IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
I once lived in community for several years with an Oblate brother who was wonderfully generous and pious to a fault. But he struggled to pick up symbol and metaphor. He took things literally. For him, what the words said is what they meant!

This caused him considerable confusion and consternation when each day praying the psalms we would pray for Jerusalem and Israel and would occasionally pray for the demise of some other nation. Coming out of prayer, he would ask: “Why are we praying for Jerusalem? For Israel? What makes those places more special in God’s eyes than other cities and other countries? Why does God hate some countries and cities?”

We would try our best to have him understand that these names were not to be taken literally, as places on a map, but rather as symbols. Wisely or unwisely, I would sometimes say, “Brother, whenever you read the word ‘Jerusalem’ or ‘Israel’, just take that to mean the ‘church’, and whenever a nation or a city is named that God seems to hate, take that to mean that God hates sin.”

We might smile at his piety and literalism, but I’m not sure we don’t all still struggle with our own literalism in understanding what in fact the scriptures mean by words like Jerusalem, Israel, Chosen people, and God’s elect. Indeed, as Christians, what do we mean with the words Christian, Church, and Body of Christ?

For whom are we praying when we pray for Jerusalem and Israel?

What we see in scripture is a progressive de-literalizing of names and places. Initially, Israel meant an historical nation, Jerusalem meant an historical city, the Chosen People meant a genetic race, and God’s elect was literally that nation, that city, and that genetic race. But as revelation unfolds, these names and concepts become ever more symbolic.

Most parts of Judaism understand these words symbolically, though some still understand these words literally. For them, Jerusalem means the actual city of Jerusalem, and Israel means an actual strip of land in Palestine.

Christians mirror that. Mainstream Christian theology has from its very origins refused to identify those names and places in a way where (simplistically) Jerusalem means the Christian Church and Christians are the Chosen Race. However, as is the case with parts of Judaism, many Christians, while de-literalizing these words from their Jewish roots, now take them literally to refer to the historical Christian churches and to its explicitly confessing members. Indeed, my answer to my Oblate brother (“Jerusalem means the church, Israel means Christianity”) seems to suggest exactly that.

However, the words Church and Christianity themselves need to be de-literalized. The church is a reality which is much wider and more inclusive than its explicit, visible, baptized membership. Its visible, historical aspect is real, is important, and is never to be denigrated; but (from Jesus through the history of Christian dogma and theology) Christianity has always believed and taught clearly that the mystery of Christ is both visible and invisible. Partly, we can see it and partly we can’t. Partly it is visibly incarnated in history, and partly it is invisible. The mystery of Christ is incarnate in history, but not all of it can be seen. Some people are baptized visibly, and some people are baptized only in unseen ways.

Moreover, this is not new, liberal theology. Jesus himself taught that it is not necessarily those who say ‘Lord, Lord’ who are his true believers, but rather it’s those who actually live out his teaching (however unconsciously) who are his true followers. Christian theology has always taught that the full mystery of Christ is much larger than its historical manifestation in the Christian churches.

Kenneth Cragg, a Christian missionary, after living and ministering for years in the Muslim world, offered this comment: I believe it will take all the Christian churches to give full expression to the full Christ. To this, I would add, that it will not only take all the Christian churches to give full expression to the mystery of Christ, it will also take all people of sincere will, beyond all religious boundaries, and beyond all ethnicity, to give expression to the mystery of Christ.

When my pious Oblate brother who struggled to understand metaphor and symbol asked me why we were always praying for Jerusalem and Israel, and I replied that he might simply substitute the word Church and Christianity for those terms, my answer to him (taken literally) was itself over pious, simplistic, and a too-narrow understanding of the mystery of Christ. Those terms Church and Christianity, as we see in the progressive unfolding of revelation in scripture, must themselves be de-literalized.

For whom are we praying when we pray for Jerusalem or for Israel? We are praying for all sincere people, of all faiths, of all denominations, of all races, of all ages. They are the new Jerusalem and the new Israel.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

Things Old And New
By Ruth Powers
The Feast of the Baptism of the Lord ends the Christmas season and provides ample food for meditation for us on Baptism, the first of the sacraments and our initiation into the Body of Christ. Baptism is a sacrament which is incredibly rich in meaning and in the grace it bestows, but I want to focus on one particular aspect of it for now: that by initiating us into Christ’s body, the Church, Baptism gives us a share in His three roles of Priest, Prophet, and King.

Although this phrase is not found verbatim in the Bible, application of these three roles to the person of Jesus is found throughout the Scripture, prefigured in the Old Testament and fulfilled in the new. They also refer to the ministries of Christ shared by ordained priesthood – to sanctify (through the sacraments), to teach, and to rule. In the Vatican II document Lumen Gentium and later in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, the three roles are also applied to the laity. By our baptism, we are called to express these ministries in ways specific to the lay state, an idea sometimes called the priesthood of all believers. This idea is found in 1 Peter 2:9: “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people of his own, so that you may announce the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.” So, what are we called to do to live this calling?

What is the role of a priest? Primarily it is to offer sacrifice, especially the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and to intercede for his people. We can share in this role not only by prayer and participating in the Mass, but also by presenting our daily life, both blessings and hardships, as a spiritual offering to God. We pray for others and the world, making sure not to neglect Jesus’ command to pray for our enemies. We can also strive to make our lives an example that will draw others to closer relationship with God. Do we do this? Are we not only striving to grow closer to God ourselves, but is our life the kind of example that will lead others, especially nonbelievers, to God? If we profess to follow the two great commandments of love God and love neighbor, do we actually do so openly and actively, or do we love only selectively?

The prophet is one who speaks God’s truth, including being willing to speak truth to power. In order to speak God’s truth, we must first know what that truth is. Do we take the time to actually study and meditate on the word of God, listening also to the guidance of the magisterium of the Church, or do we cherry-pick interpretations to fit our preconceived prejudices or the talking points of a political party or social group? To be a prophet is to be willing to speak up for God’s truth even if what we say will be unpopular or uncomfortable. Remember that we “speak” prophetically through our actions as well as our words. We are called to make our entire lives a witness to the life of God within us, working always for ongoing conversion in our own lives so that our lives may be an example of conversion to others. As a paraphrase of one of the teachings of St. Francis of Assisi says, “Preach the Gospel always. Use words if necessary.”

Finally, there is the role of King. This is the Old Testament image of the king where he was both leader and, more importantly, servant of his people. Christ gives us the ultimate example of this kind of kingship at the Last Supper where he washes the feet of the apostles and commands them to do likewise. We are to live the baptismal role of King through humble service to others, following Jesus’ example. We are called especially to use the talents, graces and gifts God has given us to advance His reign on earth through working to establish justice in our families, our communities and the world.

(Ruth Powers is the program coordinator for the Basilica of St. Mary in Natchez.)

ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia
On the Feast of the Epiphany, the 2025 Jubilee Year came to a close as the Holy Doors in Rome were sealed once again. I am sorry to see the Jubilee Year come to an end.
I did not visit Rome this year. I did not attend any special Jubilee events. Despite much attention paid to the Jubilee in Catholic media, I did not give it much deep thought as the months of 2025 passed by so quickly.

Yet, I am sorry to see the Jubilee Year end because of its beautiful theme: “Hope does not disappoint.”

In inadvertently dreary headlines, I have recently read reports that “The year of hope has ended …” or words of similar effect. That these reports greet us at the start of a new year seems a particularly unfortunate juxtaposition. If there is anything that should fill the start of a new year, it is the spirit of hope.

At times, though, it seems that hope is in short supply for all too many people and for all too many reasons. Whether it is disillusionment with politics, unease about finances, disappointment about careers, concerns about health, fears about local and international peace – or the lack thereof, angst about relationships, worries about health, or dissatisfaction about how life is unfolding, so many report a lack of hope about the future, both their own and that of their communities. In a particular way, even young people with their whole lives ahead of them can also fall prey to a lack of hope when they look toward their own futures and do not see good things for the years that lie ahead.

I wonder, then, if the start of a new year is a time to think, once again, about the importance of hope. Yes, a year with hope as its central theme may have ended. Yet, the message that “hope does not disappoint” is a timeless one, as relevant in 2026 as it was when St. Paul first wrote those words to the Romans of his day. He explained further that the reason hope does not disappoint is “because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.” (Romans 5:5) What a beautiful thought with which to start the new year!

In these cold January days, we often wish each other “happy new year.” Certainly, happiness, joy, good health and dreams fulfilled are all wonderful things that, with a full heart, I wish to my loved ones in the cards I send, the texts I type and the phone calls I make.

Yet, I wonder if it might be wiser to wish loved ones a “hopeful new year.” In this, there is recognition that as a new year dawns we have no idea how it will unfold or what will lie ahead for ourselves, our loved ones and our world. We may have plans, but we have no promises. We may have goals, but we have no guarantees. We may look back on 2026 as the best year of our lives or the most challenging – or somewhere in between. Now, though, at the threshold of the new year, what will be is hidden from our view.

Nevertheless, one thing that we can wish for each other and pray for each other is an abundance of hope. It is hope that can bring solace to those who face the new year with trepidation. It is hope that can animate the joy of those who face the new year with eager anticipation. It is hope that can calm all of us who know we do not know what lies ahead.

The one thing that we do know, with certainty, is that God has poured, is pouring and will continue to pour His love into our hearts, just as St. Paul announced so long ago. It is from this love that springs the hope that can fill our hearts as a new year we begin.

So, to you and yours, I wish you a hopeful new year!

(Lucia A. Silecchia is Professor of Law at the Catholic University of America’s Columbus School of Law. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
I once had the privilege of visiting Holy Land. It’s a strangely different place. Soaked in history, in struggle, in religion, in blood. Virtually every inch of its soil has been soaked in blood, including the blood of Jesus. History leaps out at you from every stone.

Ancient things come to the surface there and mix with the things of today. When you stand in its sacred spots, you begin to understand why Moses was told to take his shoes off and why, through the centuries, so many wars have been fought over this small strip of desert. Aptly named the Holy Land, I walked its ground, barefoot in soul.

Of all the things I saw there, including the tomb of Jesus, few touched me as deeply as did the Church of the Visitation. It stands in sharp contrast to most of the other churches there that mark the key events in Jesus’ life.

Unlike most of the other churches, the Church of the Visitation is a very modest building. You don’t see any gold or marble. Its wooden walls and oak ceiling are plain and mostly bare. However, on the front wall, behind the altar, there is a painting that depicts the scene of the Visitation, and it was this painting that struck me deeply.

It’s a picture of two peasant women, Mary and Elizabeth, both pregnant, greeting each other. Everything about it suggests smallness, littleness, obscurity, dust, small town, insignificance.

You see two plain looking women, standing in the dust of an unknown village. Nothing suggests that either of them, or anything they are doing or carrying, is out of the ordinary or of any significance. Yet, and this is the genius of the painting, all that littleness, obscurity, seeming barrenness, and small-town insignificance makes you automatically ask the question: Who would have thought it? Who would ever have imagined that these two women, in this obscure town, in this obscure place, in this obscure time, were carrying inside of them something that would radically and forever change the whole world?

Who would have thought it? Yes. Who would have thought that what these obscure peasant women were gestating and carrying inside of them would one day change history more than any army, philosopher, artist, emperor, king, queen, or superstar ever would?

Inside them, they were gestating Jesus and John the Baptist, the Christ and the prophet who would announce him. These two births changed the world so radically that today we even measure time by the event of those births. We live in the year 2025 after that event.

There’s a lesson here: Never underrate, in terms of world impact, someone living in obscurity who is pregnant with promise. Never underestimate the impact in history of silent, hidden gestation. How can any of us have any real significance in our world when we live in obscurity, unknown, hidden away, unable to do big acts that shape history?

We can take a lesson from Mary and Elizabeth. We can become pregnant with promise, with hope, with the Holy Spirit and then, hidden from the world, gestate that into real flesh, our own. We too can reshape history.

If we can grasp this, there will be more peace in our lives because some of the restless fires inside us will torment us less. In brief, there’s a perpetual dissatisfaction inside us that can only be stilled by accepting something we might term the martyrdom of obscurity, that is, the self-sacrifice of accepting a life in which we will never have adequate, satisfactory self-expression. That acceptance can help still that pressure inside us which pushes us to be known, to make a difference, to make our lives count in terms of the big picture.

We all know the feeling of sitting inside of our own lives and feeling unknown, small time, undistinguished and frustrated because our riches are unknown to others. We have so much to give to the world, but the world doesn’t know us. We yearn to do great things, important things, things that affect the world beyond the boundaries of the small towns we live in (even when we are living in large cities).

What can help bring some peace is the image expressed in that painting in the Church of the Visitation, namely, that what ultimately changes the world is what we give birth to when, in the obscurity and dust of our small towns and in the frustration of lives that forever seem too small for us, we become pregnant with hope and, after a silent gestation process, one not advertised or known to the world, we bring that hope to full term.

When I was teaching at Newman College in Edmonton, our president then was a Holy Cross priest who brought us some Maritime color. When surprised by something, he would exclaim: “Who would have thunk it?”

Yes, two pregnant women, two thousand years ago of no status, isolated, standing in the dust, forever changing the world? Who would have thunk it?

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

KNEADING FAITH
By Dr. Fran Lavelle, D. Min
On my recent trip to Italy, I witnessed a daily ritual every morning just outside our hotel. A small van would park across the narrow street on what was basically a wide sidewalk. Two men routinely hopped out of the van and proceeded to gather baskets of freshly baked bread, bundles of fresh herbs, and a basket of seasonal vegetables and fruit. The delivery was made around 6 a.m. And, being a lover of good bread, I was excited to note the fresh delivery every day. The scene struck me as quaint and European.

It was not until I returned home for the full impact of this daily ritual to sink in. I was reading my news feed on my phone when I saw that the board of Tesla was voting later that week to give Elon Musk a trillion-dollar, performance-based stock package. The words “trillion dollars” bounced around my brain like a thousand pingpong balls being lobbed at a wall. One. Trillion. Dollars.

Now before anyone thinks this is an anti–Elon Musk missive, it is not. He happens to be the subject of this particular absurdity. He, as the richest man on the planet, may be part of the problem, but he is not the primary problem.

I tried to wrap my head around what a trillion dollars represented – it is actually 1,000 billion. Spending $1 million per day, it would take approximately 1,148 years for Musk to exhaust his fortune. There are 8.1 billion people in the world. An estimated 808 million people, or about 1 in 10 people worldwide, are living in extreme poverty in 2025. Imagine how many people could be lifted out of poverty with a trillion dollars.

I think we can all agree that a trillion dollars is an absurd amount of money for one person to possess. For whatever reason, I saw in my mind’s eye the small delivery van and the basket of freshly baked bread. The phrase from the Our Father followed: “Give us this day our daily bread.” Our. Daily. Bread.

In light of this reality, perhaps the social commentary is not about Elon Musk or even the class of multibillionaires around the globe. The question we need to focus on, especially in this age of increased poverty, is when did we lose sight of having “enough”? Daily bread. What does enough food look like? What makes a house a home? Are our basic needs being met?

I am the first to admit that in the story of the grasshopper and the ant, I am the ant. I work diligently, storing away summer’s bounty in the freezer for the winter months to ensure we can enjoy tasty oatmeal and blueberries on cold February mornings, or that we have garden-grown bell peppers in March for a heartwarming bowl of beans. But preparing for lean times and hoarding are two different things.

Is the quest for more than enough just a part of who we are as humans? Jesus told us that we would always have the poor among us. Is that an outcome of our inability to share, or something else entirely?

Pope Leo XIII saw similar trends and in the late 1800s formalized the modern approach to Catholic social teaching. These principles have been consistently affirmed by popes over the subsequent years. Our current Pope Leo XIV, recognizing the devastating reality of poverty, once again is shining a light on the principles of Catholic social teaching, especially regarding preferential treatment of the poor.

It is no surprise, then, that care for the poor is the subject of Pope Leo XIV’s first apostolic exhortation, Dilexi te (Latin for “I have loved you”). The document was being drafted by Pope Francis at the time of his death. Thankfully, Pope Leo saw to its completion and publication. In it, the faithful are encouraged to renew our commitment to the poor by animating Christ’s love and recognizing that current global poverty goes beyond material need.

Dilexi te draws from Scripture, church teaching, and the lives of saints. Together, these three form a solid basis for exploring what it means to serve the poor.

As we continue our journey through Christmas, it is an excellent time to deepen our appreciation of exactly how Jesus came into the world. His humble beginnings remind us to lift up the lowly, to comfort the afflicted, to see each other as God’s begotten sons and daughters.

Dilexi te reminds us that Christian love calls us to go out to the margins and unite people in the love of Christ. Changing culture, economic structures, and perhaps most importantly, changing hearts will not be easy. We are being called to empty ourselves of want. We are being called to examine our needs. We are being called to care for one another. Perhaps when we are satisfied with “our daily bread,” we can begin to recognize how to share with those on the margins.

(Dr. Fran Lavelle is the director of faith formation for the Diocese of Jackson.)

REFLECTIONS ON LIFE
By Melvin Arrington

Utter darkness! The total, absolute void of space! When my wife and I toured a cave many years ago, that’s what we sensed when the tour guide led our little group into a well-lit cavern and then flipped the switch. It instantly became infinitely darker than the dim, shadowy murkiness created by any late evening power outage. This was unmitigated blackness. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face; I couldn’t see anything at all! The guide was only trying to demonstrate what the complete absence of light was like but in so doing he was, in effect, re-creating the conditions of the primordial nothingness immediately prior to the moment of Creation. When he turned the switch back on, the cavern instantly became bright and luminous again. It was like coming back to life from the dead.

The stark contrast between light and darkness in the cave also suggests some other opposing pairs: good and evil; warmth and cold; intelligence and ignorance; wisdom and folly; the conscious and the unconscious; spirit and matter; positives and negatives. Also, life vs. death; that’s the one that should really grab our attention. Jesus, the Light of the World, calls us and draws us to Himself and to eternal life. We are free to accept or reject Him. Those who choose the latter option evidently prefer to be as far from the source of illumination as possible, so they will get their wish and find themselves in outer darkness. The following words spoken by Jesus underscore one of the saddest realities in Scripture: “the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil” (John 3:19).

During the last few weeks we have experienced encroaching darkness as the winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year, draws near. On that darkest of days, it will appear that the shadowy forces have won. But something marvelous happens around the time we celebrate the birth of Christ. By Christmas day luminosity begins to come back into the world. The days become longer and the night recedes. The old saying “it’s always darkest before the dawn” turns out to be true.

So, how do we respond to the advent of the new light? By putting up bright, shiny Christmas decorations, of course. Actually, many begin the Christmas season several weeks early. Some of those dazzling outdoor displays pop up the day after Thanksgiving. Perhaps our love for lights and our efforts to illuminate the night sky represent a deep-seated desire to drive away the darkness and negativity that pervade so many aspects of everyday life.

Children and adults alike have a special fascination with the brightness and radiance that characterize Christmas. We love the vivid colors of ornaments and trimmings, the glittery tinsel, and the sparkling bulbs along the winding cord. And let’s not forget the shining fixture atop the tree, reminding us of the wondrous star that guided the Magi to Bethlehem and the stable where the Christ Child was born.

Forty days after the Nativity, Mary and Joseph presented the infant Jesus in the Temple, where Simeon recognized Him as the long-awaited Savior, the One who would offer the light of salvation to the whole world. Taking the baby in his arms, Simeon spoke the words of the Nunc Dimittis, the canticle recited as part of the Night Prayer of the Church: “Now, Lord, you may dismiss your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all the peoples, a light of revelation to the Gentiles and glory for your people Israel” (Luke 2:29-32). On Feb. 2 the church commemorates this event with the feast of Candlemas.

Candles have important functions in the church. Some have a prominent place on the altar while others, votive candles, can be found off to the side. There is also the large Paschal candle that glows with the new fire of Easter, and the one in the Sanctuary Lamp, signifying the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in the Tabernacle. Each of them in some way points to a link between life and light.

The secularists/materialists like to compare human life to a lighted candle. In their view, when the flame goes out, life ends and there’s nothing more. But Venerable Fulton J. Sheen says they forgot to tell us that “even when the candle has burned out, the light continues to emit itself at the rate of 186,000 miles a second, beyond the moon and stars, beyond the Pleiades, the nebulas of Andromeda, and continues to do so as long as the universe endures.” As St. Francis of Assisi reminds us, “all the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.” The secularist/materialist viewpoint is in error; the soul of a person of faith, just like that candle light, lives on after death and returns to its Source.

As Christians we should be beacons of hope, pointing the way to everlasting truth, goodness, and beauty: “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:16). Also, we are supposed to “live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth” (Ephesians 5:8-9). It also produces beauty, as in these words from the popular Advent hymn, “O Come Divine Messiah”: “Dear Savior, haste!/Come, come to earth./Dispel the night and show your face,/and bid us hail the dawn of grace.”

Every time we feed the hungry, visit the sick, welcome the stranger, or contribute to worthy causes, we are doing our part to dispel the darkness. In this great time of celebration let us carry the light with us wherever we go and try to bring some sunshine into the lives of all we meet, especially those who struggle during the holidays.

May the Light of the World fill you with joy, love, hope, and peace during this Christmas season and all throughout the coming year!

(Melvin Arrington is a Professor Emeritus of Modern Languages for the University of Mississippi and a member of St. John Oxford.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Recently I was listening to a religious talk show on the radio when a caller asked: How do we know that God exists? A good question.

The radio host answered by saying that we know it through faith. That’s not a bad answer, except what needs to be teased out is how we know this through faith.

First, what does it mean to know something? If we believe that to know something means to be able to somehow picture it, understand it, and imagine its existence, then this side of eternity, we can never know God. Why?

Because God is ineffable. That’s the first and non-negotiable truth we need to accept about God and it means that God, by definition, is beyond our imagination. God is infinite and the infinite can never be circumscribed or captured in a concept. Try imagining the highest number to which it is possible to count. God’s nature and existence can never be conceptualized or imagined. But it can be known.

Knowing isn’t always in the head, something we can explicate, own in a picture, and give words to. Sometimes, particularly with things touching the deepest mysteries in life, we know beyond our head and our heart. This knowing is in our gut, something felt as a moral imperative, a nudge, a call, an obligation, a voice which tells us what we must do to stay true. It’s there we know God, beyond any imaginative, intellectual, or even affective grasp.
The revealed truths about God in scripture, in Christian tradition, and in the witness of the lives of martyrs and saints, simply give expression to something we already know, as the mystics put it, in a dark way.
So, how might we prove the existence of God?

I wrote my doctoral thesis on exactly that question. In that thesis, I take up the classical proofs for the existence of God as we see these articulated in Western philosophy. For example, Thomas Aquinas tried to prove God’s existence in five separate arguments.

Here’s one of those arguments: Imagine walking down a road and seeing a stone and asking yourself, how did it get there? Given the brute reality of a stone, you can simply answer, it’s always been there. However, imagine walking down a road and seeing a clock still keeping time. Can you still say, it’s always been there? No, it can’t always have been there because it has an intelligent design that someone must have built into it and it is ticking away the hours, which means it cannot have been there forever.
Aquinas then asks us to apply this to our own existence and to the universe. Creation has an incredibly intelligent design and, as we know from contemporary physics, has not always existed. Something or someone with intelligence has given us and the universe a historical beginning and an intelligent design. Who?

How much weight does an argument like this carry? There was once a famous debate on BBC radio in England between Frederick Copleston, a renowned Christian philosopher, and Bertrand Russell, a brilliant agnostic thinker. After all the give and take in their debate, they agreed, as atheist and believer, on this one thing: If the world makes sense then God exists. As an atheist, Russell agreed to that, but then went on to say that ultimately the world doesn’t make sense.

Most thinking atheists accept that the world doesn’t’ make sense; but then, like Albert Camus, struggle with the question, how can it not make sense? If there isn’t a God then how can we say that is better to help a child than to abuse a child? If there isn’t a God, how can we ground rationality and morality?

At the end of my thesis, I concluded that existence of God cannot be proven through a rational argument, a logical syllogism, or a mathematical equation, albeit all of those can give some compelling hints regarding God’s existence.

However, God is not found at the end of an argument, a syllogism, or an equation. God’s existence, life, and love are known (they are experienced) inside a certain way of living.

Simply put, if we live in a certain way, in the way all religions worthy of the name (not least Christianity) invite us to live, namely, with compassion, selflessness, forgiveness, generosity, patience, long-suffering, fidelity, and gratitude, then we will know God’s existence by participation in God’s very life – and whether or not we have an imaginative sense of God’s existence is of no importance.

Why do I believe in God? Not because I’m particularly persuaded by proofs from great philosophical minds like Aquinas, Anselm, Descartes, Leibnitz or Hartshorne. I find their proofs intellectually intriguing but existentially less persuasive.

I believe in God because I sense God’s presence at a gut level, as a silent voice, as a call, an invitation, a moral imperative which, whenever listened to and obeyed, brings community, love, peace and purpose.

That’s the real proof for the existence of God.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese

“When the soul is willingly emptied for love in order to have Him who is all. Then it is able to receive spiritual rest.” –Julian of Norwich, d. 1416

I had finished my prayer time … in silence, surrounded by my icons … and I gazed out the window to an overcast and cold morning … trying to allow Jesus to give me rest amidst recent anxiety and concern. It was not going to happen, and I was sure of that. I could not make it happen myself, and Jesus seemed far, far away. The middle of Advent and on into the “Os” is a fragile time. The fullness of Christmas had filled everyone else, and many had a lack of peaceful rest.

A few days later, I ran into Cardinal Zen’s “Advent Reflections” while tidying up a bookshelf. Perhaps you have read it or used it for your own reflection?

First, “Who likes darkness? Isn’t the light sure to prevail? Unfortunately, it is not necessarily so. Darkness often tempts us. In the dark, we can do shoddy things.” (p. 23) In so many of our places, the sun sets early. Darkness might be experienced, as Cardinal Zen says, “For Christians, ‘despairing of hope’ for salvation and thinking that God could not save us is indeed a sin … But what is it exactly that you doubt? … the power of God or His mercy? … He is always with us, so His plan must succeed.” (p. 19)

Another: “Because of His excessive love for us, God sent us His Son in the likeness of our sinful bodies – a fragile infant laid in a manger; only with the help of an angel, He could escape the attempt on His life. He wanted to experience all the hardships of human existence, hoping that we might trust Him and recognize Him as one of us.” (p. 74) This reminded me of my favorite saint, Julian of Norwich … who reminds us of the extraordinary love God has for us.

Off I went exploring the nearly end of her “Revelations of Divine Love” … and I read some paragraphs as if I’d never seen them before. I lived for 20 years not some 26 miles from her cell in Norwich (England) and frequently went there to pray.

How could she experience this silence and rest when “surrounded by the Black Death, parts of the Hundred Years War, the peasants’ revolt, Edward III and Richard II, and Henry IV taking the throne”? Does any of that sound in the least like what surrounds you? Pandemics, natural disasters, crime, political intrigue, extreme consumerism … ? How could one be expected to pray in that environment? How can there be spiritual rest?

Today we expect everyone to comment on most things – politics, family, religion. What is our business? What is none of our business? In the day, Julian commented on none of it. “Instead of pointing to men’s failures to be human and Christian, Juliana focuses on the love of a living, loving, personal God, His sufferings, and her response to them. The anchorhold at Norwich might as well have been in China for all the notice she takes of current sins and scandals, local persons and events, or the … immoralities of the failed shepherds of a spiritually starving, helpless flock … she is to observe God alone, to listen to Him and to make her response, and to transmit the experience to her fellow Christians.” (Introduction)

Cardinal Zen’s reflections kept me considering this notion of “excessive love.” Fit right in with Julian. He points to the reality that God wanted from all eternity to be our God, and that we become His people. How do we come to understand this? How do we know we are loved by God?

Julian explained that dread is caused by fright, pain, doubt and reverent dread. Curiously, she says, “Love and dread are brothers. They are rooted in us by the goodness of our Maker and can never be taken from us. We have the power to love from nature and from grace. We have the power to dread from nature and from grace … it is proper for us to love Him for His goodness.” (p. 217)

In considering how we learn to trust, she reminds us that love and dread take on different aspects: “In love we shall be friendly and near to God, and in dread we shall be gentle and courteous.” Advent brings us near to God either through love or dread.

Advent can be a time of renewal or discovery. Cardinal Zen poses this: “How many still do not know Jesus Christ? … How many who know Him are yet unwilling to obey? … But it is undeniable that ‘the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (p. 144)

The darkness will not prevail. Julian tells us: “All shall be well … not only the noble and great things but also the little and small, lowly and simple things … not one of the smallest things will be forgotten … He wants us to be more at ease in soul and more peaceful in love and to stop looking at all the tempests that could keep us from rejoicing in Him!” (p. 132) That is fruitful spiritual rest.

Blessings.

(sister alies therese is a canonical hermit who prays and writes.)