Encountering Jesus on the Cross

The other day Sr. Dolores Dolezal was speaking to an oblate candidate who bemoaned all the deprivations of the pandemic and told her, “I wish I could learn patience!” She pointed out to him, “It’s through suffering that we learn patience.”

Do you ever wonder how God came to be so infinitely patient with humans and the unfolding of creation? I believe it is because throughout eternity God has endlessly suffered with all beings who have experienced loss, helplessness, abandonment, pain, destruction, and death and has endlessly witnessed the transformation and new life that inevitably follows such suffering. God trusts the process, and Jesus trusted God, so Jesus submitted to his passion and death.

It is painful to recall Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, trial, torture and death at the Triduum every year. However, as Richard Gaillardetz points out in Give Us This Day, “To grasp who Jesus was, what his life was really about, one had to encounter him on the Cross. There, the unfathomable love of God was revealed in suffering, vulnerable, forgiving love.” Jesus came to show us that God loves us and suffers with us, and Jesus’ resurrection shows that, as Gaillardetz continues, “This Cross was not the final word, for … out of suffering and death comes resurrection.”

To resist suffering is to resist a more expansive life that awaits us. To resist suffering also prevents us from being midwives of the suffering of other people — from being instruments that lead them through pain to the deliverance of new life.

When we pray for patience, God provides us with opportunities to learn it. Ultimately, however, it is to our benefit, because suffering cracks open the shell of the self that prevents new life from emerging.

The Light of Christ Surrounds Us

The stained glass windows in the Choir Chapel at Mount St. Scholastica depict scenes from the life and teachings of St. Benedict, and it’s been instructive to watch the rising sun gradually illuminate the images at morning prayer the past several days. I’ve noticed that the yellow and gold of the halo around the head of St. Benedict is the first thing in the windows to catch the light, which isn’t really surprising, because holiness/wholeness is illuminating.

In the window across from my choir stall, three lambs rest upon on the shoulder of St. Benedict, and the face of one of them is contained within St. Benedict’s halo. The artist who created this window seems to be saying that wholeness and holiness is contagious—we can bring the light of Christ to others when we amplify it in ourselves through our faithfulness to prayer, service, and love of God.

Throughout his life, people were drawn to Jesus because of his compassion, single-hearted love of God and neighbor, and wisdom. His goodness and holiness could not be dimmed, even when he was nailed to a tree; even then he forgave his executioners and comforted the thief hanging next to him. The tomb could not contain his spirit either, as his disciples discovered on the day of his resurrection.

At the Easter vigil, as our dark chapel is filled with the light of candles, we sing The Light of Christ by Marty Haugen, which includes these lyrics: “The light of Christ surrounds us / The love of Christ enfolds us / The power of Christ protects us / The presence of Christ watches over us.” The light of Christ forever surrounds us, and like St. Benedict, our desire to reflect that light can illumine God’s love for others.

 

Promises to Keep

March 26 is the birthday of the poet Robert Frost. His most famous poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, ends with these lines: “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep / But I have promises to keep / And miles to go before I sleep / And miles to go before I sleep.”

As we approach the end of Lent, we may feel like we still have many miles to go as Holy Week beckons us to recall Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, his last supper with his disciples, his betrayal, arrest, trial, scourging, and crucifixion, and the placing of his body in a tomb. As followers of Jesus, we have promises to keep: to serve others as Jesus served his disciples, and to break bread together in remembrance of him.

Through his life and death, Jesus reminds us of what Robert Frost proclaimed in another poem, Birches: “Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.” Earth’s the right place for love because God came to live among us in the person of Jesus. Jesus’ resurrection as the Christ assures us that wherever we go after we die is also the right place for love, because Christ is there as well.

Blessings on your Holy Week as you remember, recommit to, and celebrate Christ’s eternal love and presence. If it weren’t still Lent, I would say, “Alleluia!”

The Paradox of Kindness

In speaking about almsgiving in his Message for Lent 2021, Pope Francis noted that “A small amount, if given with love, never ends, but becomes a source of life and happiness.” This statement applies not just to donations of money or goods but to our acts of kindness. As Pope Francis goes on to say, “In order to give hope to others, it is sometimes enough simply to be kind, to be willing to set everything else aside in order to show interest, to give the gift of a smile, to speak an word of encouragement, to listen amid general indifference.”

The paradox of kindness is that it grows the more we give it away. This may not be apparent because the seeds of self-worth we plant in struggling people through our interest and kindness often don’t sprout until years later. However, we need only reflect on our own experience to know how much the steadfast love of a grandparent, the encouragement of a favorite teacher or coach, or the support of colleagues when we begin a new job can influence the course of our life.

We may have begun Lent with ambitious plans to address our faults, deepen our prayer life, and better the lives of those in need. If, five weeks in, we find that the best we can do is “simply” to be kind and willingly set aside our own plans to listen to others, then that is enough. In God’s hands, these small acts of love will grow to become an abundant source of life and happiness.

We Want to Go Somewhere Together

Abbot John Klassen said that “Ultimately, we live the Benedictine community life together because we want to go somewhere together, to heaven, to be with Christ who has been with us for the whole journey.”

This statement very much reflects the life of St. Benedict, whose death we remember on March 21 (or on March 22 when, as in 2021, March 21 falls on a Sunday). St. Benedict established at least 12 monasteries in his lifetime, and after living in solitude for several years in young adulthood, he continually lived in community with other monks who were seeking God. He even died in the company of his brother monks, as reported in the Dialogues of St. Gregory: “…he had his disciples carry him into the chapel where he received the Body and Blood of our Lord to gain strength for his approaching end. Then, supporting his weakened body on the arms of his brethren, he stood with his hands raised to heaven and as he prayed breathed his last.”

For Christians, there is no such thing as crossing the finish line into eternal life alone. A beautiful image of this reality once unfolded during a Special Olympics race when, just as a runner was about to cross the finish line, the person behind him tripped and fell. The boy who was about to win turned around, helped his fellow runner to his feet, and arm in arm, they skipped across the finish line. We want to go somewhere together.

Christ is with us for the whole journey through each other, which is why participating in some form of community (be it a family, close-knit friends, a religious order, or workplace colleagues) is so important. St. Benedict closed Chapter 72 of the Rule he wrote for his monks with this line: “Let them prefer nothing whatever to Christ, and may he bring us all together to everlasting life.” As Charles Péguy said, “We must save ourselves together. We must arrive all together in the heaven of our God. We must not come to look for our God without each other. What might God say, if we arrived without each other?” 

A Man of No Words

In his Loose-Leaf Lectionary, Fr. Daniel Durken points out something about St. Joseph that startled me: “St. Joseph is not just a man of few words. He is a man of no words. Neither Matthew nor Luke records a single spoken word of Joseph in their infancy narratives.” It is remarkable that a man who left behind no words has been the source of so much reflection on the characteristics of compassion, courage, faith, trust, obedience, and integrity. As the saying goes, “Actions speak louder than words.”

When God’s word lives in us, as it did in St. Joseph, it is not necessary for us to speak; as Thomas Keating said, “Silence is God’s first language,” and it can be ours, too. Our connection with God likely has more of an impact when it is expressed through what we do rather than what we say.

One of the characteristics of St. Joseph that often seems to be overlooked is his kindness. Even before he received a message from an angel that explained Mary’s pregnancy, he had chosen the kindest way to deal with the situation — to divorce Mary quietly rather than subject her to shame. Joseph’s instinct for kindness was likely one of the reasons God chose him to be the earthly father of Jesus. Jesus was a very kind man, and surely that characteristic was instilled in him by having a kind father.

In his message for Lent 2021, Pope Francis said, “In order to give hope to others, it is sometimes enough simply to be kind.” Perhaps the best way to honor St. Joseph on his Feast Day is to follow his example and extend kindness to those around us.

A Place of Prayer

The spiritual teacher Beverly Lanzetta has found it helpful to create a personal rule of life, which includes this beautiful intention: “Offer yourself as a place of prayer. May your presence be one that heals divisions and expands hearts.”

When we think of a place of prayer, we usually think of churches, temples, or mosques. However, when we create space and time for prayer in our lives, we become a walking, breathing place of prayer where we and others can always be in the presence of God.

Sr. Mary Ann Dice

Although people who are faithful to prayer experience frustration, anger, disappointment, and fear just like anyone else, they also have a palpable sense of peace that comes from being grounded in God. It somehow feels easier to breathe in their presence, and their faith that love will overcome any afflictions and divisions is reassuring.

We are fortunate indeed if we have prayerful people as companions and teachers. One such person is Sr. Mary Ann Dice, who died yesterday. An elementary school teacher and reading specialist, she was for many years a harbor for many children who had difficulty learning to read. In her later years she managed the laundry services at the Mount and was an affirming, gentle, patient face of Christ for our lay employees.

I’m grateful to Sr. Mary Ann for being a place of prayer for students, employees, and her monastic community. I have no doubt she will continue to expand our hearts as we remember her and seek to follow her example of faithfulness in prayer that leads us and others to the love of God.

"Unselfing" Through Empathy

Once cameras were built into cell phones, it became necessary to coin a new phrase to describe the practice of taking a picture of oneself: “selfies.” Here I am, world!

Interestingly, before selfies became a thing, the writer Iris Murdoch defined empathy as “an occasion for unselfing.” When Jesus talked about dying to self, this is what he had in mind — shifting the focus from ourselves by observing and imagining the experience of another person. The Good Samaritan was “unselfing” when he imagined the pain and distress of a man who had been beaten and left by the side of the road.

Ironically, as Maria Popova notes in her newsletter Brain Pickings, “Empathy brings you closer to yourself by taking you out of yourself.” How can this be? The Good Samaritan might never have known his capability for compassion if he had not practiced empathy upon seeing the sad state of his neighbor. Furthermore, empathy expands our idea of “self” by teaching us about our oneness with other beings. Empathizing with others helps me discover parts of myself I wasn’t aware of because my vision had been restricted to what I label “me.” Through empathy I encounter and experience the grief of a parent who has lost a child, the joy of playing the mandolin, and the resilience of a farmer who replants after her crop has been destroyed by a hailstorm, even though “I” — what I call “myself” — have never experienced those things.

Richard Rohr says that saints see things as connected and whole; they don’t see things as separate. When a saint takes a “selfie,” an image appears not of one person but a collage of all things to which he or she is connected through Christ. We don’t have to regret all the things we will never be able to do in our one short life, because by “unselfing” through empathy, we can experience all things not just in the short span of our earthly body but in the eternal life to come.

Lent is a time we especially focus on “unselfing.” Appropriately, Lent means “springtime” as we enjoy the new life that comes from dying to self and becoming more connected to God and to others.

From Blessing to Blessing

Fr. Michael Peterson of Saint John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota, is directing the 2021 annual retreat at the Mount. The topic of the retreat is Benedictine resilience, which helps us keep our vow of conversatio morum — continual openness to transformation. At the end of each conference, Fr. Michael plays a song on a Native American flute, which inspired this poem.

Conversatio Morum

 

Today, YouTube has brought me a monk

from the prairies of Minnesota

who is wholly absorbed

in playing a Native American flute

 

With the first note he pushes

off from the shore of thought

and settles into the current of breath,

centered in a song that flows  

 

Like a life well lived, by turns

lilting, steadfast, and mournful

but always fluid, never lingering

on one note, no matter how compelling

 

The song summons cumulus clouds

that stream past my window,

indeterminate shapeshifting masses

and wisps shepherded by a south wind

 

Thus the breath of the universe proclaims

that a continual openness to transformation —

the monastic vow of conversatio morum —

is to move from blessing to blessing

 

Freeing us from our desire to make time

stand still, for the holy awaits wherever

our surrender to the impetus

of life carries us

Finding Our Own Silence

Michael Casey offered a beautiful thought in his book Truthful Living: St. Benedict’s Teaching on Humility: “Each of us needs to find our own silence. Unless we do, we will never find our hearts.”

At first glance, this statement might seem curious. Silence is the absence of sound, isn’t it? How then can we each have our own silence?

There actually are different types of silence—tense silence, weary silence, fearful silence, reverent silence. The silence we need to find is the type that, as Casey says, facilitates the soul’s attention to God. It is there we will find our heart.

Each of us finds that kind of silence in a different way. For some people, it might be a solitary walk in a park; for others, prayer in a hushed church before mass begins; and for yet others, sitting in companionable silence with a spouse or close friend. Maybe for you, the silence after a beautiful piece of music facilitates your attention to God, or your rapt presence while bird watching, or the moment after you awaken and give thanks for another day.

Sound is a blessing, of course, but too much of it can distract and divert us from awareness of God’s presence, which is generally unobtrusive. Jesus found this to be true, even though he lived before the age of radio, television, and computers; he needed to get away from the noisy crowds that often surrounded him and frequently slipped away late at night or early in the morning to a deserted place to be with God. We can follow his example and find our own heart by seeking the silence that leads us to an awareness of God who is always with us.

The Balm of Hospitality

Hospitality is an important part of the Benedictine charism, because it is a practice that reminds us to try to see Christ in others. As Jesus says in Matthew 25:35-36, “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.” Hospitality is so important, Jesus says it is the criteria that will be used to determine if we will inherit God’s kingdom.

Although it may seem obvious, writer Olivia Laing made an observation about hospitality I hadn’t considered before: “Hospitality, the friendly and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors, or strangers, is a word that shares its origin with hospital, a place to treat sick or injured people.”

Given this connection, it appears that hospitality is like the balm of Gilead, a rare perfume used medicinally that has come to be interpreted as a spiritual medicine. When we offer hospitality to another, we offer the spiritual medicine of acceptance, comfort, and acknowledgment. Interestingly, the word “Gilead” means “hill of testimony,” so when we offer hospitality, we also are testifying to our belief that everyone is part of the body of Christ and deserving of attention and care.

In the past several years, we have witnessed a growing tendency in our society to wall off, separate, and reject others based on political beliefs, race, and socioeconomic status. We also have experienced physical isolation from each other for more than a year because of the COVID-19 virus. It is time to enlarge and open our attitudes and actions by making a conscious effort to offer the balm of hospitality to others — if not in person, then through avenues such as phone calls, cards, interaction on social media, and prayer.

Christ is all around us in people who are physically and spiritually hungry, thirsty, and sick, as well as in strangers and those in prison. When we offer hospitality to them, we find that we are already a part of the kingdom (kin-dom) of God.

The World View of Jesus

Children’s book author Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss) once said, “I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells.” Jesus would certainly agree with this statement!

One definition of “nonsense” is “an instance of absurd action.” In the view of much of the world, Jesus’ instructions to love your enemy, seek the lowest rather than the highest place of honor, forgive others, sell all you have, and take up your cross are nonsensical. However, people who follow Jesus’ instructions wake up to a new way of living that is outside the world’s system of power, money, and control. As Fr. Richard Rohr says in his book The Wisdom Pattern: Order ǀ Disorder ǀ Reorder, “Rather than “fighting the system, he [Jesus] ignores it and builds an alternative world-view where power, prestige, and possessions are not sought or even admired.”

Dr. Seuss and Jesus had another thing in common: they used stories to help people gain new perspectives. Through a tale about a Grinch and the Whos in Whoville, Dr. Seuss taught us about the real meaning of Christmas, and his story about a creature called the Lorax helped us imagine a world without trees. Jesus, for his part, helped us expand our concept of neighbor through the parable of the good Samaritan and guided us to see God as a loving and forgiving father in the story of the prodigal son.

In recounting the transfiguration of Jesus, the disciples reported that they heard a voice that said, “This is my beloved Son; listen to him.” Apparently, God approved of the “nonsense” that Jesus taught. We should listen and allow the words of Jesus to wake up our brain cells (and our heart cells).

A Heart in Pilgrimage

In his poem Prayer, George Herbert refers to prayer as the “heart in pilgrimage.” Lent is a particularly good time for a journey of the heart, when we leave behind the boundaries we have put in place to safeguard and control our lives and, as the Celtic people say, “seek the place of our resurrection.”

In the Celtic tradition, a pilgrimage was undertaken to “cast oneself upon the mystery of God,” as Phillip Sheldrake notes in his book Living Between Worlds: Place and Journey in Celtic Spirituality. It is a time for God who knows us better than we know ourselves to lead us to a place of new life. God’s choices might seem counterintuitive, as when the Spirit led Jesus into the desert for a period of reflection and temptation. However, even periods of trial and hardship serve us by strengthening us, providing clarity, and teaching us to rely on God rather than on ourselves.

St. Brendan’s prayer offers guidance during our Lenten pilgrimage of the heart:

Help me to journey beyond the familiar
and into the unknown.
Give me the faith to leave old ways
and break fresh ground with you.

Let us leave old ways of impatience, criticizing others, seeking comfort in possessions, and numbing or distracting ourselves instead of meeting the challenges of life. As we break fresh ground in our spring gardens, may we break fresh ground in our hearts by being open to God’s loving presence.

Sheldrake further observes that “The true object of pilgrimage had always been a loving attention to God; there was a deep suspicion of pilgrims who did not already carry with them the God whom they sought.” Just so, when we go on a pilgrimage of the heart during Lent, we will find on Easter Sunday that we have carried Christ, who is the place of our resurrection, with us all along.