The Mystery of Glory

I used to struggle with sorrow. In my youthful naiveté, it seemed the world just should be happy—or joyful. That it wasn’t I knew, but nevertheless I clung to the belief that it should not be as it was, i.e., often a sad place.

But at some point in time—or at some level—I came to embrace the Season of Lent in a way I enter into no other liturgical season of the year. Though it is a time of penance, prayer and fasting—things not usually associated with happiness and joy—I look forward to these weeks every year as the best, so much so that I often experience a letdown at Easter. Instead of rejoicing with the rest of the Church triumphant for six weeks after Lent, I spend six weeks reminiscing over the loss of the closeness I felt to Jesus when I was carrying a cross of sacrifice.

My question now is how do we as poor weak humans share in His Glory? This Easter Season, I am resolved—with the help of the Holy Spirit—to pray the Glorious Mysteries every day and meditate on these mysteries: The Resurrection; The Ascension of Our Lord into Heaven; The Descent of the Holy Spirit; The Assumption of Mary and The Coronation of Mary. If I am graced with understanding on even one of these great mysteries I will count myself blessed indeed, for truly when I contemplate them, they amaze, overwhelm, awe and confound my feeble human capabilities—which is probably as it should be.

Nevertheless, if it be God’s Will, I desire this Easter Season to be as spiritually fruitful as has been the Lent which has just past.

We should be joyful.

There is much sorrow.

I want to believe in the Glory and the Power forever ... so I do. But I know I don’t begin to understand it ... or Him. Glory mystifies me.

Oh Lord I believe. Help my unbelief. ~Mark 9:24

Pange Lingua

PANGE lingua gloriosi
Corporis mysterium,
Sanguinisque pretiosi,
quem in mundi pretium
fructus ventris generosi
Rex effudit Gentium.

SING, my tongue, the Savior's glory,
of His flesh the mystery sing;
of the Blood, all price exceeding,
shed by our immortal King,
destined, for the world's redemption,
from a noble womb to spring.

Nobis datus, nobis natus
ex inacta Virgine,
et in mundo conversatus,
sparso verbi semine,
sui moras incolatus
miro clausit ordine.

Of a pure and spotless Virgin
born for us on earth below,
He, as Man, with man conversing,
stayed, the seeds of truth to sow;
then He closed in solemn order
wondrously His life of woe.

In suprema nocte coenae
recumbus cum fratribus
observata lege plene
cibis in legalibus,
cibum turbae duodenae
se dat suis manibus.

On the night of that Last Supper,
seated with His chosen band,
He the Pascal victim eating,
first fulfills the Law's command;
then as Food to His Apostles
gives Himself with His own hand.

Verbum caro, panem verum
verbo carnem efficit:
fitque sanguis Christi merum,
et si sensus deficit,
ad firmandum cor sincerum
sola fides sufficit.

Word-made-Flesh, the bread of nature
by His word to Flesh He turns;
wine into His Blood He changes;-
what though sense no change discerns?
Only be the heart in earnest,
faith her lesson quickly learns.

Tantum ergo Sacramentum
veneremur cernui:
et antiquum documentum
novo cedat ritui:
praestet fides supplementum
sensuum defectui.

Down in adoration falling,
Lo! the sacred Host we hail;
Lo! o'er ancient forms departing,
newer rites of grace prevail;
faith for all defects supplying,
where the feeble sense fail.

Genitori, Genitoque
laus et jubilatio,
salus, honor, virtus quoque
sit et benedictio:
procedenti ab utroque
compar sit laudatio.

Amen. Alleluia.

To the everlasting Father,
and the Son who reigns on high,
with the Holy Ghost proceeding
forth from Each eternally,
be salvation, honor, blessing,
might and endless majesty.

Amen. Alleluia.

Visitors to the Vineyard, pt. 3

LESSON THIRTEENTH: On the Sacraments in General

Q. 574. What is a Sacrament?

A. A Sacrament is an outward sign instituted by Christ to give grace.

What I love about my job as parish Director of Religious Education is also what I hate about it: that I work where I worship. The good side is I can avail myself of the sacraments as often as I need—which is continually; the bad side is I can’t escape work when I worship.

At times when I should be engaged in silent prayer or concentrating on the various parts of the liturgy, I find myself ‘doing my job’ i.e., keeping an eye on children’s behavior or figuring out who I need to speak to after Mass and how I can manage to ‘catch’ as many of them as possible before I myself get ‘caught’. Other times, God takes pity on me and grants me the grace of pure prayer, but then afterwards I worry if I’ve been carefully following the rubrics of the Mass. I can become so absorbed in my conversation with Jesus that I forget where I am or what I’m doing.

Yesterday is a prime example. I’d just left the weekly meeting with all the First Sacraments’ parents after asking them to remind their children to step forward confidently when they come up to receive their First Holy Communion, say their “Amen” loud enough to be heard, and make a big Sign of the Cross versus a small furtive one. I’ve been saying more or less these same things week-after-week-after-week... and wondering if a hint of frustration has slipped into my tone or manner. Please God, I hope not!

Our pastor had given an amazing homily about “And Jesus Wept” which I alluded to in my previous post. As an RCIA Sponsor I needed to attend Mass with my catechumen and I was looking forward to hearing the homily again. On this second time around I was determined to listen to Our Lord’s Voice in the Mass and not let my mind wander. Every single Mass and homily is another ‘Visitor to our Vineyard’—someone come to prune, fertilize and water our vines.

Well, I succeeded in listening and paying attention so well, that Communion and Mass were over before I realized I didn’t have a clue how I’d received Communion physically; but I had this vague sense of not even saying my “Amen” at all much less saying it loud. I’m sure I at least made the Sign of the Cross, but I did it out of habit—a reflex—and I doubt it was the way I had told the children to make it, big and bold. And yet, all that said, it was probably one of the best communions I’ve had with Jesus in a very long time. My heart was completely at one with His. I was focused on Him, (not myself) His message and His sorrows as described in John Chapter 11.

Our Lord gave me two great gifts on Sunday. The first was obviously the beautiful experience of Communion with Him, but I think the second gift was more important. It was the reminder that there are two dimensions to sacramental communion: the physical outward signs and the invisible inward action of Grace.

What I’m trying to say is, we can get all the actions right and the heart may be elsewhere. But if the heart is prepared and loving when the child, or even adult, goes up to receive The Body and Blood of Jesus, then mistakes in form aren't going to matter. And we poor humans cannot see into each other's hearts.

So this Sunday when I talk to my First Sacraments’ parents, I’m going to use myself as the guinea pig and remind them that only God can see into another person’s heart. We can teach our children and love them and pray for them—and certainly we can never stop doing any of those things—but it is God who does the real Work in each soul, through the power of His transforming Grace.

And as the little daughter of the lady who I am sponsoring this year for Easter prays, “Our Father, Who works hard in Heaven...”

Yes, He does. And on earth...and under the earth and everywhere else too.

Thanks be to God!

Visitors to the Vineyard, pt. 2

Before I left for Mass tonight I was working on a continuation to the previous post, Visitors to the Vineyard. I was writing about how when I left the church after hearing Jesus’ parable explained anew, I resolved to start PAYING ATTENTION to who crossed my path. That homily got my attention and opened my eyes like they had been washed clean in the waters of the Pool of Siloam. I’d resolved to start looking for and really listening to whom God sent my way...

And I have been doing just that. The trouble is that real listening is harder than you think. It’s very hard. So is processing what you hear and learn. I never thought myself a shabby listener before, but now I was trying to be an even better listener. ‘Visitors’ from God coming to ‘obtain...produce’ from my vineyard might come in the form of people needing help or work I need to do—but not necessarily. Work and help are just the obvious examples of our productiveness. There are also ways—known to God alone—in which we grow inwardly: fighting off secret temptations, surrendering our own wills in humility and obedience, struggling to become small, go last, take less or do without. This ‘reverse productivity’ is harder to appreciate because it’s so invisible. But it doesn’t make it any the less real. In fact, I’m inclined to think it’s the harder of the two—well it is for me anyway.

Before I finished the post I was writing—and this isn’t it—it was time for Mass.

The Gospel this week-end is Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. It’s full of irony and missed messages. Jesus speaks metaphorically about the sleep of death and it goes over the disciples’ heads. He has to explain what He means plainly. Jesus wants to teach about the glory of God and Thomas talks about becoming a martyr. Meaning hangs like a thick fog over the entire story and yet nobody is listening to what Jesus is trying to say.

And in the middle of it all, Jesus weeps.

Tonight at Mass, Father’s homily was based on the premise, ‘And Jesus Wept’—the shortest verse in all of Scripture. But did Jesus weep as it says in the Gospel just because he loved his friend Lazarus?

Or were there other reasons why Jesus might have cried? I immediately thought of a pie chart e-mail a friend sent me recently entitled, ‘Why Women Cry’. Answer: 10% of the time because we're happy; 10% because we're sad; the other 80%, we don't know!

Could Jesus have been frustrated? Scared? Upset? Discouraged? Confused? Disheartened by his friends’ lack of belief? Their failure to understand Him? Did He experience a premonition of impending death? Was He feeling lost and alone in the middle of that crowd—their God who loved them and was about to die for them and they just didn’t get it.

Based on my own experiences this Lent, I’d say Jesus had good reason to cry. Real listening and communicating from the heart are the hardest things a human being ever does. We want so very much to be known and understood. It is probably the greatest and deepest longing of the human heart. And yet those thoughts and feelings which mean the most to us, are often those which frighten us and others.

Do we run the risk of sharing them? Or do we play it safe and remain quiet? Or do we just cry?

People don’t always want to listen or see or understand. In fact, we very often don't want to... I know.

I’m so sorry Jesus for all the times I failed to listen to You ... refused to listen ... that I made You cry.

Forgive me.

Visitors to the Vineyard

‘Jesus began to speak to the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders in parables. “A man planted a vineyard, put a hedge around it, dug a wine press, and built a tower. Then he leased it to tenant farmers and left on a journey. At the proper time he sent a servant to the tenants to obtain from them some of the produce of the vineyard....’ Mark 12:1-2

On March 7th of this year—two days before Lent started—I had this familiar parable ‘opened up’ for me. Although these are not the words of the sweet little monk who gave the extemporaneous homily on this Gospel, here is my poor rendering of his beautiful revelation:

We usually think of this story of Jesus’ as addressed to the Jewish people of Biblical times. They are the bad tenants who mismanage God’s vineyard, who beat, ‘treat shamefully’ and kill all the prophets sent to them over the centuries, until finally He, the Son is sent. Jesus is foretelling His own brutal death at the hands of those among the people who were jealous and afraid of Him. And certainly St. Mark confirms Jesus’ story has struck a nerve with the audience, for further on in the same narrative, the evangelist writes: ‘They were seeking to arrest him, but they feared the crowd, for they realized that he had addressed the parable to them.’ Mark 12:12

This can leave those of us who have come after with the comfortable feeling that in this parable at least we are the ‘good guys’. As Christians, Jesus isn’t talking to or about us.

But there’s another way of looking at this parable.

Suppose instead the vineyard is an analogy for each one of us. What if we are the vineyard? God has ‘planted us’ and leased us to ourselves—we remain His; we certainly do not belong to ourselves.

When the time comes, He will send His servants to us. They will come in many shapes and sizes. We will probably not recognize them anymore than the Jewish people recognized God’s messengers of old.

They will come to us as they did to the Israelites, as natural disasters (plagues), as war/acts of terrorism (foreign invaders), as the inarticulate (Moses), military leaders (Joshua), crazy men (Saul), boy upstarts (David), quarreling couples (Samson and Delilah), adulterous politicians (also David), beauty queens (Ester), weepy youths (Jeremiah), grumpy runaways (Jonah), loudmouth ascetics (John the Baptist), dreamers (both Josephs) and unwed mothers (Mary). If you take away their Scriptural significance, can you imagine a motlier group?

They are us.

They are also visitors to our vineyards.

How many have we ignored? Beaten? Verbally, if not physically? Killed? Either emotionally, spiritually or mentally?

God will keep sending them to us, to His vineyard. He did the planting. He is coming to collect His produce. Eventually the visitors will be replaced with the Visitor, Jesus.

Oh Lord, I thank You for that wonderful priest, Your son and the amazing insight You shared with him. I have had many visitors to my vineyard since that day: rude drivers and good friends; the disgruntled and self-satisfied; family and strangers. There have been many messages from You I welcomed, some I learned from, a few I still don’t understand and others causing me horror and great pain.

Whatever my feelings or thoughts, I thank You for helping me see that they all come from You. Please help me continue to accept each and every visitor You send, as someone sent by You to help prepare me for Jesus’ Second Coming.

Worth Doing

“If a thing's worth doing it's worth doing badly.” ~~G.K. Chesterton

Today they buried my friends, Rose and Dave. In spite of how violently they died, how much publicity the crime has received, and how packed the church was, it was a solemn, beautiful Mass of Christian burial followed by full military honors for Dave who retired from the Air Force after 24 years. The Freedom Riders turned out in large numbers to line the street with flags and stand at attention for the salute and playing of Taps.

The weather also cooperated. It’s a perfect spring day here in Oklahoma—the sun’s shining, there’s a crisp breeze and yet it’s still not too hot.

So why the quote?

The funeral was lovely, a fitting tribute to my unforgettable friend, Rose and her devoted husband—all anyone could have asked for and more.

This morning as I was getting ready to go, I felt so strangely at peace, more so than I’ve been since I first heard the awful news. I knew without a doubt I was supposed to be a Communion minister today. I’ve never been a Communion minister at a funeral before; very often they don’t need extraordinary ministers, especially not when you have two priests and a deacon presiding as was the case today. When one is required, usually it’s the Mass Coordinator. But somehow, it just seemed right. Rose was the one who told me I could bring Holy Communion to the homebound years ago when I couldn’t fathom such an honor.

“But what if I mess it up?” I think I probably asked her back then.

“How will they know?!” She probably answered. I can just imagine her thinking, “Silly rabbit! Stop worrying and just bring them Communion! These sick people need your help. Perfectionists! Yeesh!”

She gave me a pyx, a book of prayers, a bunch of holy cards and sent me on my way. I was hung up on doing things “right”. Rose didn’t worry about that so much. Oh sure she tried to follow the big rules so far as they went. But she was more about visiting the person, seeing that each sick friend—and anyone in a hospital bed was her friend, whether she knew them or not—had Communion if they were Catholic, and magazines, candy, fast food or whatever else she could smuggle into the hospital, if they weren't.

Today I was the only lay extraordinary minister at my friend’s funeral. This morning, I told her that if it was God's Will, I'd really like to do it. I guess it was. Anyway, like so many other things I know I’ve done, it was worth doing—however I did it—because it wasn’t about me. None of it is about us, which is why it doesn’t matter so much how well we do it, but the love we put into it. Rose—and God—know how much her gifts meant to me over the years. Oh sweet Lord, let me be a ‘Rose’ for others.

And now she gave me another gift by helping me discover the courage to do something else I’ve never done. Thank you dear friend. One of the most beautiful things about getting older and losing dear ones is that it makes your own death less scary. Each time I can count one more soul ‘over there’ to welcome me when it’s my turn. Not such a bad thing when you think about it.

Thank you God for letting me be Catholic. Help me keep on ‘doing it’...however badly.