Pointing To Christ

We all know the story of St. John the Baptist. Born to Zechariah and Elizabeth in their old age, he was Jesus’ cousin. When Mary visited Elizabeth to share the good news of the coming birth of Christ, the infant John “leapt with joy” in his mother’s womb. He’s remembered as the last of the prophets whom God empowered to foretell the coming of the Messiah. John preached repentance (Matthew 3:2-8). He began his ministry in the desert, the wild man of God living on grasshoppers and honey and dressed in camel skins. He must have been an amazing sight to the fastidious Jews. But like them, John felt the oppression of the Roman Empire and longed for God to send His chosen family a Messiah that would give the Jews an earthly kingdom. John was a powerful and gifted preacher and he gained many followers. He’s probably known best as the one who baptized Jesus in the Jordan River. He looked up and saw Jesus approaching and proclaimed, “Behold, the Lamb of God!” We hear the priest echo John’s words at each Mass when we gaze upon the Body of Christ in the Eucharist.

John’s life and ministry always pointed the way to Christ. He never sought power or glory for himself. When his followers reported to him that Jesus was baptizing and that many people were now following Him, John’s beautiful response remains an inspiration to us: “…this joy of mine has been made complete. He must increase; I must decrease”(John 3:30). What’s true for John is true for us as well. For God’s mighty work to be accomplished in us, we have to get out of His way. God asked John to spend his life preaching repentance and preparation for Christ’s coming. John was God’s prophet and at our baptism, each one of us claims a share in Christ’s divine offices of “priest, prophet, and king (Catechism of the Catholic Church, paragraphs 897-913). Looking at your own life, how well are you living up to St. John the Baptist’s example? Does your life point others the way to Jesus? We might think it’s intimidating to compare ourselves to a prophet like John. But in many ways we’re living in times very much like John’s own.

He was imprisoned for speaking truth to power. In his case, he defended the sanctity of marriage and the king threw him in jail and later had him beheaded in order to impress a woman. John preached the freedom of God’s heavenly peace, yet he was thrown into prison. Locked in darkness, John came to bear witness to the Light of Christ. John baptized our Redeemer in water, but received for himself the martyr’s baptism of blood. Yet John let nothing stand in the way of his message and his mission. We’re each called by God to a unique mission which only we can fulfill. God doesn’t expect you to be another John the Baptist or Mother Teresa or Fulton Sheen. He wants you to fulfill your calling and your mission. These days, the truth of Christ is under assault on every front. Our Bishops stand in opposition to a government which thinks it can define our faith for us. When asked to put Caesar before Christ, our Bishops have said, “No!” Our culture sees the Church as out of step with modern times.

And we are. If we’re to be true to our Savior, we have to stand up for His Truth, which is unchanging. Like John the Baptist, we must constantly point to Christ, no matter the consequences. John wasn’t afraid to tell the king the truth about marriage. Catholics must also defend marriage as a Holy Sacrament between one man and one woman. We are called to defend life and that puts us at odds with those who support abortion, euthanasia, human cloning and embryonic stem cell research. Like John we have to raise the cry of outrage when anyone or any institution threatens God’s gift of life. We do this through the life-affirming example of how we live. We support the Church and the affiliated organizations which defend life and the free practice of our faith. We pray. We peacefully protest. And we vote in support of those candidates who also support life and freedom of faith. The Catholic Church proclaims at every Mass, “Behold, the Lamb of God!” Our lives must echo those words as well. He must increase and we must decrease. Our mission is to be Christ to one another and to live joyfully, despite the culture, and despite the government. And while actual martyrdom may not be something we share with St. John, we may very well experience the loss of friends or family who reject our faithful commitment to Christ and His Church. Like John, we must keep our eyes fixed on Jesus and invite the Lord to lead us through whatever may come. John challenged the king and lost his head. But if he hadn’t challenged him, he might have lost his soul. Our cultural wilderness is starving for the love and charity of Christ. Will you decrease so that He may increase?

“Behold, I will send my messenger and he shall prepare the way before Me.” —-Malachi 3:1

Christ’s Silence

Everyone seems angry. We’re all on the verge of an outburst evidently. Folks shoot each other over parking spaces, or something just as trivial. They rant over the slightest perceived offense. We’ve witnessed the decay of social interaction to the point where being in a perpetual state of outrage has become the new normal. We’re cocked and loaded. We’re ready to riot in the streets at a moment’s notice. We see people set fire to cars and loot buildings which accomplishes nothing but the destruction of someone else’s property. If you’re involved in social media, our thin skins are most clearly revealed in the comment boxes of Facebook, Twitter and other sites. The “shield” of the computer seems to open the floodgates of our perceived offenses. We’re petty and mean to one another.  

Surely there are occasions when each of us is within our rights to feel that we’ve been treated unfairly. We’re all human and we all can say or do things that hurt or offend someone else. We’ve each experienced being treated unfairly. When that happens, we feel as if we’re not being respected. So when that happens, what’s a Christian to do?

We know that Jesus told us that we should “turn the other cheek” (Matthew 5:39) in response to our enemies. Certainly we see Jesus do this as He endured suffering at the hands of those who sought to destroy Him. He was arrested and did not defend Himself. He was put on trial and beaten and did not defend Himself. He was crowned with thorns and nailed to the Cross and He did not defend Himself. In fact, He prayed for the men who were killing Him as He was dying. And by His lack of self-defense, Jesus beautifully revealed to everyone the glory of the Father.  

Sometimes our silence reveals our true power in a situation. Remember those playground bullies who got their kicks from tormenting kids? Their power came when their victim got mad or cried. If they didn’t get that “reward” the bullies would move on to someone else. So when we respond to the attacks of the world with silence, we reveal that it’s not the world that has authority over us, but our Father in heaven. Just as Christ revealed to us in His Passion, silence is sometimes the greatest display of power.  

We’re so quick to respond to the anger that others show towards us with anger of our own. But when we do this, we’re no better than the world. That snarky comment that we post on Facebook reveals a heart that has given authority over to the world. When we’re tempted to respond to others in anger, we should ask ourselves who has authority over us—God or the world?

How different might our culture be if everyone was silent in the face of anger? Imagine how quickly most of our “outrage” might evaporate if we all took a deep breath and remembered how Jesus dealt with being treated unfairly. If we’re tempted to yell, to gossip, or to speak angry words to those who are angry with us, we can reveal God’s authority in our lives by staying silent. In this way, we set ourselves apart from the world and its angry, confrontational ways.  

“Whenever anything disagreeable or displeasing happens to you, remember Christ crucified and be silent.”

—-St. John of the Cross

Violence Begets Violence

The mother slaps her child in anger. She locks him in his room at night and lets him cry, unfed and unloved. The mother sees the child as a problem, perhaps even as a punishment. She feels trapped and she takes her anger and fear and sadness out on the boy. He is a reminder to her of all she has lost and all she will never have. We see her and her child. She is accused and despised. The system we have built rescues the child from her. He is the victim and we use the system to try and make him whole. His future is now our future.  

Another mother also feels trapped. She sees the child within her as a problem, perhaps even as a punishment. She is sad and fearful. She goes to her room at night and cries, unfed and unloved. She thinks of a solution to her problem and goes to a clinic, which is not a clinic at all but a slaughterhouse. Inside the clinic, and inside the woman, the child’s head is crushed with forceps. What was once a baby is now sold for parts in the marketplace the system props up. We see the woman but do not want to know her. We do not want to know what happens inside the “clinic” or inside the woman. It is, after all, her choice. Her choice is our choice and that choice is our future.  

We like to believe that our lives are our own. We like to believe that because the alternative to believing is too horrible to bear. What if my choices ripple out to affect the world? What if we really are part of the family of man, living here for a time, and bound to one another in ways beyond our knowing? That binding together makes us responsible for one another. What I choose to do isn’t merely my choice because every action creates the world in which we live today.

The world. Created in the beginning in love and perfection, it was our first parents whose actions brought death into being. Death, and decay, and pain, and sin. What they did, in that garden long ago, is with us every moment. The ripples of that sin infect every living soul on earth today. We carry within our hearts the seed of that turning away from Love. And sin begat sin, from Adam and Eve down to you and me.  

And so it goes. The mother kills the child in her womb. The baby is sold for scrap. Home invaders kill a sleeping couple in Seattle. A teenaged girl is beaten to death by a mob in Kansas City. In Chicago, a young man shoots a gun from his car, killing a toddler playing in her front yard. A couple in Delaware electrocutes the handicapped man for whom they’re paid to care. A boy in Boston sets fire to a dog. A woman in Miami poisons her grandmother. In Chattanooga, a terrorist guns down 5 military men at a service center. In Louisiana, a man shoots two innocent people in a movie theater before killing himself. Is all this violence connected? Does violence breed more violence? Or does living in a violent world make us so numb to murder that taking an innocent life no longer seems unusual? In the end, it doesn’t matter which is true.  

What remains true is that we have no right to be outraged by the violence. We forfeited that self-righteousness when we embraced and funded the killing of babies in the womb. Since Roe vs. Wade in 1973, we have killed more than 50 million children. The killing fields are not in some far-off land, but in our neighborhoods, in our homes. In our hearts. Every day that this murder of innocents continues, is another day of our accountability. And another day of our building a more violent world. Until we protect and defend human life from conception until natural death, we lose any credibility as a culture. We can’t fund abortions and at the same time be appalled and outraged by the violence around us. If we continue to believe that the murder and violence in our world isn’t connected to the murder of abortion, we’re lying to ourselves. We’re lying in the Face of the very Truth Who created the world and sustains our every breath. He offers us His life that ours might be saved for eternity. We can accept that grace and create a more peaceful world, or we can continue on the murderous path we’ve chosen into the wilderness, in the valley of the shadow of death.

“Beneath the bleeding Hands we feel

The sharp compassion of the 

  Healer’s art.”

—T.S. Eliot, “East Coker”

Learning A New Way

The process of overcoming an addiction is almost often a long and difficult one. Small victories are hard-won and relapses are frequent. Long-term success is often found in the company of and with the support of other recovering addicts. It’s a journey that is best made when shared with others who are familiar with our temptations and who’ve walked the same road before us. When you think about it, we Christians walk a similar path with one another. We sin—that’s our “addiction.” We gather in community to worship the Lord and to walk together with Him. Sometimes we mess up and when we do we ask His forgiveness and that of our neighbors. And we begin our journey anew. In the twelve-step community, there’s a poem by Portia Nelson that’s sometimes used to illustrate the journey of recovery. 

“I walk down the street. 

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 

I fall in. 

I’m lost…I’m helpless. 

It isn’t my fault. 

It takes forever to find my way out.”

For Christians, this is the time in our lives when we begin our walk of faith. Sin seems unavoidable. Often we don’t recognize our actions as sinful, or if we do we don’t want to call it by its real name. When we deny our sin, we give it a power over us that it doesn’t merit. We haven’t yet learned to keep our eyes fixed on Christ and our hearts hidden in His heart. We depend on ourselves instead and we often feel lost and alone. Our sins overwhelm us and we wallow in doubt and self-pity. We find it hard to believe that God could love us and forgive us.

“I walk down the same street. 

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 

I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again. 

I can’t believe I’m in the same place. 

But it isn’t my fault. 

It still takes a long time to get out.”

Now I’m getting a little better at recognizing and owning my sins. Sometimes I see them as the ugly things they are. I’m beginning to realize how my sins—even the “little” ones—hurt the Lord and my neighbors. I still blame my sins on other people. I don’t go to confession, so I refuse the grace God longs to give me. Most of the time I feel angry and treated badly by the world. I’m ashamed to reach out to my friends in the Church. I lie a lot. 

“I walk down the same street. 

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 

I still fall in…it’s a habit. 

My eyes are open. I know where I am.

I get out immediately.”

I’m still learning my way as a Christian and I still sin a lot. But more and more I rely on Jesus. I’m less easily led into sin by people or circumstances. I go to Mass and confession. The grace of God’s Sacraments strengthens me. My brothers and sisters in Christ help me and I rely on their prayers. When I sin, I own it. I’m still weak and my faith often fails me. But I know Who is my life and my salvation. I pray frequently and read the Gospel every day. I know Jesus loves me. 

“I walk down the same street. 

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 

I walk around it.”

My life is prayer-centered. By spending time in devotion to my Lord, we have come to know one another deeply. I go to Mass each Sunday and worship God with my faith family. My Christian life is enriched by serving others in my parish and in my community. Bringing Christ to others is the joy of my life and most of the time I’m at peace. I avoid those people and situations which might be an occasion of sin for me. When the storms of life arise, I cling fast to the Master’s hand. I’m far from perfect, but I know Who is. When I sin, I run to my Father and tell Him all about it. He forgives me and holds me close to His Sacred Heart. 

“I walk down another street.”  

For Christians, this last verse represents a life of extraordinary grace and heroic virtue. It is the Saints Road. Saints are people just like you and me. They have their virtues and their sins; their triumphs and their failures. But they never let anything or anyone come between them and Jesus Christ. They each found their own unique way to remain always in the light of God’s grace. Their lives can be our inspiration and guide to our heavenly home—where the street are paved with gold and there are no potholes. And every street leads to the Throne of the Lamb.

His Wounds

There’s an old saying that goes no matter what we humans have accomplished on this earth, there are only 5 that are eternal. What are they? The 5 wounds of Christ. All of the Savior’s love for you and for me is revealed in those wounds. His pierced hands and feet and the gash in His side made by the Roman soldier’s spear shout out: “I love you and I forgive you!” These wounds that we made with our sins are in heaven today. The angels and the saints are gazing upon them now as Christ sits with His Father in glory on the throne. Of all the wonders of this world, Christ chose His wounds to take back home with Him. They are precious beyond price and we should treasure them for what they are.

Catholics have a long and rich devotion to the Sacred Wounds of our Lord. We love the Crucifix of Christ with Jesus’ Body as a holy reminder of His sacrifice and love. We kneel and pray before the Crucifix just as if we were before Him on that Good Friday noon in Jerusalem. Those hours he spent wounded for us on the Holy Cross are the “high point” of His life on earth. As the Servant, He literally poured out His life to save you and me. In His wounds, Christ is most truly and fully- revealed. “For this reason I came into the world (John 12:23). His wounds are the most intense revelation of His relationship with the Father. In them we see the full unfolding of God’s plan for our redemption, laid before the foundation of the world. The wounds are perfect sacrificial love–agape–which holds nothing back and offer nothing less than everything.

Other Christians sometimes think we Catholics have a kind of morbid fascination with the wounded Christ perpetually hanging in agony on the crucifixes in our churches and on the chains around our necks. They might prefer the bare cross instead. But I think when they do this, they’re missing out. They see the suffering Christ and want to move on to Easter morning, putting Good Friday in the past. But in truth, Christ’s perfect love for us is an ongoing sacrifice—a total and constant giving of the Son to the Father, for our sake. The wounds of Christ are the slaying of the Lamb. He lives in a state of holocaust, not as a mere historical moment in 33 A.D., but as His state of being, inside and outside of time. This is why the Mass is a re-presentation of Christ’s ongoing sacrifice, not merely a symbolic remembrance of a meal shared with His friends. This is why His wounds, and what they are and what they mean, should be ever-present to us.

His wounds are nothing less than life itself for us for from them spilled His Most Precious Blood, our salvation and our hope. In this way, the Sacred Wounds are the “porta caeli”, the doorway to heaven. St. Paul knew this to be true. When he wrote to the church in Corinth, he emphasized the sacrifice, the woundedness of Jesus. “When I came to you, announcing to you the testimony of Christ, I did not bring exalted words or lofty wisdom. For I did not judge myself to know anything among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified” (I Corinthians 2:2). Through His wounds we receive the New Covenant of the Lamb and the graces we need for salvation. From His wounded side flowed the blood and water (the Eucharist and Baptism) and the Church is mystically born in these two Sacraments.

Over the centuries, many saints have venerated the Sacred Wounds, from St. Bernard of Clairvaux to St. Francis of Assissi and his friend, St. Clare. St. Thomas Aquinas wrote extensively about Christ’s wounds. But it’s in “The Imitation of Christ” by Thomas à Kempis where us “struggling” saints can read a valuable lesson. “If you cannot soar up as high as Christ sitting on His throne, behold Him hanging on His Cross.” Thomas encourages us to rest in Christ’s wounds, to abide in them, to hide ourselves in them. I’m not a philosopher and I’m certainly no theologian. But I can behold Christ on His Cross and when I do, I know how much He loves me. I know my sins wounded Him and I know His loving sacrifice is saving me from what I truly deserve. In His wounds I see His glory and His victory over sin and death. And if Jesus did so much for me and loves me so much that He keeps the wounds I gave Him and has them still in His Body at this moment in heaven—can’t I spend a few moments thanking Him prayer?

“…by His wounds we are healed…”

—- Isaiah 53:5