“Jesus coming soon!” she said.  “Have a blessed day!”

With two hurricanes already having hit the state, and a third seeming to be on the way, one’s thoughts might indeed turn toward the Endtime.   Was the Second Coming imminent?  Should we put on white garments and go up to the mountain? Or since we have no mountains in Florida, should we at least repent in sackcloth and ashes? What about the various threats that may be facing us today?  Shouldn’t we be asking the same questions?

Jesus is indeed coming soon, but perhaps not yet as the Second Coming, of which we are told that we know neither the day nor the hour.

Our call, therefore, is not to go up on the mountain, but to be attentive. “Watch therefore,” Jesus tells us (Matthew 25:13). And we are to watch not only for the Second Coming, but for the coming of Christ in each moment of our lives.

We are to pay attention to how he draws near to us in the storms of life, in the moments of calm, in the people we meet, in the depths of our heart. He comes to us as Presence, and sometimes he comes in what we perceive as Absence. While Christ is always there whether or not we cry, “Come, Lord Jesus,” we may not notice unless we are alert.

Should we repent in sackcloth and ashes?

We can be assured that God does not take revenge on us by sending hurricanes (or earthquakes or disease or any other sorrow).  Nevertheless it is always appropriate to pray with the tax collector in the Gospel of Luke, “God, be merciful to me a sinner.” We are continually being called to repentance — to metanoia — to that complete turning of our whole lives to God.

And here again, we are to be attentive, both to our constant need for mercy and to God’s free gift of the mercy we need. We walk through the day bathed in mercy.  We sleep wrapped in the tender mercy of God.  God’s mercy is there when the tree comes crashing through the roof and when the electricity goes out and when it comes back on.

God is not wreaking vengeance on us by the bad things that happen in our lives, but God does work in them – as in everything else – to draw us to the divine and, if we are willing, to make us more like the Christ for whom we wait.

The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’
And let everyone who hears say, ‘Come.’
And let everyone who is thirsty come.
Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.
…

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

(Revelation 22:17, 20b)

I begin to mutter to myself, “I never, ever want to live in a big city again – the traffic is impossible; the city is impersonal; people look above you or through you as if you were invisible.”

And then, out of the blue, someone I’ve never met performs an act of kindness toward me that at times is very simple, at other times takes my breath away, and always convicts me of my own narrow-mindedness of heart. The latest was the driver of the airport van, a young man who had shepherded several of us, including one handicapped Sister, into the van in front of the Chicago Cenacle; put up patiently with some confusion before we left the parking lot; and deposited us at Midway Airport.

When I thanked him, he not only smiled, but hugged me as he might his mama. Then he wished us well on our trip and departed with a cheerful admonition, “Be cool now!”

I haven’t changed my mind about the traffic, though.

- – - – -

“There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun. …

“I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes.  If only they could all see themselves as they really are.  If only we could see each other that way all of the time.  There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed…”

Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’  (Matthew 11:28-30)

“My yoke is easy,” Jesus says.  Really?  Maybe so, but it doesn’t always feel easy.  Certainly life’s burdens are not always light.  “I will give you rest,” we hear Jesus assure us. How do we rest when we are in sorrow or in pain, whether the result of following the path of Jesus or simply of living a human life?

First, I want to say that I have no answers to the problem of pain.  I don’t know the secret to handling pain “well.”  I know that in practice, there are times when pain or sorrow can be so overwhelming that the suffering seems to take over our whole  being.

So what helps us?

I asked a number of people if they have special prayers that help them.

Many were mentioned, prayers that came to mind without effort, a sign that they had been often called upon: the 23rd Psalm, the Jesus Prayer, the Anima Christi, Psalm 70:1 (“God come to my assistance, Lord, make haste to help me”), the Memorare, the Rosary or the Hail Mary, the last line of the Te Deum (“O Lord, in Thee I have hoped; let me never be put to shame”) – and many others.

One thing I noticed was that the words of the prayer were not necessarily directed specifically toward release from suffering.  But these were well-worn prayers, known by heart, that had given consolation through the years and even through the ages.

But what about times when, in spite of all our prayer, God does not intervene in our lives to take away pain?

We remember that Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.” (Matthew 26:39) – not a stoic prayer, but uttered after throwing himself on the ground, filled with grief and distress.  Nevertheless, the cup of suffering, the cross, was not taken away.

Perhaps there are moments when to be in harmony with God’s heart – I hesitate to call it resting in the heart of Christ, but that may be what it is – means to cry out with Jesus on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

The impossible is not required of us.

This fact in itself is restful.  We don’t have to pretend all is well when it is not.  We don’t have to deny pain or pretend to inhuman strength in the face of suffering.  We don’t have to stuff sorrow into some hidden container in order to be pleasing to God.  When the cup of sorrow or pain is not taken away, we can cry out with Christ, trusting, in the light of the resurrection, that like him we will be brought safely through to the other side of suffering and death.

The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me;
your steadfast love, O Lord, endures for ever.
Do not forsake the work of your hands.
(Psalm 138:8)

Where is God when I sink in the swamp or trip in the stairwell? Where is God when I am out of work, or sick, or watching a loved one die? Where is God when the bodies of young men and women are brought home from war? Where is God when problems overwhelm me and I am feeling lost and abandoned? Where is God when my faith is faltering?

What does Divine Providence mean for our lives?

Merriam-Webster gives these popular definitions of Providence:

a : divine guidance or care
b : God conceived as the power sustaining and guiding human destiny

We have heard Jesus say, “Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” (Matthew 6:26)

Yet many people are hungry, and not by their own fault.  When we look around us, when we hear news reports, it can appear as if injustice and violence reign unchallenged.  In such a world, can we believe in the reality of Divine Providence?

The theologian Paul Tillich (1886-1965) ponders this question in a sermon called “The Meaning of Providence,” from his collection, The Shaking of the Foundations, originally published in 1948, when the memory of World War II was very much alive.

Tillich remembers the response of a Jewish man to receiving news of the transport of Jews to concentration camps.  “He said that the thought of this unimaginable misery prevented him from being able to find meaning in even the most powerful message concerning the divine Providence.”

Tillich goes on to ask:

What answer shall we give, what answer can we give to such a crucial problem, a problem in which Christianity as a whole is at stake, a problem which has nothing to do with a theoretical criticism of the idea of God, but rather which represents the anguish of the human heart which can no longer stand the power borne by the daemonic forces on earth?

Like many Christians before him, Tillich turns to the letter of Saint Paul to the Romans:

We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose…

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8:28, 38-39)

However, Paul knows, as we inevitably learn, that God’s divine guidance of human affairs does not ensure that all of our ventures will turn out well or that we will be spared suffering.  The life of Jesus teaches us that this expectation is an illusion, and our own experience provides an unwelcome confirmation.  Sometimes, in our weakness or sinfulness, we are the ones who fail.  Sometimes other people fail us.  And still other times life simply proves itself unfair.

In spite of all this, Divine Providence will not disappoint us.

As Tillich writes,

Faith in divine Providence is the faith that nothing can prevent us from fulfilling the ultimate meaning of our existence. Providence does not mean a divine planning by which everything is predetermined, as is an efficient machine. Rather, Providence means that there is a creative and saving possibility implied in every situation, which cannot be destroyed by any event. Providence means that the daemonic and destructive forces within ourselves and our world can never have an unbreakable grasp upon us, and that the bond which connects us with the fulfilling love can never be disrupted.

The promise is not to make life easy, but to fulfill God’s purpose.  We can accept this gift of Providence with more than a sigh of resignation, for the gift is indeed sufficient.  Through joy and pain, through the daily events of our lives, Divine Providence has been working and will continue to work to fulfill God’s purpose for us — which is to say in other words, to satisfy the deepest desire of our heart.

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

(6. Within thy Wounds, hide me.)

- – - – -

Let me never be separated from thee.
Ne permittas me separari a te.

There’s a deep sense in which we are never, ever separated from God, for if we were not in God, and God in us, we would not exist.

But on another level, we can separate ourselves from God, when our lives are not in harmony with God’s love.  Or we can feel separated from God by simply not being mindful of God’s presence, by not reminding ourselves throughout the day of the love God has for us and for every person.

Or sometimes it happens that God seems to hide the divine face from us.  Then we feel ourselves in darkness; or as if all the road signs have suddenly disappeared from our path.  In reality God may be working in us in a quiet, unseen way that we can’t comprehend.

But not being able to see what God is doing may drive me absolutely crazy, or at the very least make me think I’ve forgotten how to pray.  In this holy wilderness, the Spirit of God can work unhampered by what I think I understand and by what I think I need for my own sanctity. And because I can’t see what God is doing, there is probably less chance that I will get in the way.

Then I need to pray (although I may not feel inclined to pray) and to remember that I am not really separated from God who is still with me and in me and guiding me.

So I cry out to God:

In you, O God, I live and move and have my being, but the least distraction seems to separate me from you.
Without you, I would not be, but I often try to go my own way.
You hold me in the everlasting arms, but still I am afraid in the darkness.
Remind me once again, O God, for I am weak and forgetful, of your abiding love and faithfulness.

Let me never be separated from thee.
Ne permittas me separari a te.

- – - – -

Presence in Darkness image by Rose Hoover, rc

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

- – - – -

O good Jesus, hear me.
Within thy wounds hide me.
O bone Iesu, exaudi me.
Intra tua vulnera absconde me.

This is not a gloomy prayer, but it is a realistic one.  At times – no matter how intoxicated we are with the blood of Christ, no matter how strengthened by his Passion – at times we all need a refuge from what hurts or threatens us.  The very best hiding place is Jesus himself, who calls us to share his wounds and who graciously shares all our wounds.

A number of years ago, I had been having a very difficult and painful year.  One morning, helping out away from home for a month or so, I was praying, and I seemed to hear —

— Pardon me, but I need to pause here for a brief aside.  I want to underline the words “I seemed to hear,” because too often people (who as far as I know are not prophets with the right to proclaim, “Thus says the Lord”) — too often people recite verbatim what they have heard from God, as if God were dictating to them precise words in English.

Perhaps I am too suspicious, but I tend to believe that, although God certainly does speak to us, our hearing is not infallible, and we listen inevitably through our personal filters.  I am reminded of the acquaintance who called me one morning with the announcement, “I heard the Lord tell me not to go to work this morning.”  Yeah, right, I thought.  Why doesn’t God give me that message more often?

I am also reminded of the story about the president of a Christian-sponsored university who called a wealthy woman in town and said to her, “Mrs. So-and-So, I spoke to the Lord this morning, and he told me that you were going to give a substantial donation to our fund appeal.”

Whereupon Mrs. So-and-So replied, “Well, Mr. Jones, that’s strange, because I talked to the Lord this morning too, and he didn’t tell me a thing about it.”

But God does speak to us, probably more often in the depth of our hearts than in actual words.  So anyhow, that particular morning, in my own prayer, aware of the long painful months behind me, I seemed to hear God say to me — though not in a voice, rather in my heart — “It will continue to hurt, but I will be with you in it.”

And it was true.  After I returned to the situation I had left, the pain did not cease, but God was with me in the pain.

Note that the proof of my listening was in the living-out.  I accepted what I had heard at the time of hearing it, but it was shown to be of God in the living out of what I had heard.

And it was only in looking back later that I could name my experience a kind of hiddenness in the wounds of Christ.  While this refuge did not shelter me from suffering, I was no longer overwhelmed by it, and the gift of peace was given (limited, I must add, by my ability to receive it).

Within thy wounds, hide me.

When my wounds, when your wounds, are united with the wounds of Christ, then our sufferings become redemptive, not only for ourselves, but for the world.  Saint Paul says in Colossians:

I am now rejoicing in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am completing what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church (1:24).

Not quite on the theological level of Saint Paul, but still worth paying attention to is Leonard Cohen, whose song, “Anthem,” has this line in the refrain:

“There is a crack, a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.”

Perhaps the cross can be seen as a sacred crack in the universe that lets the divine light in, that divine light that heals and saves and brings peace.  And perhaps our own wounds, united with the wounds of Christ, can be seen as cracks in us that can let in the light of God.

O good Jesus, hear me,
within thy wounds hide me.

O bone Iesu, exaudi me.
Intra tua vulnera absconde me.

- – - – -

“Blue marble” image courtesy of NASA, edited by Rose Hoover, rc

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

- – - – -

Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.

Jesus, may your crucifixion, emblem not only of self-giving, but also of weakness and helplessness, strengthen me.  May your weakness give me strength.

We would normally turn to someone we thought was strong to give us strength, wouldn’t we?  But Jesus on the cross is helpless.

Father Michael J. Buckley, SJ, in “A Letter to the Ordinands” (published in The Berkeley Jesuit in Spring 1972), poses a strange question concerning those feeling called to the priesthood.  He asks, “Is this man weak enough to be a priest?”

What do I mean by weakness? Not the experience or sin, though it may contextualize sin, but the experience of a peculiar liability to suffering. A profound sense of inability, both to do and protect even after great effort, to author, perform, effect what we have wanted or with the success we would have wanted, an inability to secure one’s own future, to protect oneself, to live with clarity and assurance or to ward off shame and suffering.

Father Buckley goes on to compare Jesus and Socrates – Socrates who gave a profound speech, “found no cause for fear; drank the poison and died.”

Jesus—how much the contrary. Jesus was almost hysterical with terror and fear; looked for comfort from friends and an escape from death and found neither; finally got control over himself and accepted his death in silence and lonely isolation.

…Socrates never expressed sorrow and pain at the betrayal of friends. He was possessed and integral, never over-extended, convinced that the just man could never suffer genuine hurt. And for this reason, Socrates—one of the greatest men who has ever existed, a paradigm of what humanity can achieve within the individual— Socrates was a philosopher. And for these same reasons, Jesus of Nazareth was a priest, ambiguous, suffering, mysterious and salvific.

But is it only the ordained priest who is called to enter into the salvific weakness of Christ?  No, because Jesus calls us all to take up our cross and follow him (see Matthew 16:24; Mark 8:34; Luke 9:23).  And here it is that we find power – here in the very depths of weakness and helplessness.

Saint Paul hears Jesus say, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”  And Paul realizes that he doesn’t have to rely on some illusory personal strength: “for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9,10).

The Latin word used here, conforta, comes from late, Medieval Latin, not classical Latin, and it is also the root of our English word “comfort.”  So sometimes this petition is translated, “Passion of Christ, comfort me.”

How we need comfort!  Our peace can be so easily disturbed: for minor things – or for major, earthshaking, heartrending things that we cannot change or influence.

So we pray:

Passion of Christ, comfort me,
passion of Christ, encourage me.
O Christ, comfort me in your own moment of comfortlessness,
when you cried out,
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
O Jesus,
in your powerful weakness, strengthen me.
in your comfortless consolation, console me.
in your efficacious failure, recreate me.

Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.

- – - – - – - – - -

“Southern Cross with Spanish Moss” photograph by Rose Hoover, rc

(Click here for Part 1)

Body of Christ, save me.
Corpus Christi, salva me.

We are learning more and more about the connections between body and mind, body and spirit.  I read in the newspaper recently that up to 90 percent of groups such as combat veterans and rape victims have nightmares.  What affects the body affects the spirit, and vice versa.

At the same time, I am more than my body. What I can accomplish physically may be limited by the kind of body I have (my 110 pounds would never get my toe in the door of the NFL, for example). But who I am is not irrevocably determined by my physical makeup. I am more than this mortal coil that I will shuffle off at death, as Hamlet puts it. I am also more than what happens to my body in this life, whether it be violence, illness, abuse, or injury.

But is my body irrelevant?

Jesus, once incarnate, is forever and always human as well as divine.  At his Resurrection, Jesus does not abandon his body and become pure spirit.  He is raised as what Paul – in his effort to explain the unexplainable – calls a “spiritual body” – σωμα πνευματικον (1 Cor 15:44).

The body is anything but irrelevant, but as we learn from the helplessness of Christ with hands and feet nailed to the cross – Jesus the bread of life, who can now not even scratch his own nose, much less feed anyone – neither Jesus nor we ourselves can be finally determined by our own weakness or woundedness. The crucifixion shows us that physical violence or even destruction of the body can never ultimately define human life.

God’s purpose for our lives is not to be thwarted.

I am helpless:

• to save myself
• to heal myself
• to save or heal anyone else

Yet the body of Christ, through the mystery of the Cross and Resurrection, does save.  The body of Christ is efficacious where my own efforts are not.  The body of Christ, as we know from the Eucharist, is totally and joyfully present to us, whereas our own presence (to God, to ourselves, to others) can be momentary or partial or reluctant.

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.”

“Salva me” can also be translated “heal me.” The body of Christ often heals through the Christian community or the medical professions.  But not all healings are medical, and the presence of Christ heals, even when there is not a medical cure. The body of Christ heals and transforms, though there may be wounds that I carry with me in my body, in my body/spirit connection, to death.

Body of Christ, save me, heal me.
Corpus Christi, salva me.

We nod our heads when we read in the Gospel of Matthew:

Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me. (18:5)

Where do we find hope as members of this church whose leaders have too often not received the child as Christ?

Yes, we may reasonably ask why the media must focus on the Catholic Church, when respectable fathers of families travel to Indonesia and other countries to have sex with children, thereby supporting the lucrative human trafficking and child prostitution industries.  And when many others simply stay home and rape their own daughters.

It is undeniable that the Catholic Church is the organization that people love to hate.  However, in the Church we lay claim to a higher sort of life.  It is doubly shocking when persons who proclaim goodness are found to have wallowed in or abetted evil.  So perhaps the media can be forgiven for being particularly hard on those who represent the Church.

“Where was God?” countless victims ask.  “Where was God when I was being abused?”

We must not attempt a facile response, and indeed any words seem inadequate in the face of such heartache.  The only response, I believe – though it is not an answer to the question of why it happened – is that God was where God always is when the beloved is being betrayed and harmed: right there, in sorrow, in pain.  Right where God was when Jesus was being crucified.

As for a reason why, Christianity offers us no answer except for the reality of human freedom – a gift which is too often misused.

Sin, even when we think it is private, is always communal in its effects.  While those who have not been abused can never totally understand the experience of those who were, still we all share in some way – though a far lesser way to be sure – in the consequences of the evil.  We are a wounded Church this Easter season.

But if in the Crucifixion of Christ we are given a promise of presence – of a God who shares in the grief and pain – in the Resurrection we are also offered the assurance that evil does not have the last word.  Evil will never have the last word. In spite of all appearances to the contrary, the love, goodness, and holiness of God are stronger than even the most horrendous evil.

Do we just sit around and wait for that day when all tears will be wiped away?  No, of course not.  We must take strong, practical action to prevent abuse – and where possible to ease the suffering of those who have been abused – even if that means changing time-honored ecclesial structures.  And we must nurture the spiritual life, so as to grow in union with the Risen Christ, for this is the only way that the divine goodness and loving-kindness will be more clearly manifested in the daily life of the Church.

“By his holy and glorious wounds,
may Christ our Lord guard us and keep us.”

Preparation of the Paschal Candle at the Easter Vigil

The long corridor brought back with a vengeance the terror of war.

Then something else came back to her, something she had read – that the early desert monks had walked about all day reciting the first verse of Psalm 70: “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me.”*  She began to follow their example.

Descending into the corridor, Sister Elizabeth prayed, over and over, “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me.”  Walking through the corridor, she prayed, “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me.”  And eventually, throughout the day, she would pray, “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me.”

Gradually, the terror dissipated.

Here is a brief portion of what John Cassian (ca. 360 – 435) says about this verse:

And so for keeping up continual recollection of God this pious formula is to be ever set before you. “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me,” for this verse has not unreasonably been picked out from the whole of Scripture for this purpose. For it embraces all the feelings which can be implanted in human nature, and can be fitly and satisfactorily adapted to every condition, and all assaults. It contains an invocation of God against every danger, it contains humble and pious confession, it contains the watchfulness of anxiety and continual fear, it contains the thought of one’s own weakness, confidence in the answer, and the assurance of a present and ever ready help. For those who call constantly on their protector are sure of having him always at hand.

John Cassian (ca. 360 – 435), Conferences, X

For a helpful reflection on the same verse, see Father Pat Collins, CM, “Learning to Pray at All Times.”

_____
* Douay-Rheims version.  This is the translation of Psalm 70:1 used at the beginning of each hour of the Divine Office (the Liturgy of the Hours).