(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

- – - – -

Blood of Christ, inebriate me.
Sanguis Christi, inebria me.

We remember gruesomely colored crucifixes, or the blood dripping from Jim Caviezel’s face in Mel Gibson’s movie, “The Passion of the Christ.”  But this petition draws us away from the gore, enticing us toward the joy that is God’s gift to us through the self-giving of Christ.

It may sound shocking at first to beg, “Blood of Christ, inebriate me.”  Not blood of Christ, drown me in your sorrow; or blood of Christ, unite me with your suffering.  No, here we express our longing to drink deeply of something akin to a fine, rare wine.  We pray for a holy intoxication.  We acknowledge the hope of joy, even amid the pain of life.

Psalm 104:14-15 praises God for many gifts, including wine:

You cause the grass to grow for the cattle,
and plants for people to use,
to bring forth food from the earth,
and wine to gladden the human heart,
oil to make the face shine,
and bread to strengthen the human heart.

But the wine for which we pray is one that gladdens the heart without causing traffic accidents, costing jobs, ruining health, or breaking up families.

The inebriation for which we pray is

“…that of which the poets and mystics have written when they said that they were drunk with the love of Christ, inebriated with God, set reeling with the thought of God’s glory and of God’s love for them.”

Mother Mary Francis, Anima Christi: Soul of Christ (Ignatius Press, 2001), 29-30.

As Psalm 4:7 says:

You have put gladness in my heart
more than when their grain and wine abound.

Christianity is not a religion that finds its ultimate meaning in sadness, in spite of the fact that Jesus went to the cross and invites us to take up our own cross.  We have been made for peace and joy in the love of Christ. Paradoxically, Christ’s offering of himself and our own self-offering in Christ are what bring this peace and joy.  Even as we struggle, even as we stumble and fall, we know that joy is our destination.

So we pray with boldness,

Blood of Christ, inebriate me!
Sanguis Christi, inebria me.

- – - – - – - – - -

Red wine photograph by Rose Hoover, rc

The only thing to be done now,
now that the waves of our undoing have begun to strike on us,
is to contain ourselves.

To keep still, and let the wreckage of ourselves go,
let everything go, as the wave smashes us,
yet keep still, and hold
the tiny grain of something that no wave can wash away,
not even the most massive wave of destiny.

Among all the smashed debris of myself,
Keep quiet, and wait.
For the word is Resurrection.
And even the sea of seas will have to give up its dead.

D. H. Lawrence, “Be Still!” D. H. Lawrence: Complete Poems,
Edited by Vivian de Sola Pinto and Warren F. Roberts

What are our own waves of undoing? What are the waves that feel as if they would smash us into oblivion?

• Exterior circumstances beyond our control?
• Profound loss, grief?
• Personal attitudes?
• Illness?
• Deep interior wounds?
• Discouragement or fear?
• Our own weakness or sinfulness?
• Aging or diminishment?

D. H. Lawrence says that the only thing to be done is to contain ourselves.  If this is so, how are we to contain ourselves?

Does this mean giving up on life?  No, not at all.  Does it mean adopting a fortress mentality – walling ourselves round about so that nothing can touch us?  No, just the contrary, I believe.

It means turning to what is most vital and most true to ourselves.

According to the poet, when we are feeling helpless against the waves of destiny, we must:

…keep still, and let the wreckage of ourselves go,
let everything go, as the wave smashes us,
yet keep still, and hold
the tiny grain of something that no wave can wash away,
not even the most massive wave of destiny.

When the ship we are on is sinking, we do not weigh ourselves down with stacks of old magazines or a closetful of clothes and shoes. If the house is on fire, we do not dally long enough to carry out the rubbish or even to pile up our favorite books or retrieve the jewelry.  We hold to nothing but the essential.

This “tiny grain of something” can only be the essential core of ourselves, what we have named in a Cenacle assembly as the mystical dimension of our life – that part of ourselves both as individuals and as corporate body that knows God, that is never apart from God, that sees God face to face even when our conscious life perceives nothing and is overwhelmed by the waves, even as we tumble over and over helplessly on the dark shore. Here the Holy Spirit prays in us and intercedes for us (see Romans 8). It is in this tiny grain that we are who we truly are.

LIke the widow’s mite (Mark 12), this grain may seem of little account, but in reality it represents all we are and all we have.  So we must let the “wreckage of ourselves go,” be still, and claim nothing but this indestructible grain.

• It is in this quintessential kernel of being that we are able to “keep quiet and wait,” though there may appear to be nothing left to wait for;
• It is here that sighs and murmurs, creakings and groans, once fearful, do not foretell destruction, but Resurrection;
• It is from this core that the Spirit at times surprises us with glimpses of beauty or goodness.

It is this tiny grain:

• that whispers in us that in all things God works for good with those who love God (Romans 8:28);
• that reveals to us that while our own love for God and neighbor is insufficient, we may love rightly and serve well from that same central grain through which we love with the love of Christ.

In truth each of us is being undone in one way or another.  If nothing else manages to undo us, time and age most certainly will accomplish the task.  The only tragic outcome would be not to yield to our remaking through that “tiny grain of something,” through the mystical core of ourselves where God is known.

During the sexual abuse crisis, the retired archbishop of San Francisco, Most Rev. John R. Quinn, wrote:

“I believe, in fact, that this is the best time in the history of the church to be a priest, because it is a time when there can be only one reason for being a priest or for remaining a priest—that is, to ‘be with’ Christ. It is not for perks or applause or respect or position or money or any other worldly gain or advantage.”

(“The Strengths of Priests Today,” America, July 1, 2002)

One might make a similar point about religious life: this may be the very best time to be a Catholic Sister, in spite of — or perhaps because of — declining numbers, loss of prestige, and partisan controversy among some Catholics about which kind of religious life (if any at all) is really of value. No longer can entering the convent offer security or an assured future — except the future full of hope promised by God through the patriarchs and the prophets, and revealed and sealed by the Resurrection of Jesus.  No longer can a Sister be confident of living a productive life, seeing a new generation pick up the torch of the charism, and dying surrounded by her sisters in the infirmary of her congregation.

And as for the many tasks of the Church formerly accomplished only by religious — they can now be performed just as well by dedicated lay people.

With all this in mind, shouldn’t young women flee in the opposite direction, as many are obviously doing?

On the contrary, now is the moment to listen diligently to God’s call, for at a time such as this, there can be only one reason for becoming a sister, and that is to know Christ and to accept the call to union with God in love.

But aren’t all Christians called to union with God in love?

Yes, of course.  However, each Christian call has its own unique value for the Church and the world, and the living-out of that call has its own emphases, highlighting different facets of the same divine love and the same call to transforming union.  One Christian vocation is not interchangeable with another.  Without Catholic sisters (or brothers or religious priests) there would be something sorely missing, but this missing element would not necessarily be the works we are now doing, no matter how important these works are.  Just as the witness of married love is not based on the occupations of the spouses, but rather on living deeply the sacramental relationship of marriage — so the witness of religious life and the reason it is still indispensable to the Church is not based primarily on the jobs we do, but on the life itself, lived in depth.

By its very existence through the centuries, religious life proclaims:

that what matters is God; and as Teresa of Avila wrote, “sólo Dios basta,” God alone suffices;

that prayer is more powerful than bombs;

that it is possible to live together in peace, even with people whom we did not choose — or might never have chosen — as companions;

that communion with God includes communion with each other, expressed through presence, ritual, and the sharing of material goods;

that possessions do not make us happy;

that giving ourselves totally, as Jesus did, does not lead to annihilation, but brings us most surely into who we truly are.

that grace and mercy abound in the struggle to be faithful to God’s call; and that when we inevitably fall short, grace and mercy abound, still and always.

Rembrandt, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel

Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.

When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go, for the day is breaking.’

But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’ So he said to him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said, ‘Jacob.’ Then the man said, ‘You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans,and have prevailed.’

Then Jacob asked him, ‘Please tell me your name.’ But he said, ‘Why is it that you ask my name?’

And there he blessed him.

So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, ‘For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.’ The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.

(Genesis 32:24-31 RSV)

Do you wrestle with God?

The Bible offers notable examples of wrestlers, for wrestling with God is not uncommon in life. But the most obvious wrestler is Jacob. We are told in Genesis that on a night when Jacob feared for his life, “a man” wrestled with him until daybreak. Jacob, however, was aware of having fought with more than a human being, for after the struggle was over, he said, “I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.”

At least two important things can happen when we wrestle.

1. An unexpected transformation

All night Jacob has been struggling. We read that that Jacob “prevailed” in this combat. But the old Jacob does not prevail.

Alone with God, Jacob is asked his name. Why? Surely God knows who he is.

Sister Elizabeth says that God wanted Jacob to acknowledge himself as the cheater. Remember that he had cheated his brother Esau out of his birthright and out of the paternal blessing as the first-born. Now, as dawn breaks, Jacob can no longer hide behind a disguise; he can no longer obtain what he wants by guile. Back then, when his blind father asked who he was, he had said, “I am Esau” (Genesis 27). Now Jacob must admit who he is. He has to face himself and face God directly.

Through his struggle, Jacob is transformed. “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel.” He has survived, not as his former self, but as someone resembling more closely the person God is calling him to be.

2. A defeat which is in truth a victory.

Notice what an intimate activity wrestling is, unlike other forms of fighting: boxing, for example, or modern warfare, where one can kill from a distance without even seeing the other. In wrestling, not only do you see your opponent, not only do you make contact, but the two of you might almost appear to be embracing, as in the Rembrandt painting above.

What is more, in this photo by Dreier Carr the two wrestlers are so entwined that it is difficult to distinguish to whom the arms and legs belong.

Dreier Carr, "Two High School Students Wrestling" (Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.0 Licence)

What shall we do in a match as intimate as this, when like Jacob we have been wrestling all night, and perhaps all day or all year as well? What shall we do when all the wrestling arms and legs and hearts and minds are scrambled and seem just a part of oneself; when God is so tangled up in our life that we wonder if God is there at all or if we were just imagining a divine Other involved in the combat? What is to be our response when we are so woven together with God that we can’t tell where we end and God begins?

This is not the time to push for a conquest. Neither is it the time to disengage.

Now is the time to sink into God in a blessed defeat which is the only victory worth winning — and to walk like Jacob into the future, limping perhaps, but graced by God.

Isn’t it the great tragedy, when one wrestles with God,
not to be defeated?
N’est-ce pas le grand malheur, quand on lutte contre Dieu,
de n’être pas vaincu?

Simone Weil, La pesanteur et la grâce (Gravity and Grace)

“I think,” he said, “the most important thing about going into classical music is that one must love it more than anything else in the world, and to feel that without it his life would be incomplete, so that he must have it at all costs, all expense, for the rest of his life.”

Jesus would probably have recognized the feeling. Here is how he describes the longing for the kingdom of heaven:

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.” (Matthew 13:44-46)

I was never inclined to practice the piano eight hours a day, so obviously the desire (not to mention the talent) needed to become a concert pianist was insufficient. But what about my desire for God’s kingdom (or “reign” as the Greek word basileia is probably more accurately translated)? What about my love for Jesus? (Origen described Jesus as ho autobasileia — in other words, Jesus is himself the reign of God.) Am I ready to run and sell all for the One who gave all for me? Or am I willing only to bargain and barter little bits of my heart?

Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but one that comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God based on faith. (Philippians 3:7-9)

Lord, I want to be a Christian
in my heart, in my heart,
Lord, I want to be a Christian in my heart…

I enjoyed singing it through verse two (“Lord, I want to be more loving”) and verse three (“Lord I want to be more holy”). The last verse, however, was another matter:

Lord, I want to be like Jesus
in my heart, in my heart,
Lord, I want to be like Jesus in my heart…

I was not at all sure that I did want to be like Jesus. Not only did he have to wander around with no home of his own, but look at what happened to him on Good Friday.

Being an honest child, I didn’t want to sing verse 4 without meaning it, so I pondered what to do about my moral dilemma. That’s when I noticed the phrase, “in my heart.” I felt I could ruthfully avow that I wanted to be like Jesus in my heart without committing myself to being like Jesus in any other part of myself.

Little did I know that if I were really like Jesus in my heart, I would also be like Jesus in the whole of my life and the totality of my being.

The self-giving of Jesus

The three days of the Easter Triduum summon us to wonder and awe before the self-giving of Jesus for us. But how perplexing the events of those three days must have been while they were happening. The mission of Jesus appeared to have been a failure. One of his friends had betrayed him. Another had denied him. Most of the rest had deserted him. And from his pain on the cross Jesus cries out in the words of Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

But out of the darkness we hear another prayer as well, once again echoing a psalm (31) which Jesus must have known since childhood. This one is “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

Commending my own spirit to God

What about our own participation in this mystery? What about the song I sang in Sunday School, not realizing the import of the words, “Lord, I want to be like Jesus in my heart”?

Karl Rahner believed that “somewhere within our lives there happens — or there may at least happen — an absolute letting go, an absolute yielding of everything.” [†] While this may happen at the time of physical death, it may be instead at the moment of what he calls “death in the theological sense, which may ultimately consist in the unconditional, quiet, yet trustful capitulation before the incomprehensibility of one’s own existence, and thus also before God’s incomprehensibility …. One gives up everything, one lets everything go.”

Though all may seem meaningless, though cruelty may seem to have won out, though the powers of darkness appear to have triumphed, we put ourselves without reserve into the hands of Love. Rahner adds, “And precisely in this seemingly dumb, dreadful and frightening emptiness there dawns the arrival of the infinite God of eternal life.”

This is perfect freedom. This is being “like Jesus in my heart.”

[†]Karl Rahner in Dialogue: Conversations and Interviews, 1965-1982, ed. by Hubert Biallowons, Harvey D. Egan, S.J., and Paul Imhof, S.J. (New York: Crossroad Publishing Co., 1986).
______

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.

Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name,
so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

(Philippians 2:5-11)