IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
They shall look upon the one whom they have pierced! A phrase that names the voice that’s left behind on Good Friday.

In 1981, an anonymous young girl was brutally raped and murdered by the military at an obscure location in El Salvador, fittingly called La Cruz (the Cross). Her story was reported by a journalist named Mark Danner. In his account of this, Danner describes how after a particular massacre some soldiers shared how one of their victims haunted them and how they could not get her out of their minds long after her death.

They had plundered a village and raped many of the women. One of these was a young girl, an evangelical Christian, whom they had raped many times in a single afternoon and tortured. However, throughout it all, this young girl, clinging to her belief in Christ, had sung hymns. The soldiers who had violated and eventually executed her were haunted by that. Here are Danner’s words:

“She kept right on singing, too, even after they had done what had to be done and shot her in the chest. She had lain there on La Cruz with the blood flowing from her chest and had kept on singing – a bit weaker than before, but still singing. And the soldiers, stupefied, had watched and pointed. Then they had grown tired of the game and shot her again, and she sang still, and their wonder began to turn to fear – until finally they had unsheathed their machetes and hacked her neck, and at last the singing had stopped.” (The Massacre at El Mozote, N.Y., Vintage Books, 1994, pp. 78-79.)

They shall look upon her whom they have pierced! Notice the feminine pronoun here because in this instance the one who is looked upon after being pierced is a woman. Dying such a violent, unjust, and humiliating death with faith in her heart and on her lips makes her the crucified Christ, and not just because she (like all Christians) is a member of the Body of Christ. Rather because at this moment, in this manner of death, with this kind of faith overt in her person, like Jesus, she is leaving behind a voice that cannot be silenced and which will haunt those who have done violence to her and all the rest of us who hear about it.

What haunted those soldiers? The haunting here is not that of some wounded spirit that now seeks retribution by frightening us and forever unsettling our dreams. Nor is it the haunting we feel in bitter regret, when we recognize a huge, unredeemable mistake which had we foreseen the consequences of, we would never have made. Rather, this is the voice that haunts us whenever we silence, violate, or kill innocence. It’s a voice which we then know can never be silenced and which irrespective of the immediate emotions it evokes in us, we realize we can never be free from, and which paradoxically invites us not to fear and self-hatred but to what it embodies.

Gil Bailie, who makes this story a corner-piece in his monumental book on the cross and non-violence, notes not just the remarkable similarity between her manner of death and Jesus’, but also the fact that, in both cases, part of the resurrection is that their voices live on.

In Jesus’ case, nobody witnessing his humiliating death on a lonely hillside, with his followers absent, would have predicted that this would be the most remembered death in history. The same is true for this young girl. Her rape and murder occurred in a very remote place and all of those who might have wanted to immortalize her story were also killed. Yet her voice survives, and will no doubt continue to grow in history long after all those who violated her are forgotten. A death of this kind morally scars the conscience and leaves behind a permanent echo that nobody can ever silence.

When we parse out all that’s contained in that echo, when we take a reflective look at Jesus on the cross or at the death of this young evangelical, we cannot but feel a wound at a gut level. To gaze upon the one whom we have pierced, Jesus or any innocent victim, is to know (in a way that undercuts all culpable and invincible ignorance) that the voice of self-interest, injustice, violence, brutality, and rape will ultimately be silenced in favor of the voice of innocence, graciousness and gentleness. Yes, faith is true.

A critic reviewing Danner’s book in the New York Times tells how, after reading this story, he kept “straining hopelessly to hear the sound of that singing.”

In our churches on Good Friday, we read aloud the Gospel account of Jesus’ death. Listening to that story, like the soldiers who brutally murdered an innocent young, faith-filled woman, we are made to look upon the one whom we have pierced. We need to strain to hear more consciously the sound of that singing.

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

THINGS OLD AND NEW
By Ruth Powers

The Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Holy Thursday celebrates one of the central beliefs of the Catholic Church: that Christ is totally, physically present in bread and wine of the Eucharist. The appearance remains that of bread and wine, but the essence becomes Christ through His gift to us at the consecration of the Mass. This was the belief from the very earliest days of the church, as attested in the letters of St. Paul; and from this belief grew the practice of treating the consecrated bread and wine with special reverence since it is, after all, Jesus himself.

The practice of reserving the Blessed Sacrament outside of Mass has a long history in the church. In the earliest centuries, the purpose was to reserve it to take to the sick and dying, as described by St. Justin Martyr and Tertullian. However, once Christianity was legalized and worship could be public, there is reference to reserving part of it in special containers for adoration outside of Mass. St. Basil the Great is described as reserving a part of the Eucharist in a container shaped like a dove in a description from A.D. 379. As Christianity spread throughout Europe, churches began to be built with tabernacles on or above the altar for the reservation of the consecrated bread although there is little specific mention of specific practices for adoration.

In 1079 Pope Gregory VII began something of a “Eucharistic Renaissance” in Europe when he issued a statement affirming the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist after a prominent cleric had denied it. From this time forward, we see the development of Eucharistic processions, special acts of adoration, encouragement of visits to the church to adore the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle and a renewed emphasis on adoration by members of religious orders. Members of the Benedictine order in France and England took the lead in promoting adoration there while St. Francis of Assisi is credited with introducing the practice in Italy. The host began to be elevated at the consecration of the Mass so that people could adore (the elevation of the chalice came later, after the Council of Trent).

In 1264, Pope Urban IV instituted the feast of Corpus Christi in recognition of the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. The great theologian St. Thomas Aquinas wrote the text and hymns for the Mass and the Office of the feast, some of which are still in use today like Panis Angelicus, Pange Lingua, Tantum Ergo, and O Salutaris Hostia. Around this same time, we begin to see the devotion that would come to be known later as Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, where the Eucharist is exposed for adoration for a time and then used to bless the people. By the 15th century, elaborate containers for exposition of the Eucharist, called monstrances, became popular.

In the wake of the Protestant Reformation, the Council of Trent emphasized the Real Presence in response to Protestant insistence that the Eucharist was only symbolic. The Council declared that Eucharistic adoration was a form of latria, or worship of God. The Council further stated that “the Sacrament, therefore, is to be honored with extraordinary festive celebrations (and) solemnly carried from place to place in processions according to the praiseworthy universal rite and custom of the holy church. The Sacrament is to be publicly exposed for the people’s adoration.” Growing from this pronouncement was the practice of “Forty Hours” where continuous prayer and meditation is made for forty continuous hours before the exposed Eucharist. Some religious orders also performed perpetual adoration, where the Eucharist was exposed 24 hours a day and someone was always in prayer before it. By the 18th century, promotion of quiet personal visits to churches to pray before the Blessed Sacrament, called Holy Hours, were being promoted by saints such as Alphonsus Ligouri and Benedict Joseph Labre. St. Alphonsus explained that a visit to the Blessed Sacrament is the practice of loving Jesus since friends who love each other visit frequently.

After a brief decline in the early 19th century, Eucharistic devotions became popular again in the late 19th through the mid-20th centuries. Eucharistic Congresses, large meetings to promote devotion to Christ in the Eucharist, became popular events. Unfortunately, both understanding of and devotion to the Eucharist has declined precipitously in recent years. A 2020 Pew Research study found that more than two-thirds of Catholics, including those who attend Mass regularly, do not believe that Christ is truly present in the Eucharist! They believe it is only a symbol. Because of this decline in the understanding and devotion to Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops has begun a three year plan to focus on the Eucharist and has declared a “Year of the Eucharist” beginning on the Feast of Corpus Christi this year. The focus period will culminate in a national Eucharistic Congress in 2024 in Indianapolis, Indiana. Spend some time in the upcoming months renewing or deepening your faith in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist.

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

On Ordinary Times
By Lucia A. Silecchia

It is likely that, for many, a significant number of favorite family photos are snapped around a dinner table.

Among the most joyful of those photos are the ones in which there are new faces around that table – when marriages, births, engagements, adoptions, friendships, and the bonds of neighborliness draw more people, with love, into the family circle.

Some of the saddest of those photos are the ones in which loved ones are missing. Perhaps death parted them from their families. Perhaps ill health, travel difficulties, competing obligations, work responsibilities, military deployments, canceled flights, limited funds, divorce or other estrangements kept others away. Whatever the reasons, absence brings sadness or emptiness in its wake.

Then, there are the bittersweet family photos. These are the ones in which there are both new faces and missing loved ones. These are the ones when there are new people drawn into the heart of the family’s love at the same time that others, also beloved, are not there.

I have been thinking about this as I anticipate the Easter season, soon to be upon us.

At the great Vigil of Easter, new sisters and brothers in Christ will join us, fully, around the table of the Lord when we will worship together with that special joy that comes when new members of the family are with us. For months, we have prayed for our catechumens and candidates; for weeks we have met them through the scrutinies of Lent; for much of the past year they have joined us in our parish life, in eager anticipation of the Baptisms, Confirmations and First Holy Communions of Eastertide. As is true of any family, the joy of welcoming new members and gathering to celebrate the Eucharist with them for the first time and after is a source of great happiness and celebration.

Yet, this joy may be a bit bittersweet if there are also loved ones missing from our celebrations – loved ones who will not be with their parish families for the great celebrations of Easter and beyond.
Some, certainly, have been separated by death. The realities of this have been particularly painful these past two years as the shadow of mortality has been on the minds of many. For those who have passed from this life, may God bless you as you journey on your way to your true home.

But so many others are missing from our parish communities for myriad reasons that are as unique as they are. It may be that they cannot physically come to Mass – or can only come with the assistance of others that may be hard to find. It may be that they are burdened by the exhausting challenges of demanding jobs, young children, long hours, or over commitments to other things – even other things that are good. It may be a hurt, pain or bad memory that keeps some afar. For others it may be a single time when a lack of hospitality or an unkind word was just enough to turn them away.

It may be that because our fast-paced world does not value Sabbath rest as it once did, there is pressure to use Sunday as a catch-up day before a new week begins. It may be a lack of opportunities to learn about the faith – and the difficulty that it is to love what is unknown or misunderstood. It may be the deep struggle of wrestling with a challenging teaching or practice of the Church. It may be guilt about a past mistake, the convenience of viewing Mass on-line, fear of close contacts, or a language barrier that makes participation difficult. It may be disillusionment engendered by scandal or bad example. It may be pressure from friends or family hostile to or skeptical about faith. It may be grief about something so deep it has shaken faith to its core. It may be a million other things known only to God.

But, the gatherings of our faith communities are poorer whenever someone, anyone, is missing – just as our own families are poorer in the absence of a loved one.

Maybe, as the Easter season comes, it can beckon each of us to think of one person we know who might be missing from our parish celebrations. We may know that person well, or casually; we may know why he or she is away, or we may not; we may have wise words of wisdom to share, or, more than likely, we may not.

But, as spring comes, as Covid-19 wanes, and as the greatest celebration of the Christian year arrives, this may be the perfect opportunity to invite someone to join us – not just for the Easter season, but also for the ordinary times to follow. There is no substitute for a personal invitation. Christ, after all, called each of His apostles, individually, by name. This Easter season may give us the chance to call someone by name to join us as our family gathers again to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ.
The joy of welcoming our new brothers and sisters will be so much sweeter if our churches are filled with the whole family that welcomes them.

To my new sisters and brothers in Christ – welcome! To my returning sisters and brothers in Christ – welcome back! May God bless us all as we journey together through the joys of Easter, as a family together now and in ordinary times.

God bless you and yours as Lent gives way to Easter.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at the Columbus School of Law at the Catholic University of America.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
In his farewell speech in John’s Gospel, Jesus tells us that he is going away but that he will leave us a parting gift, the gift of his peace, and that we will experience this gift in the spirit he leaves behind.

How does this work? How do we leave peace and a spirit behind us as we go?

This is not something abstract, but something we experience (perhaps only unconsciously) all the time in all our relationships. It works this way. Each of us brings a certain energy into every relationship we have, and when we walk into a room, that energy in some way affects what everyone else in the room is feeling. Moreover, it will stay with them after we leave. We leave a spirit behind us.

For example, if I enter a room and my person and presence radiate positive energy: trust, stability, gratitude, concern for others, joy in living, wit, and humor, that energy will affect everyone in the room and will remain with them after I have left the room, as the spirit that I leave behind. Conversely, even though my words might try to say the contrary, if my person and presence radiate negative energy: anger, jealousy, bitterness, lying, or chaos, everyone will sense that, and that negative energy will remain with them after I leave, coloring everything I have left behind.

Sigmund Freud once suggested that we understand things the clearest when we see them broken, and that is true here. We see this writ large, for instance, in the case of how a long-term alcoholic parent affects his children. Despite trying not to do so, he will invariably bring a certain instability, distrust, and chaos into his family, and it will stay there after he is gone, as the spirit he leaves behind, short-term and long-term. His person and his presence will trigger a feeling of distrust and chaos, and the memory of him will do the same.

The same is true in reverse vis-à-vis those who bring positive energy, stability and trust, into a room. Unfortunately, often at the time, we do not sense the real gift that these persons bring and what that gift does for us. Mostly it is felt as an unspoken energy, not consciously perceived, and only later in our lives (often long after the persons who did that for us are gone) do we recognize and consciously appreciate what their presence did for us. This is true for me when I think back on the safety and stability of the home that my parents provided for me. As child, I sometimes longed for more exciting parents and naively felt safety and stability more as boredom than as a gift. Years later, long after I had left home and learned from others how starved they were as kids for safety and stability, I recognized the great gift my parents had given me. Whatever their human shortcomings, they provided my siblings and me with a stable and safe place within which to grow up. They died while we were still young, but they left us the gift of peace. I suspect the same is true for many of you.

This dynamic (wherein we bring either stability or chaos into a room) is something which daily colors every relationship we have and is particularly true regarding the spirit we will leave behind us when we die. Death clarifies things, washes things clean, especially regarding how we are remembered and how our legacy affects our loved ones. When someone close to us dies, our relationship to him or her will eventually wash clean and we will know exactly the gift or burden that he or she was in our lives. It may take some time, perhaps months, perhaps years, but we will eventually receive the spirit he or she left behind with clarity and know it as gift or burden.

And so, we need to take seriously the fact that our lives belong not just to us but also to others. Likewise, our deaths do not belong only to us, but also to our families, our loved ones, and the world. We are meant to give both our lives and our deaths to others as gift. If this is true, then our dying is something that will impart either a gift or a burden to those who know us.

To paraphrase Henri Nouwen, if we die with guilt, shame, anger, or bitterness, all of that becomes part of the spirit we leave behind, binding and burdening the lives of our family and friends. Conversely, our dying can be our final gift to them. If we die without anger, reconciled, thankful for those around us, at peace with things, without recrimination and making others feel guilty, our going away will be a sadness but not a binding and a burdening. Then the spirit we leave behind, our real legacy, will continue to nourish others with the same warm energy we used to bring into a room.

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