IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Simone Weil once commented that it’s not enough today to be merely a saint; rather “we must have the saintliness demanded by the present moment.”
She’s surely right on that second premise; we need saints whose virtues speak to the times.
What kind of saint is needed today? Someone who can show us how we can actually forgive an enemy? Someone who can help us come together across the bitter divide within our communities and churches? Someone who can show us how to reach out to the poor? Someone who can teach us how to actually pray? Someone who can show us how to find “Sabbath” inside the bombardment of ten thousand television channels, a million blogs and a billion tweets? Someone who can show us how to sustain our childhood faith amidst the sophistication, complexity and agnosticism of our adult lives? Someone who, like Jesus, can go into singles’ bars and not sin? Someone who radiates a full-bodied humanity, even as he or she is, by faith, set apart? Someone who’s a mystic, but with a robust sense of humor? Someone who can be both chaste and healthily sexual at the same time?
The list could go on. We’re in pioneer territory. The saints of old didn’t face our issues. They had their own demons to conquer and aren’t rolling over in their graves, shaking their fingers in disgust at us in our struggles and infidelities. They know the struggle, know that ours is new territory with new demons to conquer and new virtues asked for. The saints of old remain, of course, as essential templates of Christian discipleship, living gospels, but they walked in different times.
So what kind of saints do we need today?
We need saints who can honor the goodness of the world, even as they honor God. We need women and men who can show us how to walk with a living faith inside a culture which believes that world here is enough and that the issues of God and the next life are peripheral. We need saints who can walk with a steady, adult faith in the face of the world’s sophistication, its pathological restlessness, its over-stimulated grandiosity, its numbing distractions and its overpowering temptations. We need saints who can empathize with those who have drifted away from the church, even as they themselves, without compromise, hold their own moral and religious ground. We need young saints who can romantically re-enflame the religious imagination of the world, as once did Francis and Clare. And we need old saints, who have walked the gamut and can show us how to meet all the challenges of today and yet retain our childhood faith.
As well, we need what Sarah Coakley calls “erotic saints,” women and men who can bring chastity and eros together in a way that speaks of the importance of both. We need saints who can model for us the goodness of sexuality, who can delight in its human joys and honor its God-given place within the spiritual journey, even as they never denigrate it by setting it against spirituality or cheapen it by making it simply another form of recreation.
Then too we need saints today who can, with compassion, help us to see our blind complicity with systems of all kinds which victimize the vulnerable in order to safeguard our own comfort, security and historical privilege. We need saints who can speak prophetically for the poor, for the environment, for women, for refugees, for those with inadequate access to medical care and education and for all who are stigmatized because of race, color or creed. We need saints, lonely prophets, who can stand as unanimity-minus one, who can wage peace and who can point our eyes to a reality beyond our own shortsightedness.
And these saints need not be formally canonized; their lives need simply be lamps for our eyes and leaven for our lives. I don’t know who your present-day saints are, but I find have found mine among a very wide range of persons, old, young, Catholic, Protestant, Evangelical, liberal, conservative, religious, lay, clerical, secular, faith-filled and agnostic. Full disclosure, the names I mention here are not persons whose lives I know in any detail. Mostly, I know what they’ve written, but their writings are a lamp which lights my path.
Among those of my own generation, I’m indebted to are Raymond E. Brown, Charles Taylor, Daniel Berrigan, Jean Vanier, Mary Jo Leddy, Henri Nouwen, Thomas Keating, Jim Wallis, Richard Rohr, Elizabeth Johnson, Parker Palmer, Barbara Brown Taylor, Wendy Wright, Gerhard Lohfink, Kathleen Dowling Singh, Jim Forest, John Shea, James Hillman, Thomas Moore and Marilynne Robinson.
Among the younger voices whose lives and writings speak as well to a generation younger than mine, I would mention Shane Claiborne, Rachel Held Evans, James Martin, Kerry Weber, Trevor Herriot, Macy Halford, Robert Barron, Bryan Stevenson, Robert Ellsberg, Bieke Vandekerckhove and Annie Riggs.
Maybe these aren’t your saints, fair enough. So lean on those who help light your path.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser, theologian, teacher and award-winning author, is President of the Oblate School of Theology in San Antonio, TX.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Late July brings one of my favorite celebrations in the Church year: the July 26 Memorial of Saints Ann and Joachim, the parents of Mary, the Mother of God.

I had some early biases toward this feast. I grew up in a New York parish named for St. Ann. My parents gave me that moniker for my middle name when I was baptized and I took it again when I was confirmed. My family always celebrated our patron saints’ feast days and I was competitively (but uncharitably) pleased that I had two celebrations rather than one because I was the only one of my siblings to be baptized with a middle name.

However, what I liked the most about this celebration was the thought that Christ – God Himself – had grandparents. I remember my own grandparents with much love and joy. These elders of my family were my roots, my heritage and a cherished center of my early life.

Most pictures I see of St. Ann (and the oft-neglected St. Joachim) show her, or them, in their role as parents to Mary. They are often depicted teaching Mary to read, celebrating her presentation or witnessing her wedding. Occasionally, they are added to portraits of the Holy Family, gazing with love and awe from the corner of a painting of their daughter and her family.

Yet, I also like to think of them as the grandparents of God. I wonder whether, in that extraordinary role, they experienced any ordinary times.

When Mary and Joseph were planning to marry, did her parents eagerly anticipate becoming grandparents, as do so many parents-of-the-bride? When Mary told them of the Annunciation, how much did they understand? Was their joy about their grandson mixed with fear? Did they worry, as parents do, when their pregnant daughter traveled to visit her cousin Elizabeth in the “hill country of Judea” or accompany Joseph to Bethlehem while carrying their grandson in her womb? Did they visit their infant grandson at His birth or His presentation and give their daughter, a new mother, advice on caring for Him? Did they ever watch Him play as a toddler and hear His first words or see His first steps? Did they ever make a special food He liked as a treat or tuck Him into bed at night? In those “hidden” years of Christ’s youth, did they watch Him grow in strength and knowledge? Did they ever have the chance to tell Him childhood stories of His mother’s life as a young girl? Did they speak of Him to their friends and pray for Him when they worshipped at the temple?

Were they still living when their daughter feared for her lost 12-year old and rejoiced when He was found? Was their grandson their final thought and last joy when, after their holy lives, they closed their eyes on this world? I will never know. But I do know the importance of grandparents. As parents to our parents, they shape the lives of those who most shape our own. They are so often the link to a distant time, a foreign land and a different life. They are the elders who guard the heritage of a family and who, so often, hold it together in difficult times. When Pope Francis visited Philadelphia in 2015, he said, “Grandparents are a family’s memory. They are the ones who gave us the faith, they passed the faith on to us.”

I am so grateful for the inheritance of faith and memories I received from my own grandparents. I am also so grateful that in the extraordinary way in which Christ dwelt among us, he had the gift of grandparents – one of the greatest blessings of ordinary times.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor Law 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.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By Sister alies therese
Many of you will be going on retreat, vacation or an adventure this summer and might wonder how to overcome being overwhelmed . . . especially if your normal routine includes a lot of silence. Or it might be the other way around . . . what to do with too much silence?
Have you ever considered artistically representing your Lectio Divina, spiritual reading or even your prayer?
Take some reflection time and pull out a sketchbook, maybe some markers and a good permanent micro-fine pen. Or maybe you’d prefer watercolors or pencils . . . whatever works for you. Even the pasting of pictures or words from magazines; gluing and taping that ‘psalm’ or reading into a new format. The very fact that you have deepened your focus, away from yourself and away from external noise, supports the silence within and the joy that follows.
As a doodler/artist I find that this discipline frees my heart. I love color. I love to explore lines this way and that way, much like the life we live, both in the known and unknown. For many, many years, I have done at least one page every day as a part of my first morning prayer. Over the years this has taken the form of different sizes, colors, places, styles of handwriting and printing . . . even becoming a lefty after breaking my shoulder! I ask myself one quick question while reflecting: what might this look like? . . . and then I proceed to be surprised. Sometimes the page is my all-time favorite. Other times it seems like random scribbles and not very appealing artistically (a bit like life). Other times I discover the wealth of simplicity in the art and I am full of a secret laughter.
You probably know this: there is the silence of solitude and that it is an ancient tradition. One can be silent, not just not speaking, but actually filled with silence, in a crowded room, among many folks bustling about, in the car going here or there . . . in the presence of great natural beauty. No, not always external silence, but the discipline of inner silence carved out over years of practice so that when one is in unfamiliar or challenging situation, silence, the resting place, can be entered into. Laughter often emerges and we won’t miss God’s voice.
Most people do not live in solitude. Some people try to convince themselves they are living such a life when they are really living an ego-filled life that distorts both silence and solitude. A silence or solitude turned in upon itself is closed. God is about openness!
“Despite their dullness and apathy,” the Carthusians tell us, “The children of the promise paid heed to Moses and set out for the desert of Sinai. For 40 years, obedience kept them marching through the desert toward a promise land whose blessings remained elusive.” As will yours, I suspect. If we avoid the grumbling and offer that moment of suffering, so that our hearts might be transformed. What might that look like?
When you meet your ‘false self’ as you journey, or find disgust and resentments, well, these are wonderful to add to your book of sketches . . . as if they were snapshots of a moment where everything is crushed and not full of peace or harmony. Though our hearts are challenged to shout and scream, to weep and moan. We have the opportunity to enter ever more deeply and explore the truth of waiting. Waiting for God to be our silence, for God to be our solitude? No! We enter into God’s silence and God’s solitude, so that we might be nourished and set free. It is not about us. This is always the great and blest discovery . . . it really is all about God.
Also, from the Carthusian Miscellany, The Wound of Love, we find this: “True solitude . . . must trace its way back to its source. It is not obedience to an external law, nor a flight from others, nor a world closed in upon itself, but an encounter with the living God. Solitude is a gratuitous gift, destined to be received in all humility; it is not our own creation, nor that of anyone else. It does not consist in doing anything, nor in trying to become somebody: it is sharing in the solitude of God.”
Don’t forget that notebook when you go visit granny or find yourself alone on a mountain. Explore the riches of your inner artist and allow yourself the pleasure of discovery. Remember you never have to show anyone, nor speak of the adventure. What God is inviting you into is a wonderful feast of relationship, color and design, that lights up your deepening heart where God, the best artist of all, dwells!

(Sister alies therese is a vowed Catholic solitary who lives an eremitical life. Her days are formed around prayer, art and writing. She lives and writes in Mississippi.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Growing up as a Roman Catholic, like the rest of my generation, I was taught a prayer called, The Act of Contrition. Every Catholic back then had to memorize it and say it during or after going to confession. The prayer started this way: Oh, my God, I am truly sorry for having offended thee and I detest all of my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell.
To dread the loss of heaven and fear the pains of hell can seem like one and the same thing. They’re not. There’s a huge moral distance between dreading the loss of heaven and fearing the pains of hell. The prayer wisely separates them. Fear of hell is based upon a fear of punishment, dreading the loss of heaven is based upon a fear of not being a good, loving person. There’s a huge difference between living in fear of punishment and living in fear of not being a good a person. We’re more mature, humanly and as Christians, when we’re more worried about not being loving enough than when we’re fearful that we will be punished for doing something wrong.
Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, I breathed in the spirituality and catechesis of the Roman Catholicism of the time. In the Catholic ethos then (and this was essentially the same for Protestants and Evangelicals) the eschatological emphasis was a lot more about the fear of going to hell than it was about being a loving person. As a Catholic kid, along with my peers, I worried a lot about not committing a mortal sin, that is, doing something out of selfishness or weakness that, if unconfessed before I died, would send me to hell for all eternity. My fear was that I might go to hell rather than that I might not be a very loving person who would miss out on love and community. And so I worried about not being bad rather than about being good. I worried that I would do something that was mortally sinful, that would send me to hell; but I didn’t worry as much about having a heart big enough to love as God loves. I didn’t worry as much about forgiving others, about letting go of hurts, about loving those who are different from me, about being judgmental, or about being so tribal, racist, sexist, nationalistic, or narrow in my religious views that I would be uncomfortable sitting down with certain others at the God’s banquet table.
The heavenly table is open to all who are willing to sit down with all. That’s a line from a John Shea poem and it spells out succinctly, I believe, a non-negotiable condition for going to heaven, namely, the willingness and capacity to love everyone and to sit down with everyone. It’s non-negotiable for this reason: How can we be at the heavenly table with everyone if for some reason of pride, wound, temperament, bitterness, bigotry, politics, nationalism, color, race, religion or history, we aren’t open to sit down with everyone?
Jesus teaches this too, just in a different way. After giving us the Lord’s Prayer which ends with the words, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” he adds this: “If you forgive others when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others, your Father will not forgive you.” Why can’t God forgive us if we don’t forgive others? Has God arbitrarily singled out this one condition as his pet criterion for going to heaven? No.
We cannot sit at the heavenly banquet table if we are still selective as to whom we can sit down with. If, in the next life, like here in this life, we are selective as to whom we love and embrace, then heaven would be the same as earth, with factions, bitterness, grudges, hurt and every kind of racism, sexism, nationalism, and religious fundamentalism keeping us all in our separate silos. We can only sit at the heavenly banquet when are hearts are wide enough to embrace everyone else at the table. Heaven demands a heart open to universal embrace.
And so, as I get older, approach the end of my life and accept that I will soon face my Maker, I worry less and less about going to hell and worry more and more about the bitterness, anger, ingratitude and non-forgiveness that still remains in me. I worry less about committing a mortal sin and more about whether I’m gracious, respectful and forgiving towards others. I worry more about the loss of heaven than the pains of hell, that is, I worry that I could end up like the older brother of the prodigal son, standing outside the Father’s house, excluded by anger rather than by sin.
Still, I’m grateful for the Act of Contrition of my youth. Fear of hell isn’t a bad place from which to start.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser, theologian, teacher and award-winning author, is President of the Oblate School of Theology in San Antonio, TX.)

GUEST COLUMN
By Melvin Arrington
When I was a boy of ten or twelve I could go see a movie at one of the theaters in downtown Jackson, carrying just a dollar in my pocket. In those days I could buy a ticket, get popcorn and a coke, and go home with change from my dollar. That time is long past, but many of the movies of that era remain firmly fixed in my memory.
One such film is the 1959 blockbuster Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, winner of eleven Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor and Best Cinematography. No other motion picture in cinematic history has garnered more Oscars. This year for its sixtieth anniversary, Ben-Hur returns to the big screen for a limited engagement in select cities around the country.
Why all this fuss over a sixty-year-old movie? Well, for one thing, Hollywood studios rarely rise to such heights of filmmaking these days, so when they have a revival of one of the great classics we should take advantage of the opportunity to see it. This is one the entire family can enjoy together, although with a running time of three hours and forty minutes some may feel like they’re doing penance by sitting still that long. However, there is an intermission, so it is possible to remain for the entire movie. Those who do so will be richly rewarded.
Based on General Lew Wallace’s 1880 bestselling historical novel, the film centers around Judah Ben-Hur (played by Charlton Heston), a wealthy and influential Jewish merchant living in Jerusalem in the first century. Judah’s story begins in 26 A.D. when he runs afoul of the occupying Roman forces and his childhood friend turned enemy, the ambitious tribune Messala. After being forcibly separated from his family and from Esther, the woman he loves, Judah is impressed into service as a galley slave, a punishment tantamount to a death sentence. Once a man of peace, he now harbors only feelings of hatred for Messala and becomes obsessed with exacting revenge on his former friend.
Although essentially a drama, Ben-Hur contains plenty of action and adventure, including a fierce naval battle in which the Roman ship on which Judah serves gets rammed. But by far the most thrilling episode is the iconic chariot race, pitting Judah and Messala against each other with honor and glory going to the victor.
Since the film opens with the Nativity and ends with the Crucifixion, Judah’s story is essentially situated within the framework of the life of Christ. When Jesus appears on screen He is tastefully and reverently depicted. Fittingly, in these scenes director William Wyler always shows the Savior’s face turned away from the camera.
Judah experiences several life-changing moments, but two stand out above the rest. In the first we see him chained to his fellow galley slaves as they march through Nazareth. There, a local carpenter, noticing that he is literally dying of thirst, takes pity on him and offers him a cup of water, thereby saving his life. Following a decisive battle at sea, Judah escapes and makes his way to Rome, where he is adopted by the Consul Quintus Arrius. But a life of privilege in the capital of the Empire fails to satisfy his deepest longings, so he returns to Judea, still driven by his hatred for Messala.
In the second moment, he has another face-to-face meeting with Christ and immediately recognizes Him. The look in Judah’s eyes when he stares into the Savior’s face in these two scenes is worth the price of admission. To describe the circumstances of the second meeting would reveal too much of the plot but, needless to say, the latter encounter is the transformative one, the one that saves his soul. At this point two healings occur simultaneously: one is a miracle of physical healing; it symbolizes the spiritual restoration that is taking place off camera in Judah’s life.
The reason why Catholics need to see Ben-Hur has nothing to do with the plot, the high drama or the famous action scenes. Catholics, and all movie-going Christians for that matter, will be inspired by this powerful depiction of how hatred can destroy life and how love, grace and forgiveness can restore it. These are Catholic themes, ones that we would all do well to meditate upon.
Ben-Hur does not soft-pedal Jesus’s teachings. Instead, it clearly and boldly proclaims them, most effectively through the words of Esther, who functions as an evangelist when she urges Judah to heed the words of the one she calls the Rabbi (Jesus), particularly his radical teachings dealing with forgiveness and how one should not only forgive one’s enemies but also love them. Judah Ben-Hur’s life demonstrates the transformation that will occur when an individual has a personal encounter with Jesus Christ. We need to see this dramatized more often in the movies of today.
Ben-Hur had a limited run in theaters this year during Lent, so many may have missed it. However, those who would like to experience it for the first time or see it again can still do so because this classic film is readily available for home viewing on Blu-Ray, DVD, and digital copy. An afternoon or evening spent watching Ben-Hur during any season of the year would be time well spent.

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

GUEST COLUMN
By Sister Constance Veit, l.s.p.
For the past year, we Little Sisters of the Poor have been celebrating the 150th anniversary of our Congregation’s arrival in the United States.
Our sesquicentennial year will officially close on August 30, the feast day of our foundress, Saint Jeanne Jugan. This anniversary has been a wonderful opportunity to rediscover the experiences of our pioneering Little Sisters and to become acquainted with the many people who helped them.
As I read through the annals of our first communities, I recognized a pattern. Beginning in August of 1868, small bands of mostly young, non-English speaking Little Sisters bravely set sail from France destined for one American city after another – first Brooklyn, then Cincinnati, New Orleans, Baltimore and Philadelphia. The wave of charity, which had begun in the humble heart of our foundress, quickly spread across this vast nation.
These Little Sisters would arrive at their destination with only the most basic provisions, taking possession of empty, often dirty or rundown buildings that had been procured for them. They would begin by placing statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph that they had preciously carried from the motherhouse on a mantle and then kneeling in prayer to ask God’s blessings on their new dwelling and those who would make it their home.
Thanks to hard work and the generosity of local citizens, these empty buildings would soon be cleaned and furnished with everything needed to care for the destitute elderly who would arrive at their doorstep.
In each city the Little Sisters were assisted by local clergy and communities of women and men religious.
The very first donation the Sisters received in this country was a twenty dollar bill from Father Isaac Hecker, founder of the newly-established Paulist Fathers.
The Sisters were also generously supported by the laity – people of all ages and every social status, Catholic and non-Catholic alike. Local school children brought their meager offerings – a few dishes or a loaf of bread.
In Cleveland, a German family put themselves completely at the service of the Little Sisters as a way of paying back a debt owed to God. Boston’s wealthiest woman brought the elderly rosaries, fresh oranges and good wine. Louisville’s best hotel donated a restaurant-quality Christmas dinner. In Philadelphia, three wealthy young girls sold their Christmas gifts and donated the proceeds to the Sisters. One of them would eventually become a canonized saint.
In the first months of the foundation in Pittsburgh two young Little Sisters died of typhoid fever in a matter of days. The remaining Sisters were devastated, but the bishop and local religious communities drew close to the newcomers and supported them through their ordeal.
The Little Sisters wrote that God had made use of this tragedy to make their work better known in the city. In fact, our pioneering Little Sisters saw in all the events of their daily lives – and in all the people they encountered – the Providence of God.
If I had to sum up our Congregation’s history in America in one word it would be just that – Providence.
During the very years when our first American foundations were being made, the Fathers of the first Vatican Council wrote, “God in his Providence watches over and governs all the things that he made, reaching from end to end with might and disposing all things with gentleness.” God not only knows what is going on in the world, he directs it all, down to the smallest and most insignificant details, holding everything in existence and guiding it all according to his mysterious plan!
The Fathers of the first Vatican Council taught that God governs the world with gentleness. He is not loud or flashy; he does not get in our face or demand our attention – and this is a problem in our media-saturated, sensory-overloaded culture.
How easy it is to miss the signs of God’s Providence in our lives, to be deceived by his gentleness and to fail to realize that underlying this gentleness is omnipotence. God really is in charge! And he governs all things according to his plan of love!
Our pioneering Little Sisters knew this in the depths of their hearts. In their simple faith they were able to see the traces of God’s Providence in both joys and sorrows, in good times and bad.
This is the most important lesson I have learned during our sesquicentennial year. No matter how dark or fraught with troubles our world may seem, we are all the children of God’s gentle, loving Providence. Let us trust in him!

(Sister Constance Veit is director of communications for the Little Sisters of the Poor.)

Editor’s corner
By Maureen Smith
How do you measure a whole chapter of your life? In liturgical events, memories, miles on a two-lane road through the Delta? I am not sure, but I can say I am full to the brim with gratitude for my time in Mississippi. By the time this column is printed, my family and I will be packing for our move back to my hometown of Atlanta to be closer to family. As I cycled through a series of “lasts” (last day of school, last parish supper, last Mississippi Catholic) I began to wonder how I could possibly put into context our time in the Magnolia state.
I have attended probably hundreds of Masses, liturgies and devotions here — each with its own character and cultural overtones. I have a new appreciation for the catholic nature of the Catholic Church thanks to colorful Choctaw dresses, soulful and overpowering gospel music, flower-strewn Guadalupe processions and regal traditional services. All are Catholic and heart-felt and all come from such diverse and beautiful communities. At each Mass I received the same Body of Christ. At each celebration I had the opportunity to be touched by the same Holy Spirit.
Most gatherings included a post-liturgy reception. Perhaps I should measure my tenure in the number of homemade pimento cheese finger sandwiches or tamales I have enjoyed. I never went home hungry and was often offered a box to take to my family. Mississippians are generous with their food. If, as they say, food is love, I am much loved.
Maybe I should account for my days in photographs. I must have taken thousands upon thousands of frames here. I am, by nature, an introvert. Walking into any event – even a liturgy — by myself takes energy and courage. I am grateful I had a camera I could use as a conversation piece. I keep in my heart some truly spectacular images of the people of God celebrating their faith and one another.
Surely I should factor into my accounting the people. Not only am I blessed to work in the chancery with a bishop I admire, but an entire staff of passionate, lovely people. Add to that a plethora of amazing pastors, parish administrators, educators, catechists and volunteers.
I was spoiled in our last home where we could go to any number of Masses from Saturday afternoon into Sunday evening. Not ready for Mass yet? Just hit the next one. Here in Mississippi, I am inspired by the communities where the people keep their faith alive week after week in the face of many obstacles. Some of you don’t even have Mass every week, but you still keep the Real Presence alive in your communities. I believe I have met true disciples. One of the things I have tried to do faithfully is tell your stories.
At the end of this adventure, I suppose I leave with a treasure of stories. We are all connected to the story of salvation so every time you share some story of your faith, joy or loss, I feel as if we are all connected a little more.
Some of your stories lifted me up and renewed my faith. Others brought me to tears. I witnessed the story of how the family of a murdered religious sister forgave her killer and embraced his family. As I left the memorial Mass for Sisters Paula Merrill and Margaret Held, I ran smack dab into a rainbow stretched across the sky in downtown Jackson. A reminder of God’s steadfast love. A powerful message on a dark day.
I heard the story of a man who tried to race a tornado across Tupelo to get back to his family in their store. They were locked in their walk-in freezer, safe from the winds that literally ripped his car apart with him in it, but he survived.
I spoke with the mother of a baby who was rescued from a freezing creek. That child was trapped in a crashed car under water for ten minutes, but suffered no long-term damage thanks to bystanders who pulled her out and prayed over her while they did CPR. Even her doctors called it a miracle.
I heard some less extraordinary stories as well. Roof repairs and picnics; weddings, funerals and passion plays – the day-to-day work of the local church. All still miracles, all still stories worth telling.
If you ever told me your story and let me share it with the rest of the diocese, thank you. If you ever welcomed me to an event at your parish or school, thank you. I always felt loved and affirmed while I was on the road.
If I ever offended you, please forgive me. I can truly say I wish you the peace of Christ.
I will never be able to adequately measure the last seven years. All I can do is pour out my gratitude in a measure of words. I am, in my heart and in my soul, truly grateful for all the blessings and lessons of Mississippi.

(Maureen Smith was the Director of Communications for the Diocese of Jackson and a member of Jackson St. Richard Parish.)

Kneading Faith
By Fran Lavelle
I remember a Civil Engineer I once worked with had a large plaque on the wall that read, “Proper preparation prevents poor performance.” Over the years I have come to truly appreciate this little alliterative statement.
In the past several years, we have heard a lot about intentional discipleship. Part of being an intentional disciple is being well formed in the faith. Good formation requires proper preparation. I firmly believe we cannot give what we do not have. If we do not equip our formational leaders with the tools and knowledge to best prepare them for ministry, we can expect poor results. We have an obligation to be well prepared for our religious education classes, youth ministry gatherings, RCIA sessions, adult faith formation classes, and all other outlets where intentional disciples are formed.
The Department of Faith Formation offers an opportunity for people in ministry, lay and ordained, to come together for a day to share best practices, find inspiration, participate in faith sharing before we begin another year of faith formation in our parishes and Catholic schools.
This year, Fall Faith Formation Day will be held on Saturday, August 3 at Madison St. Francis Parish. The theme is “Christ is Alive.” We will look at ways that Christ is Alive in our teaching, accompanying, and living the Gospel. Workshop sessions will be offered on scripture, RCIA, youth ministry, Confirmation preparation, religious education, intercultural ministry, and adult faith formation. Everyone is invited to attend.
I mentioned in my column last month Pope Francis’ Papal Apostolic Exhortation to the young people of the world, Christus Vivit. Chancery staff from the Office of Catholic Education, the Office of Youth Ministry and I have been meeting with Bishop Joseph Kopacz to process and “unpack” the wisdom of the Pope’s timely and important work. It has been a beneficial exercise to share, not only the insights we have gained, but identifying the opportunities we have in ministering to God’s young people.
It became quite clear after our last gathering of chancery staff that Christus Vivit needed to be featured at our Fall Faith Formation this year. Bishop Kopacz will offer our morning session gleaning from the wisdom of Christus Vivit. Abbey Schuhmann, Coordinator for the Office of Youth Ministry and I will present the closing session with practical wisdom that we have gained from our study of the document.
In addition to the morning and afternoon plenary sessions we will offer breakout topical sessions before and after lunch.
The pope opens the Christus Vivit with the words, “Christ is alive!” It is the living Christ that we seek in living out the Gospel. It is the Living Christ, who is Our Mission.
For more information, contact me at fran.lavelle@jacksondiocese.org. Registration materials will be sent out to parish and school leaders soon. The cost is $10 per person. Lunch is provided.

(Fran Lavelle is the director of the Department of Faith Formation for the Diocese of Jackson.)