Christ Crucified

High above the altar in our parish church is a near life-size Crucifix. Jesus Christ is portrayed in the full agony of His suffering on the Holy Cross. His bruised and beaten Body is dripping blood from all the wounds He endured. His face is contorted in pain. Anyone who sees our Crucifix confronts the suffering and death of Jesus. For some, it is repellant–too bloody, too awful to look at. Others gaze upon Him almost in a rapture of adoration, losing themselves in Christ’s complete offering of Himself for our salvation. No matter how you approach the Crucifix, any Crucifix, you’re confronted with the reality of what Jesus did for us on that hill outside Jerusalem.  

The Passion of Christ wasn’t an intellectual experiment. It wasn’t some kind of mental mind game that God employed to reason us into salvation. It wasn’t a parable or a mere story to be told to the grandkids. This wasn’t a philosophical exercise that the Lord presented to us as a starting-point for debate or research. The Passion was bloody and dirty and horribly cruel. It was a real man, in the prime of His life, arrested and beaten almost to death before being nailed to the Cross. He endured hours of mortal agony, offering no resistance, asking that His Father forgive the men who were killing Him. He poured His life out, literally, unto the last drop, out of love for you and me.  

That’s what I see when I see our Crucifix. Yes, it’s bloody. Yes, it’s even offensive. It’s a shocking thing to see in a Church. And that’s what makes it so perfect. The Crucifixion is shocking and blood and offensive. And without it life is meaningless and without hope. There are lots of folks who never contemplate the Crucifixion or the love of our God Who died to give us life. All we have to do is look around us, or read the news, to see a world blind to Calvary. We see the enemy gathering its forces in cities and countries around the world, and even in our own country. We see innocent people killed for their belief in Christ. This has happened before in the history of our world and we know what to do. “…we preach Christ crucified”(I Corinthians 1:23).  

Christ crucified. When I look at our Crucifix I see His love and sacrifice for me. I see His mercy in forgiving His tormentors. I see His humble submission to His Father’s will. I see the complete commitment of a life to love and service. In the Crucifix, I see Love holding nothing back. Spending time before the Crucifix is time at the foot of the Cross, in prayer with my Savior.  

My protestant friends often have a bare Cross in their churches, and we share in a love for it, too. But the Cross didn’t save me—–Jesus crucified on the Cross saves me. That sacred presence of His Body sanctifies the wood of the tree. Without His Passion, the Cross is just another cruel Roman tool of death. When I see a Crucifix, I see hope for the world. I see mercy for the sinner, love for the forgotten, healing for the wounded. And joy for those who mourn. I see the courage that I need to share His love with a broken world. I see our only Way, our only Truth, our only Life. No political leader, no secular philosophy, no economic regime can bring us the peace we all crave. Only Christ crucified is the answer to every question and the solution to every problem the world will ever have.  

How beautiful it is to stand before the Crucifix simply to be under the Lord’s gaze, so full of love.”

                    —-Pope Francis 

Cast Your Net

At the end of the day, we should ask ourselves, “How did I draw others to Christ this day?” We can have all kinds of good intentions, but we know where good intentions can often lead. Folks don’t know our intentions, they only know our words and our actions. So maybe the question should be,”What did I say and do today to draw others to Christ?”

Well, if you walked around with your head down staring at your phone, chances are you didn’t do a whole lot of leading by example. How many opportunities to help, to show kindness, to be merciful, or to offer hope do we lose because we’re so involved in responding to those little glowing screens in our hands? I do this way too often, especially as a way of “killing time” while I’m waiting in a line, waiting in a doctor’s office, or even as a way of not engaging with the people around me. I’m being self-centered and proud—-hardly an example of a joyful disciple of Christ. 

In order to reveal our Savior to another person, we have to be open to engage with them. This seems incredibly obvious, but so many times we don’t do it. Look people in the eyes. The cashier at the supermarket. The bank teller. Your spouse. Your child. Listen to them. Don’t just mentally prepare what you plan to say in response once they’re stopped talking. Really listen to their words and the meaning behind them. You may hear something you weren’t expecting. Ask questions. Be patient. Don’t feel that you have to make small talk to fill in any silences. Sometimes silence is very important. Connecting with another person in that way can be the first step in sharing the love of Jesus. 

Joy. That’s right, joy. If there’s one thing that should distinguish a Christian from an unbeliever, it’s that we live our lives with joy. Everyone can be happy in the good times, but I’m talking about being joyful even in the worst of times. Joy comes from the gift of faith and the Holy Spirit. Joy is the deep and abiding assurance of the love of Jesus Christ. I love the story of St. Lawrence as an example of Christian joy. He was a deacon in 3rd century Rome, during some of the worst times of Christian persecution. He distributed alms to the poor, which won him the anger of the Empire. As punishment, he was strapped to a grate over a raging fire. After he had been burned alive for a time, he told his torturers, “You can turn me over now—I think I’m done on that side!” Now that’s joy—an enduring happiness which grows in relationship with Jesus.  

If you faithfully engage with the people your meet every day and you listen to them and reflect back the joy of Christ, you can be assured that your life will bear the light of Christ to others. You don’t have to be a professional preacher or write inspirational books or teach Sunday School. Just be who God made you to be and live each day in the hope of the Cross. God will set people in your path that are hungry to have what you have to know the One Who gave it to you.

“Joy is a net of love by which we catch souls.”

       —-St. Mother Teresa 

The Thin Veil

My mother suffered a series of strokes before her death several years ago. Already enduring a second bout with cancer, she was spending much of her days watching television news, which had become a favorite activity during her long illness. But after that initial stroke, she didn’t so much watch the television as watch a spot on the wall about 2 feet above the screen. This would go on for hours. She would smile and nod as if she agreed with whatever it was she saw there, but since she couldn’t speak, we were never able to find out what that was. We all long to know what we’ll experience once we die. The veil which separates our earthly life from the one to come seems thin at times. We love those stories about near-death experiences. The Church teaches us that after we die we experience a personal judgement before God. But what will that be like? Who will we see? Will we recognize our loved ones there?

Steve Jobs was raised by his adoptive parents in a home without much religion. He studied Buddhism for a bit, but he also described himself as an atheist, or an agnostic. Yet, when he died in 2011, his wife provided him with a Christian funeral. We might not know what he believed, but we know that his family revealed his last words to be: “Oh, wow. Oh, wow. Oh, wow!” What was he seeing? Who was he seeing? He seemed impressed, and a bit awed.  

We’ve all heard the story of the country doctor making a house call to one of his patients. The doctor always took his dog with him on these visits, and his pet would sit patiently outside the door. That day, the dying man asked his doctor if he knew what death was like. In answer, the doctor opened the door and his dog gleefully bounded into the room. “You see this dog?” asked the doctor. “He didn’t have any idea what was on the other side of this door. All he knew was that his master was in here waiting for him. And that was enough.” For a more poetic insight, J.R.R. Tolkien has the wizard Gandalf describe death like this: “The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns silver glass…and then you see it. White shores. And beyond…a far green country under a swift sunrise.” To me, those are both beautiful images.  

The Church also teaches us that it’s prudent to meditate on death. We look at our life in relation to its ending and we take things like sin and repentance more seriously. Sin has eternal consequences, and life is so precious and brief. One of my favorite authors, Pat Conroy died this past spring and he reflected on how short our sojourn is on this earth. “Why do they not teach you that time is a finger snap and an eye blink and that you should not allow a moment to pass you by without taking joyous, ecstatic note of it, not wasting a single moment of its swift, breakneck circuit?” Indeed. We’re too often distracted by distractions, and we look up and another year has passed us by.  

I found this reflection which I think beautifully illustrates both the mystery and the joy of passing into eternity. I hope you’ll enjoy it here in the beginning of another new year:

And this is the consolation—that the world doesn’t end, that the world one day opens up into something better, and that we one day open up into something far better. Maybe like this: one morning you finally wake to a light you recognize as the light you’ve wanted every morning that has come before. And the air itself has some light thing in it that you’ve always hoped the light might have. And One is there to welcome you whose face you’ve looked for during all the best and all the worst times of your life. He takes you to Himself and holds you close until you fully wake. And it seems you’ve only just awakened, but you turn and there we are, the rest of us, arriving just behind you. We’ll go the rest of the way together.” 

         —-Scott Cairns 


In the bleak mid-winter 

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone,

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.”

Long ago and right this minute. In the cold-blasted streets of Aleppo covered in stone and debris, the trash of a worn-out city where bombs had fallen, bomb on bomb. Families gone, huddled in boats, headed somewhere, anywhere. Hearts breaking like stone. In the bleak mid-winter. Today.  

Syria is a complicated place to understand. It’s ancient and multi-cultured and there will never be a quick and easy solution. I don’t make any claims to understand it. But I understand the results of the situation. We can all look at the news footage of little children bleeding on the streets and their family crying out for help. Those of us of a certain age remember similar scenes of the children in Vietnam. It happened in Hiroshima, and in most every war before. We can understand why the families want to leave there, to get their children away from the horror of war and to a safe place. To Germany. To France, or Belgium. Or to America. And we know that some of those people fleeing Syria are angry and violent. We know that some of them are terrorists. We’ve seen their work in pictures, too. In France. In Turkey. In too many places.

“Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him

Nor earth sustain;

Heaven and earth shall flee away

When He comes to reign:

In the bleak mid-winter

A stable-place sufficed

The Lord God Almighty,

Jesus Christ.”

               —–Christina Rosetti,    1872

Many of us look at the Syrian children and feel torn between wanting to help them and wanting to make sure our own homes and families are safe from terrorism. And in the mean time, in the very very mean time—the war and the suffering goes on and the children bear the brunt of it. This has been our story all along. We shake our heads and send our prayers and in another generation, in another place, we’ll do the same thing again. Another Christmas Day will come and go and what city will be next year’s Aleppo? When we see another terror attack in a market, a mall, a church, or an airport?  

Christ comes to us in the bleak mid-winter, as the poem says. He did that on purpose, of course. For it’s in that dark and hopeless time that we most need the Light of His coming. We need Him all the more when we can’t find the way, when our own hearts lack all hope and charity. When we don’t see a way to help suffering refugees and at the same time keep our own country safe. We have to find this path. We must. We’ll be held accountable for the suffering that we failed to ease. 

The New Year lies before us as the refugee camps continue to swell with children, families, and yes, people intent on violent terror against us. As we raise our champagne toasts to 2017, somewhere a child is hungry and alone and somewhere a young man’s hardened heart plots an angry outrage. We are all in the bleak midwinter.  

Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful.”

            —–Luke 6:36 

He’ll Find You

One Christmas when I was very small my parents told us that we were going to spend the holiday with our grandparents. This was a new and exciting thing for me. We always spent a few weeks in the summer with them in Texas, but we’d never been there for Christmas. I began to imagine how fun this was going to be! I’d get to see all my Texas aunts and uncles and to play with my cousins. And, of course, spending time with my grandparents was a great treat. Since we rarely got to see them, they completely indulged us with treats and attention. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became about our trip.  

But, wait a minute. Just hold on a minute here. If I was in Texas instead of Georgia, how would Santa Claus ever find me? How would he know to bring all the toys I’d asked for to my grandparents’ house? More than fifty years later, I fully remember the horror and the panic of that moment. My mother assured me that Santa would find me and that I shouldn’t worry about it. She could usually put any of my fears to rest, but this time, I just wasn’t sure she knew what she was talking about. I kept on worrying about it. I fretted on the car trip out there and for the days leading up to Christmas morning. All the fun I’d anticipated having on this special trip was tainted by that nagging voice in my head: “Will Santa find me? Will he still bring me my toys?” Of course he did find me and he brought me all I’d asked for and more. I’d like to say that I realized Christmas wasn’t about getting toys from Santa, and that I’d ruined the time with my Texas family because of my greedy little heart. But I was only five years old and at the time all I cared about was presents.  

I’d like to say also that I never again allowed myself to be distracted from the real meaning of Christmas—but that wouldn’t be true either. I found it easy, and even great fun, to be caught up in the materialism of a worldly Christmas. It was too many useless gifts, too many frantic activities, and too much exhaustion at the end of the day. It was only when I’d begun to reclaim Advent in my life that Christmas became more spiritual and much less material. I don’t know why I resisted the Church’s teaching on Advent for so long. I wanted to put the Christmas tree up the day after Thanksgiving and shop until I dropped at every spare moment. I didn’t want to waste a festive minute on prayer or reflection, much less on fasting or charitable works. I wanted to rush right into Christmas and then be completely worn out and a little depressed on December 26.  

These days, I’ve learned to savor every moment leading up to HIs birth. I re-read favorite devotions and Scripture. I spend time in Advent, rather than just money. And I’ve recognized that Christmas BEGINS on December 25 and lasts those famous “12 Days” until January 6 and the Feast of the Epiphany when we celebrate the coming of the Wise Men. I hope you and your family embrace the season of Advent and, as it draws to a close, that you’re prepared to welcome the Christ Child into your heart. I hope you take the time for prayer and reflection and make the most of moments shared with your family and friends. And remember what my mother told me on that Christmas in Texas: Don’t worry. He’ll always find you.

“Who among us will celebrate Christmas correctly? Whoever finally lays down all power, reputation, honor, vanity, and arrogance beside the manger. Whoever remains lowly and lets God alone be high.”

     —–Dietrich Bonhoeffer


Once upon a time, several years ago, on a cold morning in north Georgia, I was making the short drive from my house to the grocery store. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and once again I was keeping my personal vow to never go Christmas shopping on that day. My plan was to pick up some cookie ingredients and head back home for a day of baking. I was wishing that I’d warmed up the SUV before setting out, though. As I rounded a curve on the small country road leading into town, I saw the flashing lights of a sheriff’s patrol car heading my way. Behind him was the long, slow line of a funeral procession.

Here in the South, we pull over to the side of the road when we meet a funeral, so that’s what I did. I remember thinking that Thanksgiving would never again be the same for this grieving family. As my car idled and warmed, I gave thanks for our family’s gathering just the day before and said a quick prayer for the person about to be laid to rest. The hearse passed by me and I prayed the Sign of the Cross. A dozen or so cars came by me before the end of the procession. I was about to shift my car back into “drive” again and go on my way. That’s when it happened.

I heard it before I saw it. And when I saw it, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. For a long few seconds, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The loud “thump” I’d just heard was the sound of a small brown monkey landing on the hood on my car. It looked at me through the windshield with its tiny black eyes, unblinking. I could see the small puffs of its breath in the freezing air. It was wearing a little black collar around its neck. And then, it leapt off my hood and in a couple of bounds, crossed the road and disappeared into the thick cedar grove on the other side. Like it had never happened.  

HAD it happened? Had a capuchin monkey just looked at me through my windshield on this freezing November morning in north Georgia? Yes, I decided. This had really happened. First the funeral, then the monkey, and then both of them were gone. I looked over to where the monkey had run into the cedar trees, but it was a solid wall of green-black branches. It had to have been a lost pet of course. Surely someone would be looking for it. This happened years before social media, which can be such a big help in reuniting owners and pets. So I went on my way.  

You’re probably wondering what the heck my monkey story has to do with Advent and Christmas. Well, I can’t imagine a more surprising event than the God of the Universe choosing to be born as a poor baby in a manger. The Incarnation is the most improbable occurrence in the history of the world. An angel appears to a Virgin–surprise! She conceives a Child by the Holy Spirit–surprise! She tells St. Joseph she’s expecting–surprise! He chooses to love and marry her anyway–surprise! Wise men come bearing expensive gifts–surprise! The whole story is one big shocking surprise after another.

Our God shocks us with His great love and mercy by His coming to live as one of us, die on the Cross for us, and rise again to save us. And He’ll surprise us when He comes again. Advent is the time to prepare our hearts for His coming at Bethlehem, for meeting Him at the end of our lives, and for His coming again at the end of time. Life happens in the blink of an eye, and its worth should never be forgotten. Before you know it, you’ll be asking, “Did that really happen? Was that real?” Be ready. Be vigilant. Love and forgive with all your heart. Welcome all of God’s surprises with open arms and thankfulness. His hope will always find you.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

             —Jeremiah 29:11


Dark comes early on these December days leading up to Christmas. The cold begins to settle in my bones. When the sun sets the little daytime creatures in the woods retreat to their nests and burrows. In the hours to follow, the liquid dark will fill in every hollow as the frost of almost-winter coats the fallen leaves and the bare branches. The quiet is a different kind of silent night in the woods this time of year. Like the chill of the air, this quiet is a solid thing, with a weight and substance of its own. It’s as if the earth itself is whispering, “Slow down. Wait. Be still.” The world is holding its breath. In a couple of weeks, on the solstice, the earth will begin to journey to the light and warmth once again. But right now, these are the dark days of waiting and longing in the cold quiet of long and frosty nights.  

It’s no wonder that the Church celebrates the birth of Jesus in the winter. Life is at its most hidden in the winter. Days are short and the weak light of the sun gives little warmth. We stay bundled inside our own little burrows, hidden and safe. We can imagine, if we try, the Virgin Mary with the Word of God growing quietly inside of her. She moves more slowly now, and with more deliberation. She spends more of her time thinking of her Son and His coming into the world. The darkness of the world is soon to be illumined by His great Light. Everything she does is affected by His presence within her. She waits. She prays. She hopes for His birth as any mother hopes for the coming of their baby. Yet the Virgin also knows Who her Son is and knows as well the road He must travel. The bloom of God within her will one day pierce her immaculate heart.  

There exists a delicate balance in these Advent days. A balance between light and dark, life and death, action and reflection. Above all, it is a time of learning to be patient. We wait to hear His voice. We stop focusing on the busyness of the world to reflect on eternal things. We prepare the manger of our hearts to receive our Savior. We put aside our wants so that we can meet the needs of the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the outsiders in our community. Every Advent is another opportunity to be light in the darkness. We waste this time of patient preparation if we allow ourselves to be caught up in the world’s push to purchase and display and out-do. We can’t be merciful if we’re in a competition. Mercy thrives in humility and service. And patience.  

In the cold dark nights of winter, a great Light is coming. Our waiting is a gift to the Light. As we learn to conform our will to His will, we love more, we forgive more. We know that love is kind, but it is, first of all, patient (I Corinthians 13:7). We wait. We prepare through our repentance and our almsgiving. We share our abundance with those who have less. Patient love endures in hard times. It grows in the heart that turns to the Light despite the coldness of a world that despises her King. Winter roots hold life and the promise of the coming spring. In the dark and cold, they grow strong and sturdy. And when the Light returns, they’re ready. They send forth new life. This is our calling—to prepare ourselves for the Light that is coming. Alleluia.  

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and in His word, I hope…”

     —–Psalm 130:5 

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