Presenting Megan and Micah Brewster

We had a family wedding last week, and I’m still dancing.  The beautiful, love-drunk bride and groom were so aglow with joy that the candle-lit church was no match for the light that radiated from them. They pronounced their vows to each other so graciously.  They were thrilled to bind themselves to each other, believing that those bonds will free them to love others even more perfectly.

Afterwards, at the reception, there was dancing.  Ecstatic, fun, hilarious dancing.  A sweet, eighteen-year-old cousin took turns twirling all his little cousins around and around, and as soon as they were spun out they ran right back to get in line to be twirled all over again.

Can you recall this delicious thrill of childhood, of being on a ride at a carnival and being utterly delighted, yet filled with dread of the moment the ride came to an end? As the great John Kavanaugh (he of blessed memory) wrote, the childhood we never leave is suspended between devastation and delight.

Advent is like that.  In the ever-quickening darkness we light the first candle.  We re-member (make happen again) the exhilaration of being weightless on a planet pulled by gravity.  We have already been the child whose ride finally ended.  We are not yet the child whose ride will never end.

Come, oh Child of wonder.  Come.

And congratulations, Megan and Micah.  Dance.

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on John 18: 33b-37

Lucas Cranash the Elder, 1510 “Christ Crowned with Thorns”

When Jesus tells Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world” I always squirm a little.  Why isn’t it?  Why isn’t the incarnation—God made flesh and dwelling among us—the kingdom of God?  I squirm because I really, really like this world, and there are many moments every day where I think, “Yes, this is the kingdom, right here.”

Now that we have come to the end of the Year of Mark we can look back and find all kinds of ways in which Jesus created the kingdom while he lived.  Remember those four friends who carried their paralyzed friend across town, then took the roof off and lowered him down so that Jesus could heal him?  That’s the kingdom, right there.

Or remember when Jairus compelled Jesus to go off in a new direction in order to heal his daughter, and in so doing Jesus walked right into the path of the hemorrhaging woman, who reached out and grabbed the hem of the Kingdom as he passed?  A young girl and an aging woman, both brought back to health because they met the Kingdom of God.

There was Peter’s wife’s mother who, overjoyed at being made well, immediately resumed her life of service to the Kingdom.   These are just a few of the stories Mark told us this year, but they all end the same: the encounter with Jesus is the encounter with the Kingdom, and yet the fullness of that kingdom is still to come.  Let’s let Handel, and Revelation 11:15, end the year for us:

The Kingdom of this world is become the Kingdom of our Lord, and of his Christ, and of his Christ!

What glimpses of the Kingdom do you have in your life?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Mark 13: 24-32

I have an image in my mind, a kind of “save page” in my soul, that holds who I am and how I will always see the world.  It’s an actual picture of our backyard, circa 1958.  My sister and I are swinging on the swing-set, and my baby brother is playing in his crib on the porch.  My dad and two older brothers are playing basketball on our driveway basketball court, just outside our yard and just inside the picture. My mother’s fire-red roses climb up the fence and spill out in bushes that encircle the green, green grass.

It rains most afternoons, sending heavenly moisture into the ground and giving the grass that deep green, and the roses that deep red, that explodes in my memory even after all these years.

It seems sometimes that the world is ending.  Winters are too mild. Summers are too hot.  In the new normal of drought and fires, roses and lawns are replaced with xeriscapes.

Do kids still swing on swing-sets in fragrant backyards, and does that even matter?  I guess not.  It looks like the world will keep spinning.  Children will delight their parents, and will grow to be parents themselves.  Generations will pass away, and the moon will still give light, and the stars will stay in the sky.  The heavens will not be shaken.

Yet, the world is ending, and someday we will see the Creator of all this beauty.  Blessed are those who have radiated so much light in their lives that the shock of all that Light won’t slow them down from receiving the joyous welcomes of all who have gone before them, marked with sign of faith.

We are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love (William Blake).

In what ways are you “beaming love”?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Mark 12: 38-44

Jesus, sitting opposite of the Temple treasury, watched that widow put her whole livelihood into the coffer.  You know what I think happened next?  I think his heart broke.  You’ve experienced it.  It’s that painful arrow to the heart that catches you off guard and makes your chest hurt.

The first time I felt it was while riding a bus one bitter cold January day.  I looked out the window and saw two old men, shivering together on a park bench, gusts of sleet plummeting them.  I looked away, but it was too late.  Compassion broke my heart.

Years later, working as a waitress, I watched a widow, solitary and sad, come into the restaurant and eat alone every Saturday night.  At the end of her meal she would gather the leftovers in a bag, careful to have something to eat for her lonely Sunday.  I tried to hide my heart, but it was too late.  It broke in half.

I’ll bet that’s what happened that day near the Treasury.  Jesus, so steeped in the powerful, ethical laws of Moses, watched a widow, the very person whom Jewish leadership was to most protect from poverty, give from her great need.  He watched her, and then his heart broke. He called to his friends and invited them to have their hearts broken too.

We never know how our lives touch people, but it’s almost never for the reasons we think.  It’s not our wholeness that makes its deepest mark in the hearts of those who watch us.  It’s our brokenness, our vulnerability, that breaks the heart, and of course it’s the crack in the heart that lets the Light shine through.

How has a broken heart changed you?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

It’s November, that month in which the saints go marching into our consciousness in all kinds of touching ways.  I suspect that Jim Becker’s beautiful Litany of the Saints is finding its way into the Sunday liturgy. Invoking the saints isn’t just for the Easter Vigil anymore.

What a comfort it is to know that we’ve got friends in high places. From the earliest years of the Christian faith, believers have had a certain surety that those who had gone before them (particularly through the sword of martyrdom) were still in communion with them.

The month begins with the celebration of the saints, and then immediately remembers all the souls who have gone before us to God. Most people have a certain sense that we are not alone in this universe, that we are accompanied, as Hebrews says, by a “vast cloud of witnesses” (12:1,2).  There is something in us that innately reaches out to those whose lives on earth were awash in God, and we call to them when we feel our lives on earth intersecting with theirs.

The patron saints of all of our earthly travails—lost faith, lost health, lost keys—have been so identified because there was something in their lives, on one side or the other side of heaven, that gained some victory over these earthly enemies.

Imagine what that day will be like when we have arrived joyfully in heaven, to be met by the smiles of the martyrs and our own beloved dead, who loved us on both sides of the grave. Until then we live in the mystery of their presence with us here. All you holy men and women, pray for us!

Are you close to your patron saint?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Mark 10: 46-52

I wonder why the disciples of Jesus and the rest of the crowd tried to shush the blind man when he called.  Did they think that Jesus only wanted to be approached by the fit and good-looking?  Did they assume that their own positions as disciples and followers were based on their superior wit, or status, or lovability?  They must have felt quite honored to be in his entourage as he moved from place to place, from crowd to crowd.  Shush, they scolded the blind man.  You’re not one of his chosen.  You stay in your place.

Oh, wait.  Take courage, Bartimaeus!  He’s calling you!  Take heart! And now we feel the compassion of the disciples as they rush to tell this blind beggar that the Son of David has heard his plea and is calling for him.  He throws off his cloak, springs up and comes to Jesus.  He must be trembling.  The Healer has called for him.  What do you want me to do for you? Jesus asks.  Master, I want to see. And then, after a lifetime in the dark, he sees light, and color, and family, and the side of the road where he begged for so many years.  His faith has saved him.  He immediately follows Jesus on The Way.

Do you know people who have recently received a cancer diagnosis, or perhaps are full of anxiety over the illness of a loved one?  Go to them this week.  Step out of your own comfort zone and gather around them.  Hold them tight and say Take courage.  Jesus is calling you.

And then, trembling, help them follow him on The Way.

How can you personally help someone who is sick take courage?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Mark 10:35-45

Oh, how tantalizing and frustrating these passages from Mark can be.  If Mark is written in Rome in the late 60s (and tradition says that Peter is the eyewitness behind that earliest gospel), is it possible that word has reached Rome of the martyrdom of James by Herod Agrippa around the year 44 A.D.?  Some scholars think Jesus actually foretold that death when he told the two sons of Zebedee that they would indeed share in the cup of his own suffering (Mark 10:39).

I love to read sections of scripture from Eugene Peterson’s masterful contemporary translation entitled The Message.  Here’s how he relates the story of that martyrdom:

That’s when Herod got it into his head to go after some of the church members.  He murdered James, John’s brother.  When he saw how much it raised his popularity numbers with the Jews he arrested Peter—all this during Passover week, mind you—and had him thrown into jail.  He was planning a public lynching after Passover (Acts 12:1-4).

If only we were given just a little more.  James is the only apostle whose martyrdom is related in scripture.  Tradition tells us of the crucifixion of Peter, and the accounts of the deaths of the other apostles, though not biblical, are precious to the memory of the Church.

But I think that the MOST interesting search is for the martyrdom of John.  Jesus says that both the brothers will drink from that CUP, but what happened to John?  He disappears after the Council of Jerusalem in 50 A.D. (Galatians 2:6-10).  Or does he?

Google “John, the son of Zebedee” and jump into one of scriptures most intriguing mysteries.  Then join the conversation here to chat with Catholics around the country about this fascinating topic.

Have you ever felt closer to Jesus during a time of your own suffering?

What would YOU like to say about this question, or today’s readings, or any of the columns from the past year? The sacred conversations are setting a Pentecost fire! Register here today and join the conversation.

I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Mark 10:17-27

Every so often I have to read another book about St. Francis of Assisi.  Eight hundred years later his story of utter conversion, utter transformation into the very heart of Christ, still stuns me.  This year’s book is Julien Green’s wondrous God’s Fool: The Life and Times of Francis of Assisi.

Using the oldest documents we have about him, Green brings into startling focus the life of the world’s greatest saint. This charming, devilish “Prince of Youth”, leading his drunken friends through the streets of 13th century Assisi, had a beautiful singing voice and the refined appetite for elegance and fine dining that befit the son of a wealthy clothier.  And then, like St. Paul, God met him on the road one night:

Stuffed to the point of vomiting, the guests went off to defile the public squares with their drunken songs.  And who was that following them, with his fool’s baton in hand, but Francesco, the king of the feast?  All of a sudden he stopped.

What had happened?  In the middle of that sorry feast, Francis had fallen in love.  For years he had been fleeing someone or something, and suddenly that Someone had caught up with him and blasted him with all the power of his tenderness.  Francis was twenty-five years old.

Within weeks of that encounter Francis sold everything and gave it to the poor.  Overjoyed and filled with the utter fullness of God, he found the treasures of heaven.

As I read this book I drew as closely to him as I dared, and caught a glimpse of those treasures.  And now comes today’s gospel, with its warnings against wealth (and I confess I love wealth) because it can distract us from drawing as near as we can to Christ.  Help! The Hound of Heaven is chasing me.

Do the greatest joys of your life have anything to do with money?

What would YOU like to say about this question, or today’s readings, or any of the columns from the past year? The sacred conversations are setting a Pentecost fire! Register here today and join the conversation.

I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Genesis 2:18-24

It’s chilly in my office this morning.  What a blessing.  The heat of the summer is finally fading.  Time to check the closet for a sweater or jacket.  Ah, here’s Ben’s coat, my favorite coat, the one he wore on our first date 27 years ago.  I wrap myself in its cozy corduroy warmth and re-member (experience again, “member again”) that young, sweet, smart guy who asked me out on a date for one night, and then asked to love me for a lifetime.  In my astonishment I recall the psalmist who, reflecting on his immense good fortune, asked, “Who am I, oh God, that you should be mindful of me?”

The ancients whom the Holy Spirit inspired to tell the story of the creation of women and men had this  beautiful insight: we are formed of the same flesh, carved of the same bone.  And in a great marriage the spouses may even say, You get me.  My heart calls to your heart.  It is in your arms I want to die.

And of course the raising of children causes spouses to cling to each other, to delight and agonize together, for the rest of their lives, over the children entrusted to them.  That’s a bond like no other, yes?  The suffering that comes from this great love is immense.  There is no holier undertaking.

My heart breaks in half for those who have lost their loves, or weren’t faithful to love, or never found love.  Life isn’t fair.  Thank God the BRIDEGROOM has espoused himself to us forever, to heal those wounds and make all things new.  See how our God has come to meet us.

What would YOU like to say about this question, or today’s readings, or any of the columns from the past year? The sacred conversations are setting a Pentecost fire! Register here today and join the conversation.

I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on James 5: 1-6

Last week I had the oddest experience.  I happened to visit the house where I lived for several years with three wonderful friends in the 1980s.  It’s weird, but I actually know the guys who live there now, five (!) sweet young men who are delighted to live in community, praying and working in various jobs in the Archdiocese.

As soon as I walked into the house I was dumbstruck at how TINY it is!  How did four young women ever maneuver in this TINY house for all those years?  And how did we have so many fun parties, and friends for dinner, and a piano, and lots of singing and celebrating?  How ever did we have so much fun for so many years, and seal friendships that have endured for decades, in such a TINY house?

I looked at the guys living there now, happily moving around and making dinner in that TINY kitchen, contentedly making lesson plans and putting on their shoes for a run in nearby Washington Park.  Someday, after they are married and have “moved up” into larger digs, they will say what my friends and I say: the years we spent in that TINY house were some of the happiest of our lives.

In those days everything I owned fit into my small bedroom.  Now I need a whole house and a huge garage to hold my stuff. I think of the letter of James today, and reflect for the millionth time on what a relief it would be to put all my stuff in a big bonfire and let “the flames devour it”.

Do you ever feel that way?

How can you experience the freedom of having less?

As I write this, the father of  my dear friend Jean Haley, who owned that TINY, wonderful house that became home for so many friends for so many years, is struggling in the hospital.  Please remember Ralph Haley in your prayers this week.  He was a Prisoner of War under the Germans and suffered immensely in service to us all during that terrible war, yet returned to marry and be dad to five children who have loved him deeply their whole lives.

For Jean, and Mary Fran, and Diane, and Margaret, and Cindy, and Leslie, and Colette, and Mary, and all the friends who made that tiny house a mansion of love.

What would YOU like to say about this question, or today’s readings, or any of the columns from the past year? The sacred conversations are setting a Pentecost fire! Register here today and join the conversation.

I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).