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?

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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 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.

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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 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.

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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 James 3:16-4:3

If you’ve been feeling unusually at home with the readings lately it’s because we have been hearing the Letter of James.  In some ways it’s a welcome relief to read a letter from the end of the first century that is so accessible to our contemporary western ears.

Where DO the wars and conflicts among us come from? Most of us aren’t in a position to send troops into war, but have we done everything we can to heal a decades-long rift in the family? And that begs a second question: Why ARE all these family enmities allowed to go on and on?  Are we really going to have another Thanksgiving/Christmas season ahead where there will be separate dinners for separate families because siblings haven’t spoken to each other in years?  At what point will grace be invited to the table?

It’s God’s amazing grace that allows us to submit to each other and truly listen to each other purely, peaceably, gently, compliantly, full of mercy and good fruits, without insincerity.

But we don’t work like that.  Unless we’re in boot camp (or singing at the Met) we don’t think we should have to take any criticism or correction. We like all conversations to be easy, and our “true friends” to take our side even when we are wrong.  A word of correction at the dinner table signals a polite silence and early departure.  We can no longer be friends.

The years go by, and the broken families pile up, and September comes and we dread the holidays ahead.  And the ancient Christian community to whom James writes whispers to us through the ages: get over it.

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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 James 2:14-18

Nothing makes me laugh harder than being around people who are laughing. Nothing brings me to tears faster than being with someone who is weeping. And nothing stirs my faith like seeing it in action.

It’s that experience of standing during the Communion Procession and listening to people coming forward to receive the Eucharist, singing their hearts out. For me, that says I believe this.

Or, the other day, pondering today’s gospel, I asked a friend, “Who do you say Jesus is?” She looked at me incredulously. He’s my hope. He’s my heart. He’s my Savior. And her beautiful and easy profession of faith said to me she believes this.

But when I observe the endless works of mercy and justice that pour out from the lives of those called by that Name, when I see how compassionately the hungry are fed and the homeless housed by those who love Jesus, I know they believe this.

It seems that every year or so I have a new favorite hymn, a new sacred friend whose lyrics and music bring me deeper into the mystery of God. I find myself hearing it in my head throughout the day, or the lyrics coming to me at odd times.

For several months now I’ve been coming back to Father Pat Dolan’s haunting Prayer of the Body and Blood, which he dedicated to Most Precious Blood parish in Denver.  Father Pat has been pastor of this inspiring faith community for eight years now, but the charism of this Denver parish from its earliest beginning (when the Vincentian priests and Daughters of Charity staffed it) until now has always been of intense and intentional service to those who are poor. The song moves the singer (and the hearer) into a deep reflection of the ways in which grace abounds where love abounds.

Some lifelong Catholics have a hard time articulating who Jesus is to them. They don’t have to. As Father Pat wrote, May serving others serve as our belief.

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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 James 2: 1-5

The St. Jerome Mission

They broke our hearts again.  They always break our hearts, with their humility and warmth, and their love of the Catholic faith and la virgen de Guadalupe.

I’m speaking of the six members of a parish in Juarez, Mexico who traveled all night on the bus to come to Denver last weekend.  They had come to celebrate with many of the benefactors of The St. Jerome Mission, a parish center and retreat house just recently completed for their parish in Juarez.  You can see this great endeavor of faith at www.stjeromemission.com

We did all kinds of fun things, including a visit to Red Rocks Amphitheatre, where they thrilled to the prehistoric beauty of the rock outcroppings that were home to the Ute tribes in ancient days.  We celebrated the Eucharist twice, once at a Spanish-language Mass where they and the entire congregation sang their hearts out.

Sometimes our bilingual members had to attend to other matters, leaving the rest of us smiling and nodding at each other, unable to converse.  One evening I was overjoyed to remember that this column also appears in Spanish in many parishes!  We all gathered around the computer to scroll through three years of www.lahistoriayusted.com (www.thestoryandyou.com ).   Seeing the artwork that accompanies each Gospel story their eyes lit up with recognition and joy.  Ah. There’s John the Baptist!  There’s Mary Magdalene!

And I thought of today’s letter of James: Did not God choose those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom? Their love of Jesus is as sturdy and enduring as the Red Rocks.  They who have so little shared with us their greatest treasure: a deep and joyful faith.

Are there “riches” that are keeping you from a deeper faith?

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