IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI

The night before he died, Jesus struggled mightily to accept his Father’s will. The Gospels describe him in the Garden of Gethsemane, prostrate on the ground, “sweating blood,” and begging his Father to save him from the brutal death that awaited him. Then, after he finally surrenders his will to his Father, an angel comes and strengthens him.

This begs a question: where was the angel when, seemingly, he most needed it? Why didn’t the angel come earlier to strengthen him?

Two stories, I believe, can be helpful in answering this.

The first comes from Martin Luther King, Jr. In the days leading up to his assassination, he met angry resistance and began to receive death threats. He was courageous, but he was also human. At a point, those threats got to him. Here is one of his diary entries.

“One night towards the end of January, I settled into bed late, after a strenuous day. Coretta had already fallen asleep and just as I was about to doze off the telephone rang. An angry voice said, ‘Listen, nig.., we’ve taken all we want from you; before next week you’ll be sorry you ever came to Montgomery.’ I hung up, but I couldn’t sleep. It seemed that all of my fears had come down on me at once. I had reached a saturation point.

“I got out of bed and began to walk the floor. Finally, I went to the kitchen and heated a pot of coffee. I was ready to give up. With my cup of coffee sitting untouched before me, I tried to think of a way to move out of the picture without appearing a coward.

“In this state of exhaustion, when my courage had all but gone, I decided to take my problem to God. With my head in my hands, I bowed over the kitchen table and prayed aloud. The words I spoke to God that midnight are still vivid in my memory.

“‘I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. Now I am afraid. The people are looking to me for leadership, and if I stand before them without strength and courage, they too will falter. I am at the end of my powers. I have nothing left. I’ve come to the point where I can’t face it alone.’ At that moment I experienced the presence of the Divine as I had never experienced Him before.” (Strive Toward Freedom)

Notice at what point in his struggle the angel appears.

In her autobiography, The Long Loneliness, Dorothy shares this story. As a young woman, along with the man she loved, she had been somewhat militant in her unbelief. Indeed, their reluctance to enter the institution of marriage was meant as a statement of their non-acceptance of traditional Christian values. Then she conceived a child and its birth was the beginning of a radical conversion for her. The joy she felt holding her baby convinced her that there was a God and that life had a loving purpose. She became a Roman Catholic, much to the chagrin of the man she loved, the father of her child: he gave her an ultimatum: if you have this child baptized, our relationship is ended. She had the child baptized and lost that relationship (though they continued as friends). However, she now found herself a single mother with no job and no real vision or plan as to where to go now in life.

At one point, she became desperate. She left the child in the care of others and took a train from New York City to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C. In her autobiography, she describes how she prayed that day, how desperate her prayer was. Like Jesus in Gethsemane and Martin Luther King in Montgomery, her prayer was one of raw need and helplessness, of an admission that she no longer had the strength to go on. Essentially, she said this to God: I have given up everything for you and now I am alone and afraid. I don’t know what to do and am lacking strength to carry on in this commitment.

She prayed this prayer of helplessness, took the train back to New York, and not long after found Peter Maurin sitting on her doorstep, telling her that he had heard about her and that he had a vision of what she should now do, namely, to start the Catholic Worker. That set the path for the rest of her life. The angel had come and strengthened her.

Notice at what point in these stories the angel makes its appearance – when human strength is fully exhausted. Why not earlier? Because up to the point of exhaustion, we don’t really let the angel in, relying instead on our own strength. But, as Trevor Herriot says, “Only after we have let the desert do its full work in us will angels finally come and minister to us.”

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Every year, when I flip my calendar to December, thoughts of Christmas overwhelm me with anticipation of the joys to come and the great gift of Christ’s Nativity.

Yet, when I open that same calendar to the month of March, my initial thought has never been, “The Solemnity of the Annunciation is on March 25!” There are no cards or gifts, and merely a handful of hymns dedicated to this occasion. It is not celebrated as a Holy Day of Obligation, nor is it marked with much festivity outside the celebration of regularly scheduled weekday Masses.

Perhaps this is because this solemnity often falls in the heart of Lent’s penitential season. Perhaps, too often, it falls in the shadows between the sorrow of the passion and the glory of the Resurrection.
Lately, though, I have asked myself why I do not give the Solemnity of the Annunciation its due – and resolve that it will be different this year.

March 25 was chosen for this celebration precisely because it falls exactly nine months prior to the birth of Christ. If I truly believe all that the church teaches about the sacred dignity of life in the womb, then I should celebrate the Annunciation with the same reverence, joy and gratitude that I celebrate the Nativity.
I rejoice in December when the angels sung in Bethlehem, giving glory to the newborn King. I should also rejoice in March when an angel announced in Nazareth, “Hail, full of grace! The Lord is with you. … You will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall name him Jesus.” (Luke 1:26-38)

I am amazed that Christ humbled Himself to be the tiny infant we welcome at Christmas. I should also be amazed that, nine months before that, He humbled Himself to enter the world far smaller and hidden away.

It is easy to celebrate what the eye can see. Hence, we celebrate our own birthdays and those of our loved ones and we count our years from that day forward. Yet, we know that all of us had remarkable hidden lives for months before that day we were delivered into the world. So, too, did Christ.

There is no Advent calendar counting down the days to the Annunciation. There are no grand celebrations and family gatherings ahead to mark this day. But perhaps, absent the distractions of Christmas, the Solemnity of the Annunciation is a particularly sacred time to contemplate the true wonder of God’s incarnation. Perhaps, in the midst of the Lenten season, this is an occasion to contemplate not only the wonder that Christ came to earth – but why He did. Perhaps in honor of Mary of Nazareth and her great “Yes,” this occasion can inspire our parishes and families to offer spiritual and material support for all those women who carry the sacred gift of life within them.

I hope that the Solemnity of the Annunciation holds many blessings for all who take time to contemplate that instant when Christ began His human life, starting His journey at the very beginning. I hope that parishes named for this solemnity enjoy their Feast Day in a special way. I hope that greater reverence for life in the womb fills our hearts as we mark this great day. And, for myself, I hope for fuller appreciation for the great gift of divine love that brought Christ to earth to share in our ordinary time.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

FOR THE JOURNEY
By Effie Caldarola

Somewhere in Nicaragua, a Catholic bishop languishes in prison because of his outspoken opposition to the policies of an unjust government.

Bishop Rolando Álvarez, a handsome and youthful 56-year-old, has been accused of “treason” and “undermining national integrity” by the Ortega regime. Earlier, 222 political prisoners, including priests, were released to the United States. Bishop Álvarez was among them at the airport.

But according to a National Public Radio opinion piece by Scott Simon, the bishop “stopped at the aircraft stairs.”

In “A Bishop of Immense Courage,” Scott recorded Bishop Álvarez’s words: “Let the others be free. I will endure their punishment.”

For someone like me, who generally acknowledges being a chicken, this is breathtaking bravery.
But some of the people I admire most are the ones who simply remain faithful, who hear some call perhaps only they can hear. Even the journalist Simon seemed a bit puzzled by why Álvarez would not get on that airplane.

In 1980, four women, Maryknoll Sisters Ita Ford and Maureen Clarke, Ursuline Sister Dorothy Kazel, and laywoman Jean Donovan were brutally slain by the military in the midst of a civil war in El Salvador. They didn’t have to be there.

Father Frans van der Lugt, a Dutch Jesuit, spent 50 years of ministry in Syria. But when the Syrian government, aided by Russia, began a vicious war against rebel forces, he had every opportunity to leave. Instead, he was the last European left inside the Old City of Homs as fighting destroyed it. Speaking fluent Arabic, he served as a spokesperson for those caught in the destruction.

Then someone came for him, and he was shot in the head in the garden of his residence.

Our Catholic tradition has a long line of martyrs, those who won’t leave even when the average person would be on the next plane. And it always has something to do with fidelity to the poor, that preferential option for the poor at the heart of our faith.

So here’s one more. Father Stanley Rother (now Blessed Stanley Rother) was a farm boy from Okarche, Oklahoma. He was accepted to the seminary, but was sent home because he couldn’t handle the academics, especially Greek and Latin.

Fortunately, his bishop gave him another chance in another seminary and he was ordained for the Archdiocese of Oklahoma City. This country priest volunteered for a missionary assignment in Guatemala. Again, war. As always, hardest on the poor, whom Rother served in a remote village. Where, we add with a nod to his first seminary, he easily learned the Mayan dialect. Knowing he was on a death list, he returned to the U.S. But something called him back to the village. Like Frans van der Lugt, he eventually heard the knock at the door and was killed. (For a compelling biography of Blessed Stanley Rother, read Maria Ruiz Scaperlanda’s “The Shepherd Who Didn’t Run.”)

I can think of many rationalizations for why they could leave. Álvarez could speak publicly and educate us about the issues facing Nicaragua. Frans van der Lugt was 75 when he was shot – surely he deserved to die in his own bed?

But it’s Lent. So, we cast our eyes to Jesus, and watch him set his face toward Jerusalem. He knew what lay in store for him there. His disciples were confused; Peter remonstrated with him.

But Jesus had the kind of integrity that propelled him to answer a call he could have escaped.

Let’s pray to know Jesus and ask him how he wishes to send us. And let’s pray for Bishop Álvarez.

(Effie Caldarola writes for the Catholic News Service.)

Stewardship Paths
By Julia Williams

JACKSON – Lent is designed to be a time for sacrifice and self-denial, the point of which is to deepen one’s relationship with God and strengthen habits of self-control.

What you ‘give up’ you can ‘offer up’ as a prayer, united with Christ’s sacrifice of the Cross. Fasting is a powerful way to make an impact on the world with your daily prayers, which is why I think giving up pizza is a cop-out.

Is that harsh? Maybe. But I think Lent ought to be.

Unless you eat pizza every day, twice a day, you’re only going to be sacrificing it a few times a week, max! That means your powerful prayers for our broken world are diluted to two, maybe four incidences in seven days instead of the many more opportunities you could have had.

When someone gives up eating between meals, or the sweets they eat 3-4 times a day, they are tempted many times throughout the day to ‘give up’ and ‘give in.’ Then, at each temptation, they’re presented with an opportunity for prayer, for ‘offering up’ their sacrifice with Christ. When you’re hungry all the time, do what St. Paul says in 1 Thessalonians: “Pray constantly.”

Giving up something small or insignificant, like pizza or your weekly trip to the coffee shop, strikes me like Jesus getting all the way to the Cross and saying, “Nah, maybe next week. I’ve done enough today.”
When you love someone, you want to see them all the time. If you’re not with them, you’re thinking about them. You can’t wait to set things aside to spend time with them.

Isn’t your love for Jesus worth setting a few things aside? If you’re going to tell the Lord, who died for your sins, that you only want to pray and sacrifice for Him once or twice a week, I wonder if it would be better not to sacrifice at all. Prayer needs to be daily, or better yet constantly. Fasting is an amazing gift that Jesus taught us to allow us to grow closer to Him.

That’s why I’d never give up pizza for Lent. It’s far too seldom and is too easy to follow the letter of the law and order a calzone instead.

This Lent, think about how you can really challenge yourself with fasting. Fasting is prayer … and prayer is the Stewardship Way of Life.

Excerpts: catholicmom.com/Katie Kimball

Reflections on Life
By Melvin Arrington

In observance of the National Eucharistic Revival, I offer these reflections on how I came to understand what Venerable Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen meant when he said: “The greatest love story of all time is contained in a tiny white Host.”

When I was growing up in the Baptist Church, the observance of the Lord’s Supper was always a special occasion, partly because it was observed so infrequently, but also because of its solemnity. Children knew they had better not be caught whispering or passing notes during this service. Church members believed the bread and grape juice they consumed merely symbolized the Body and Blood of Christ because the service was only a remembrance rather than a re-enactment. Nevertheless, we were always warned not to partake if we knew ourselves to be unworthy.

My first exposure to the Catholic Church was in graduate school when I started attending Mass with Terry, my future wife. It quickly became obvious to me that the focal point of the Mass was always the same thing week after week: the priest would consecrate the bread and wine and repeat the words Jesus spoke at the Last Supper. Then the people would come forward and receive communion.

One day, after having attended Mass several times, I asked Terry, a cradle Catholic, if she had ever gotten tired of repeating the same ritual every Sunday. She replied simply, “No.” But she said it with a slight, almost imperceptible, smile while looking off in the distance, as if contemplating something beautiful. This was more than 50 years ago, and I still remember that conversation. Needless to say, her answer made a deep and permanent impression on me. Now, as a Catholic, I can appreciate why this sacrament is the essential element of the Mass. After all, the one thing Christ asked his disciples to remember was His sacrificial death.

After we were married, we tried to focus on those doctrines baptized Christians hold in common. Unfortunately, belief in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist wasn’t one I shared with her. But after praying, studying and attending Mass for many years, I finally came to accept this teaching and found my way into the Catholic Church, guided by the Holy Spirit, the writings of Archbishop Sheen, and Terry’s wonderful example of faith.

During this journey I learned that the first-century Christians believed Christ was actually present in the Eucharist. This was not just a symbol for them. Jesus said when we gather to worship He is in our midst. (Matt. 18:20) So, from the very beginning when the first Christians met in homes for prayer and the “breaking of the bread,” they sincerely believed what they were receiving was the Precious Body and Blood of the Lord.

The church has maintained a firm belief in the Real Presence throughout its history. The early Church Fathers taught this, and the teaching largely remained unchallenged until the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century. Of course, Protestants to this day hold to a symbolic interpretation. But it’s important to keep in mind that during the church’s first 1500 years (75% of its 2000 year history), all Christians believed Christ was truly present in the Sacrament of the Altar.

Growing up, I had learned to interpret the Lord’s Supper symbolically, but the first-century Christians didn’t understand it that way, for one reason because they were able to distinguish between literal and figurative language. For example, when Jesus said, “I am the Good Shepherd” (John 10:11), they realized He was speaking metaphorically because He wasn’t really a shepherd; He was a carpenter turned teacher/preacher. They knew Jesus was using this expression to show how He watched over and cared for his own.

In like manner, when Jesus told Peter and Andrew He would make them fishers of men (Matt. 4:19), He didn’t mean these two fishermen would literally be snaring people in their nets. They must have instantly grasped the metaphorical significance of His remark – that they were being called to lead men and women to follow Jesus – because upon hearing those words the two men left their boats without hesitation and went along with Him.

However, when we come to John chapter six Jesus speaks literally, leaving no room for ambiguity: “Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life … For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.” (vv. 54-55) How do we know that? We know because when He explained this pronouncement in greater detail and they understood He meant it literally, many left Him, claiming this teaching was too hard. Even the persecutors of the early Christians took these words at face value because one of the charges they leveled at Jesus’ followers was cannibalism.

Toward the end of this passage Jesus stated, “There are some of you who do not believe.” (John 6:64) We still have scoffers with us today. In fact, surveys show that seventy percent of Catholics in this country don’t believe in the Real Presence. Despite this sad fact, the church’s teachings have not changed. We, like those in Jesus’ day, should take His words in the “Bread of Life” discourse literally. There is no other option. What Jesus said is true because He said it, and He is Truth itself.

As Christoph Cardinal Schönborn has commented, the people do not kneel and the priest does not genuflect “in front of a mere symbol.” He goes on to explain, “No one genuflects in front of a piece of bread. I bow down before God in person.”

The Eucharist, like other “mysteries of faith” (e.g. the Trinity), is difficult to explain, but it’s not necessary to comprehend something fully in order to believe it. Without understanding how gravity works or how light can travel at 186,000 miles per second, I still accept these things as true.

When we approach the altar with bread and wine, two of the basic elements that sustain life, we are bringing gifts that represent our own sacrificial offering. Bread and wine are most appropriate because, as Archbishop Sheen explains, “no two substances have to undergo more to become what they are than do wheat and grapes. One passes through the Gethsemane of a mill, the other through the Calvary of the winepress before they can be presented to the Beloved on the altar.”

In contemplating this “holy and living sacrifice,” I’m reminded of a weekly feature than used to run in a local entertainment paper. The feature asked selected individuals to answer a single question. One week the editors, probably thinking of celebrity sightings, asked: “When have you ever been in the presence of greatness?” One of our parishioners was among those questioned. He gave the best response imaginable: “Every Sunday.”

Like Coca-Cola’s advertising slogan of the 1970s, “It’s the Real Thing,” we, in turn, boldly proclaim that the Eucharist is really and truly the “Real Thing.” It is sacred reality – Jesus in our midst, offering us intimate participation in His Divine Life. And that’s a love story for all time.

(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
Several weeks ago my older brother George died. His death was somewhat of a shock since he had been in relatively good health until a week before he died. His story is worth telling. No community, Mircea Eliade once said, should botch its deaths.

Although highly intelligent and motivated, George never got the chance for higher education. Our family was large and living on a small farm that could not support us. He, like other older members of our family, ended his schooling early to enter the work force to help support the family. In this, he was not unique. In the second-generation immigrant community where we grew up, a lot of his generation, both men and women, had to do the same. His story, like many others like him, was one within which he had to renounce his own dreams for the good of others.

His story is a story of dedication to faith, to family, to church and to community. For the most part, he was conscripted by circumstance. Although he was very bright, perhaps the brightest in our family, circumstances dictated that he leave school after the eighth grade to help support the family. Consequently, he never really had a chance do what he wanted in life, both in terms of a career and in terms of getting married and having a family; and for him the great sacrifice wasn’t career, but marriage.
George was never meant to be life-long bachelor, but his life and commitments never quite allowed for marriage and led instead to a life of celibacy (in much the same way as this plays out for a priest or a vowed religious). Nevertheless, as for a vowed celibate, in the end, it served him well. He ended up with a very large family, that is, with people from all over the world considering him their brother, their mentor, their trusted friend. Since his death, there has been a flood of letters, emails, texts, phone calls and messages from people everywhere expressing what George meant to them. He died celibate, but he died a loved man.

However, all of this came at a price. Those of us who were privy to his private frustrations, know the price his soul paid for his dedication. He needed, at times, simply to vent at a safe place vis-à-vis the frustrations and tensions he was carrying, times when he couldn’t fully emulate the patience and selflessness of Jesus. However, he always expressed his frustrations at a safe place, where his venting couldn’t hurt anybody. He was always bigger than his frustrations. The deepest part of him was always gracious and laced with humor. He brought laughter into every room he entered.

Moreover, he was a man of faith and of the church. The church was an integral part of what he thought of as family and he gave himself over fully, both to the little rural faith community within which he lived and to the larger church. For more than twenty years he helped lead a Lay Formation program and assisted in the youth ministry in his home diocese. The dedication and talent he brought to those programs were recognized by many. Indeed, at one point the local bishop came up to him and said, “George, I have only question for you, do I ordain you now or do you want to go to the seminary for a few years first?”

Ministry as a priest would have been a dream come true for him, but those of us who knew him also know why he turned down that invitation. He still had some commitments inside of family and community that he felt he could not abandon. That choice might be questioned; but again, it was made out of dedication and selflessness, putting the needs of others before his own.

In the Gospel of John, the author describes how, after Jesus was already dead, soldiers came and pierced his side with a lance and “immediately blood and water flowed” out of his dead body. An interesting image! Life flowing out of a dead body! After Jesus died, his followers felt themselves nourished by him in an even deeper way than during his life. From the spirit he left behind, they sensed a rich outpouring of life and cleansing.

George also left behind that kind of a spirit. Everyone who knew him will continue to drink from his spirit – his selflessness, his sacrificing his dreams for family and church, and his willingness to carry frustration and tension for the sake of others. Not least, we will be nourished by his humor and the lightness he brought into a room, a quality that manifested both his intelligence and his zest for life.

He lived a good life. He died a loved man. He will be remembered fondly by a large family – for whom he sacrificed his own chance for marriage and having a family of his own.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)