key events: the visitation of the Magi, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan, and the turning of water into wine at the wedding feast of Cana. Each of these events manifests and reveals the truth of the Incarnation and spills forth the glory of God.

The magi, traveling afar (likely from Persia), paid homage to the newborn King of kings. They represent the first of the Gentiles brought into the family of God through the Christ-child (see Catechism of the Catholic Church, par. 528). St. Paul, in today’s epistle, writes of the “mystery” that “the Gentiles are coheirs, members of the same body,” the Church. The “catholic” nature of the new covenant would, of course, prove to be a source of consternation and conflict, just as the questions asked by the magi would provoke Herod to jealousy and rage. 

We are so familiar with the story of the magi that it is possible to be dulled to the paradox of wealthy, educated rulers from the East bestowing precious gifts upon a Jewish baby in a humble home with a dirt floor. Was the star enough to convince them of the baby’s importance? Pope Benedict XVI, in his 2007 homily for this feast day, said there was something more. “In comparison with King Herod,” he said, “beset with his interests of power and riches, the Magi were directed toward the goal of their quest and when they found it, although they were cultured men, they behaved like the shepherds of Bethlehem: they recognized the sign and adored the Child, offering him the precious and symbolic gifts that they had brought with them.”

What the magi recognized, by God’s grace, was the presence of glory, light, and splendor, cradled in the arms of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Today’s Old Testament reading from the prophet Isaiah describes how darkness and thick clouds “covers the peoples”—the nations of the earth—but that light has come to Jerusalem, “the glory of the Lord shines upon you.” Many of the Jews rejected the light, just as some walked in it, as did Mary, the mother of God. Nations, rulers, men, and women choose to either see the splendor or to retreat into the darkness.

During Advent, we anticipated the parousia—the presence—of the King; the Feast of the Epiphany marks the fulfillment of that anticipation. The glory that slowly lit the Advent sky has now burst forth in the person of the Son. If Christmas is the celebration of God quietly invading the dark lands of humanity, Epiphany is the celebration, in part, of man recognizing the love and light of the invasion.

“The glory of God,” the Catechism teaches, “consists in the realization of this manifestation and communication of his goodness, for which the world was created” (par. 294). Man was made to share in God’s glory, and God’s glory is demonstrated in the salvation of man.

To God alone be glory. Soli Deo Gloria!

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the January 3, 2010, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)

Fr. Uwe Michael Lang on how gesture, art, music, and architecture make present the sacred in the liturgy

San Francisco, December 29, 2015 – An inspiring new book from Ignatius Press, Signs of the Holy One by Uwe Michael Lang, shows that Catholic liturgy is far more than its texts. It is a synthesis that also includes several other elements—gesture, music, art, and architecture—which are aspects of the non-verbal language of the sacred and are what make the liturgy beautiful.

Father Lang’s consideration of the beauty of the liturgy addresses the modern notion that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that the experience of beauty is entirely subjective. This idea makes it difficult to articulate criteria for what is beautiful, yet sacred liturgy does indeed have objective measures for evaluating its principal elements. Reflecting upon these and quoting from authoritative Church documents, Father Lang discusses sacred music, art, and architecture, and demonstrates how the beauty of these elements makes present the sacred.

Pope Benedict XVI said, “The greatness of the liturgy depends—we shall have to repeat this frequently—on its non-spontaneity.” Continuous liturgical experimentation is unable to induce a sense of meaning or peace, writes Father Lang, because novelty does not satisfy the yearning for the Transcendent within the human psyche, which is rarely far from the surface.

Cardinal George Pell, the Prefect of the Secretariat for the Economy, says, “In this wonderful book, Fr. Lang explores the beauty of sacred symbols and actions in the Catholic liturgy and explains why their rediscovery is important in our modern age. Deserves to be widely read.”

“There are many reasons to recommend this book, including its convenient gathering together of many sources and documents of the Church, its ample footnotes and bibliography, its concise summaries of key issues, and its evaluation of various viewpoints concerning the sacred in contemporary theology,” says Fr. Samuel F. Weber, O.S.B., author of The Office of Compline.

Dom Alcuin Reid, author of The Organic Development of the Liturgy, says, “Fr. Lang reminds us that the liturgy is first and foremost the action of Christ Himself. He provides a welcome resource for that formation in the spirit and power of the liturgy for which the Second Vatican Council called.”

Milton Walsh, author of In Memory of Me: Meditations on the Roman Canon, explains, “Fr. Lang urges us to think about liturgy as an event, not merely a collection of texts. After providing a comprehensive anthropological and theological foundation for sacred worship, he invites his readers to reflect on how the liturgy is performed.”

“This is an original synthesis, based upon a sound grasp of modern anthropological and theological foundations, showing the intrinsic connection between the beautiful and the sacred,” says Stanford University Professor William Mahrt,
 
About the Author:
Uwe Michael Lang has an M.A. in theology from the University of Vienna and a Ph.D. in theology from the University of Oxford. A priest of the Oratory of Saint Philip Neri in London, he is currently Lecturer in Theology at Heythrop College, University of London, and on the Visiting Faculty at the Liturgical Institute in Mundelein, Ill. Among his publications are Turning Towards the Lord and The Voice of the Church at Prayer, both published by Ignatius Press.
 
Uwe Michael Lang, the author of Signs of the Holy One, is available for interviews about this book.   
   
To request a review copy or an interview with Fr. Lang, please contact: Rose Trabbic, Publicist, Ignatius Press at (239)867-4180 or [email protected]
 
Product Facts:
Title: SIGNS OF THE HOLY ONE
Liturgy, Ritual, and Expression of the Sacred
Author: Uwe Michael Lang
Release Date: October 2015
Length: 180 pages
Price: $17.95
ISBN: 978-1-62164-007-3 • Softcover
Order: 1-800-651-1531 • www.ignatius.com

The Virgin Mary bore the King and the Kingdom, the Messiah and the Church

"Nativity" (c. 1311) by Giotto di Bondone [WikiArt.org]

A Scriptural Reflection on the Readings for December 20, 2015, the Fourth Sunday of Advent | Carl E. Olson

Readings:
• Mi 5:1-4a
• Ps 80:2-3, 15-16, 18-19
• Heb 10:5-10
• Lk 1:39-45

St. Augustine, in his treatise, “On Holy Virginity,” made this profound, even startling, statement: “Thus also her nearness as a Mother would have been of no profit to Mary, had she not borne Christ in her heart after a more blessed manner than in her flesh.”

In that single line, the great Doctor anticipated the objections voiced by many Protestants while also explaining the honor and love shown by Catholics (and Eastern Orthodox) for the Theotokos, the Mother of God. I heard and repeated, while growing up in a Protestant home of Fundamentalist persuasion, many of those objections: “Mary was just an ordinary woman,” “Mary was not sinless,” and, of course, “Catholics worship Mary!” People would sometimes go to extremes to avoid any appearance of praise for Mary. A close relative once told me that Mary had merely been a “biological vessel” for the baby Jesus!

Two things changed my mind: reading actual Catholic teaching about Mary and re-reading Scripture. The first came from a sense of fairness toward what I didn’t know; the second came from a growing (and hardly characteristic) humility about what I thought I knew. Sure, I had read the opening chapters of the Gospel of Luke many times. But I must have read it dozens of times before I began to slowly comprehend the astonishment of the Annunciation, the wonder of Elizabeth’s ecstatic greeting, the magnitude of the Magnificat.

Today’s Gospel reading follows the Annunciation and immediately precedes the Canticle of Mary. The young Mary, told by Gabriel that she had found favor with God and would bear a son, eventually sets out to see Elizabeth, also pregnant with a son. Having already been confirmed by a heavenly messenger of God, Mary was then confirmed by her own flesh and blood in words heard and repeated by countless faithful through the centuries: “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

To be blessed is to have found favor with God, to be filled with the grace—the supernatural life—of God. It is to possess the kingdom by belonging to the King (cf. Matt 5:3, 10). As mother of the King of kings, Mary bore the kingdom within her. As mother of the Messiah, she is also the mother of the Church. Pope John Paul II, in Redemptoris Mater (1987), wrote that “in her new motherhood in the Spirit, Mary embraces each and every one in the Church, and embraces each and every one through the Church” (par. 47).

Mary and Elizabeth, bearing their sons—one a prophet, the other the Son of God—prefigure the Church that would later be born from the side of the crucified Lord and made manifest on Pentecost (see CCC 766, 1076). Blessed by the Father, impregnated by the power of the Holy Spirit, and filled with the Son, the Virgin brings joy and gladness into the dark, silent womb of man’s deepest longing.

Like St. Augustine, John Paul II provided a profound reflection on the belief and faith of Mary. In the expression “Blessed are you who believed,” he wrote, “we can therefore rightly find a kind of ‘key’ which unlocks for us the innermost reality of Mary, whom the angel hailed as ‘full of grace.’ If as ‘full of grace’ she has been eternally present in the mystery of Christ, through faith she became a sharer in that mystery in every extension of her earthly journey” (par. 19). The miracle of Mary’s pregnancy and Virgin birth go hand in hand with the mystery of faith.

At Christmas we celebrate the birth of the Christ child while recognizing that Christ always remains in the heart of Mary. Having given birth to the Savior at one particular moment in time, Mary has continued to give the Savior to the world ever since. It is her one desire, her unending gift of joy and life to each of us. “And how does this happen to me,” we ask ourselves, “that the mother of my Lord should come to me?”

(This "Opening the Word" column originally appeared in the December 20, 2009, edition of Our Sunday Visitor newspaper.)