IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Few things in life are as difficult as the death of a young person, particularly one’s own child. There are many mothers and fathers, with broken hearts, having lost a daughter, a son, or a grandchild. Despite time and even the consolation of faith, there often remains a wound that will not heal.

There’s a reason why this wound is so unrelenting, and it lies not so much in a lack of faith, as in a certain lack within nature itself. Nature equips us for most situations, but it does not equip us to bury our young.
Death is always hard. There’s a finality and an irrevocability that cauterizes the heart. This is true even if the person who has died is elderly and has lived a full life. Ultimately nothing prepares us, fully, to accept the deaths of those whom we love.

But nature has equipped us better to handle the deaths of our elders. We are meant to bury our parents. That’s the way nature is set up, the natural order of things. Parents are meant to die before their children, and generally that’s the way it happens. This brings its own pain. It’s not easy to lose one’s parents or one’s spouse, one’s siblings, or one’s friends. Death always exacts its toll. However, nature has equipped us to handle these deaths.

Metaphorically stated, when our elders die, there are circuits in our hardwiring that we can access and through which we can draw some understanding and acceptance. Ultimately, the death of a fellow adult washes clean, and normality returns because it’s natural, nature’s way, for adults to die. That’s the proper order of things. One of life’s tasks is to bury one’s parents.

But it’s unnatural for parents to bury their children. That’s not the way nature intended things, and nature has not properly equipped us for the task. Again, to utilize the metaphor, when one of our children dies (be it through natural disease, accident, or suicide) nature has not provided us with the internal circuits we need to open to deal with this.

The issue is not, as with the death of our elders, a matter of proper grieving, patience and time. When one of our children dies, we can grieve, be patient, give it time and still find that the wound does not get better, that time does not heal, and that we cannot fully accept what’s happened.

A hundred years ago Alfred Edward Housman wrote a famous poem entitled, To An Athlete Dying Young. At one point he says this to the young man who has died:

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay.

Sometimes a young death does freeze forever a young person’s beauty that, given time, would eventually have slipped away. To die young is to die in full bloom, in the beauty of youth.

However, that addresses the issue of the young person who is dying, not the grief of those who are left behind. I’m not so sure they, the ones left behind, would say: “Smart lad, to slip betimes away.” Their grief is not so quick to slip away because nature has not provided them with the internal circuits needed to process what they need to process. We are more likely to feel a darkness of soul that W.H. Auden once expressed in the face of the death of a loved one:

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good. (“Twelve Songs”)

When one of our children dies, it’s easier to feel what Auden expresses. Moreover, even understanding how much against nature it is to have to bury one of your own children does not bring that child back, nor put things back to normal, because it’s abnormal for a parent to bury a child.

However, what that understanding can bring is an insight into why the pain is so deep and so unrelenting, why it is natural to feel intense sorrow, and why no easy consolation or challenge is very helpful. At the end of the day, the death of one’s child has no answer.

It’s also helpful to know that faith in God, albeit powerful and important, does not take away that wound. It’s not meant to. When one of our children dies, something has been unnaturally cut off, like the amputation of a limb. Faith in God can help us live with the pain and the unnaturalness of being less than whole, but it does not bring back the limb or make things whole again.

In effect, what faith can do is teach us how to live with the amputation, how to open that irreparable violation of nature to something and Someone beyond us, so that this larger perspective, God’s heart, can give us the courage to live healthily again with an unnatural wound.

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

Called To Holiness
By Jaymie Stuart Wolfe
Our Catholic faith doesn’t appear out of thin air, and it plays out incarnationally and across history. Faith comes from somewhere, and often, that somewhere is a someone, often visibly woven into our personal genealogies.

Everyone wants to claim some connection to our first American-born pope: Dolton, Illinois – the suburb just outside the southern limits of Chicago where the Prevost children grew up; Villanova University in Philadelphia where their youngest son went to college; St. Louis, where he entered the Augustinians; Chiclayo, Peru where Msgr. Prevost served as a missionary priest, and then bishop. Even Rome had a legitimate claim long before the name Robert Cardinal Prevost was announced from St. Peter’s loggia.
So, it comes as no surprise that there’s been a lot of Louisiana chatter about our new Holy Father’s Creole roots. The news of the pope’s ancestry flooded New Orleans news outlets within a few days of his election.

More recently, the story was published by the New York Times and Dr. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. presented a copy of the pope’s lineage to him at the Vatican.

But locally, a well-researched and fascinating exhibit showing Pope Leo’s maternal family tree has drawn many to the Old Ursuline Convent Museum in the French Quarter. There, visitors can explore seven generations of the Holy Father’s New Orleans ancestors, leading back to the years just after the city’s founding in 1718. Supported by sacramental records still held in the cathedral archives, the story Pope Leo’s family tree tells is a uniquely Catholic and American one.

The pope’s family includes immigrants from Bohemia, France, Italy, Cuba, Haiti, Guadeloupe and Canada. Also among his predecessors are numerous men and women identified as people of color – some free and others born enslaved.

It appears, in fact, that perhaps the only woman ever buried inside St. Louis Cathedral was one of the Holy Father’s forebears: a young woman of color who died in childbirth in 1799 and was interred near the Mary altar along with her baby. Family marriages and baptisms, too, can be found in New Orleans church records, some of which may have been thrown out of the windows during the famous Good Friday fire of 1788 by Père Antoine to save them.

In any case, what Pope Leo’s family tree reveals is the largely untold history of Black Catholics in colonies that eventually became part of the United States. This information, however, leaves us all with an unanticipated gift: the opportunity to recognize that the pope so many of us are excited about would not be who he is apart from the sad history of the African Diaspora caused by transatlantic slave trade and the complex racial history that followed in the wake of it.

If the Holy Father’s great-grandparents, Eugénie Grambois and Ferdinand Baquié, had not been baptized at the font in St. Louis Cathedral, (the only part of the church that survived the 1788 fire), chances are he would not have grown up Catholic. Nor would his maternal grandparents, the Martinez family, have likely chosen to make their home in Chicago without the Great Migration of 6 million people of color who left the American South for the promise of more economic opportunity and less racism at the beginning of the 20th century.

Our family histories vary widely. But all of us share a lineage of spiritual fathers and mothers whose words and deeds also make us what we are.

This summer, we observe the 1700th anniversary of the closing of the Council of Nicaea. Called by the unbaptized Emperor Constantine, the 318 bishops who gathered in Asia Minor defined what constituted Christian faith. Perhaps even more importantly, they determined what laid beyond the boundaries of orthodoxy. If they had not done so – or if the Arians had prevailed – the past 17 centuries would have been different.

The faith we profess today in the Nicene Creed remains the dividing line between what is Christian and what isn’t. Every ecumenical council since has influenced the course of history and added to the family tree of our faith.

Our task as Catholics is not only to recognize where we have come from, but to hand on what we have received. Most of us do that in the ordinary rhythms of family life, as the Holy Father’s ancestors did. Some of us, like the Fathers of Nicaea, embrace the mission by making choices that have an impact far greater and more universal than even they imagine.

(Jaymie Stuart Wolfe is a freelance writer and editor, speaker, and loves life in New Orleans.)

KNEADING FAITH
By Dr. Fran Lavelle, D. Min.

September has always been a month of change and transition as we move from the heat of summer into cooler autumn days. This September, another transition will occur. After 33 years of dedicated service in Catholic education, Karla Luke is retiring. My kind but plain-spoken friend of 11 years (like Elvis) has left the building.

I’ve worked in the diocese since July 1999 and in the chancery since October 2014. The transition from parish to diocesan ministry has its challenges. The move from working in a parish to working in the chancery changed the rhythm, flow and perspective of what I do. It also gave me the opportunity to meet and work with new people. There are people in life that, when you meet them, you just know they are going to remain with you for the long haul. That was the case when I met Karla Luke. Karla has served as the executive director for the Office of Catholic Education since 2020. When I started at the chancery, she was an assistant to the director.

A lot of living happens in 11 years – especially considering that many people spend more time with co-workers than with their own family. Karla and I have loved and supported one another through difficult situations in our ministries and personal lives. We’ve shared milestones, heartache and a lot of holy laughter. Beneath the ministry, miles and smiles deep in the DNA of our friendship lies a great love for our faith and for God’s people. Karla is dedicated to the mission of Catholic education, but even more so to the mission of Jesus Christ. That dedication fuels everything she does.

Our offices have a natural connection, since the students Catholic schools serve often come from families engaged in parish ministries. Maintaining a solid working relationship with the Office of Catholic Education has always been a priority of mine. That priority has been easy to uphold, since each person who has served in that office during my time has been a dedicated, passionate and Christ-centered educator. Karla is no exception.

What I most admire about Karla is her resolute consistency, especially when it comes to policy. Following policy in educational systems is vital to the success of a school or system. Upholding policy, however, does not have to come at the expense of being fair, professional and kind. It takes a special kind of person to hold that tension and remain balanced. When the devastating impact of the early days of the pandemic raged, Karla drew on her leadership skills and applied her science background to make decisions that kept our schools, students, staff and faculty safe. People did not hold back in criticizing the decisions at the time, but she remained focused on policies that prioritized safety.

A heavy dose of compassion is also a hallmark of her leadership. I have witnessed Karla’s compassion time and again – whether it was a colleague going through a difficult time or a principal or faculty member in need of an advocate, Karla steps up every time. Sometimes people are not asking to be fixed, just heard. Karla is a pro at what Pope Francis has called the “apostolate of the ear.” That intentional listening made her excel in her role.

There are hundreds of stories worthy of retelling. The memories I will cherish most are the everyday encounters we have shared. When Karla begins a sentence with “Look …” you know you’d better listen. One of two things will happen when “look” leads: either you will laugh hysterically or you will learn an important lesson. If sass and finesse had a vibe, it would be Karla’s “look.” Sometimes “look” is accompanied by “y’all,” which means the ensuing laughter or lesson will be extra.

It has been a privilege to call Karla a colleague. The greater gift is calling her my friend. In fact, we identify more as sisters. I know God will continue to use her many gifts to bless her corner of the world. And I know I am a better person for having her in my life.

May there always be work for your hands to do.
May your purse always hold a coin or two.
May the sun always shine upon your windowpane.
May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near to you, and
May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.
– Traditional Irish Blessing

(Dr. Fran Lavelle is the director of faith formation for the Diocese of Jackson.)

By Cindy Wooden
VATICAN CITY (CNS) – While giving money to charity is a good thing, God expects Christians to do more by giving of themselves to help others, Pope Leo XIV said.

“It is not simply a matter of sharing the material goods we have, but putting our skills, time, love, presence and compassion at the service of others,” the pope told thousands of people gathered in St. Peter’s Square Aug. 10 for the recitation of the Angelus prayer.

Commenting on the day’s Gospel reading, Luke 12:32-48, the pope focused on how Jesus invites his followers to “invest” the treasure that is their lives.

“Everything in God’s plan that makes each of us a priceless and unrepeatable good, a living and breathing asset, must be cultivated and invested in order to grow,” he said.

“Otherwise, these gifts dry up and diminish in value, or they end up being taken away by those who, like thieves, snatch them up as something simply to be consumed.”

“The works of mercy are the most secure and profitable bank” for investing those treasures and talents, the pope said, “because there, as the Gospel teaches us, with ‘two small copper coins’ even the poor widow becomes the richest person in the world.”

Pope Leo urged people to be attentive so that no matter whether they are at home or work or in their parish they do not “miss any opportunity to act with love.”

“This is the type of vigilance that Jesus asks of us: to grow in the habit of being attentive, ready and sensitive to one another, just as he is with us in every moment,” the pope said.

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
God’s presence inside us and in our world is rarely dramatic, overwhelming, sensational, impossible to ignore. God doesn’t work like that. Rather God’s presence is something that lies quiet and seemingly helpless inside us. It rarely makes a huge splash.

We should know that from the very way God was born into our world. Jesus, as we know, was born into our world with no fanfare and no power, a baby lying helpless in the straw, another child among millions. Nothing spectacular to human eyes surrounded his birth. Then, during his ministry, he never performed miracles to prove his divinity, but only as acts of compassion or to reveal something about God. His ministry, like his birth, wasn’t an attempt to prove his divinity or prove God’s existence. It was intended rather to teach us what God is like and how God loves us unconditionally.

In essence, Jesus’ teaching about God’s presence in our lives makes clear that this presence is mostly quiet and under the surface, a plant growing silently as we sleep, yeast leavening dough in a manner hidden from our eyes, spring slowly turning a barren tree green, an insignificant mustard plant eventually surprising us with its growth, a man or woman forgiving an enemy. God works in ways that are seemingly hidden and can be ignored by our eyes. The God that Jesus incarnates is neither dramatic nor flashy.

And there’s an important lesson in this. Simply put, God lies inside us, deep inside, but in a way that is almost unfelt, often unnoticed, and can easily be ignored. However, while that presence is never overpowering, it has inside of it a gentle, unremitting imperative, a compulsion, which invites us to draw upon it. And if we do, it gushes up in us as an infinite stream that instructs, nurtures, and fills us with life and energy.

This is important for understanding how God is present inside us. God lies inside us as an invitation that always respects our freedom and never overpowers us, but also never goes away. It lies there precisely like a baby lying helpless in the straw, gently beckoning us, but helpless in itself to make us pick it up.

For example, C.S. Lewis shares this in explaining why, despite a strong affective and intellectual reluctance, he eventually became a Christian (“the most reluctant convert in the history of Christendom”). He became a believer, he says, because he was unable to ultimately ignore a quiet but persistent voice inside him which, because it was gentle and respectful of his freedom, he could ignore for a long time. But it never went away.

In retrospect, he realized it had always been there as an incessant nudge, beckoning him to draw from it, a gentle unyielding imperative, a “compulsion” which, if obeyed, leads to liberation.

Ruth Burrows, the British Carmelite and mystic, describes a similar experience. In her autobiography Before the Living God, she tells the story of her late adolescent years and how at that time in her life she thought little about religion and faith. Yet she eventually ends up not only being serious about religion but becoming a Carmelite nun and a gifted spiritual writer. What happened?

Triggered by a series of accidental circumstances, one day she found herself in a chapel where, almost against her conscious will, she left herself open to a voice inside her which she had until then mainly ignored, precisely because it had never forced itself upon her freedom. But once touched, it gushed up as the deepest and most real thing inside her and set the direction of her life forever.

Like C.S. Lewis, she too, once she had opened herself to it, felt that voice as an unyielding moral compulsion opening her to ultimate liberation.

This is true too for me. When I was seventeen years old and graduating from high school, I had no natural desire whatsoever to become a Roman Catholic priest. But, despite a strong affective resistance, I felt a call to enter a religious order and become a Catholic priest. Despite that strong resistance inside me, I obeyed that call, that compulsion. Now, sixty years later, I look back on that decision as the clearest, most unselfish, faith-based, and life-giving decision I have ever made. I could have ignored that beckoning. I’m forever grateful I didn’t.

Fredrick Buechner suggests that God is present inside us as a subterranean presence of grace. The grace of God is “beneath the surface; it’s not right there like the brass band announcing itself, but it comes and it touches and it strikes in ways that leave us free to either not even notice it or to draw back from it.”

God never tries to overwhelm us. More than anyone else, God respects our freedom. God lies everywhere, inside us and around us, almost unfelt, largely unnoticed, and easily ignored, a quiet, gentle nudge; but, if drawn upon, the ultimate stream of love and life.

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

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese
As in a responsorial psalm, repeat after me: God is in the obstacle.

Or so they thought. Or so they said. However, for some, in that desert, after a little while, when the buzz quiets, something else takes over – a kind of resistance, acedia. It is not just monks and nuns who suffer this; married people, singles, anyone can fall prey.

Kathleen Norris, in her exceptional book “Acedia & Me,” tells how the word itself has gone through a myriad of definitions since the earliest writings in “The Praktikos” of Evagrius Ponticus (345–399). Some are: “Acedia: the deadly sin of sloth; or spiritual torpor and apathy,” according to Webster’s Third New International Dictionary. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “accidie” as heedlessness, torpor … a non-caring state. The Online Medical Dictionary describes “acedia” as a mental syndrome whose chief features are listlessness, carelessness, apathy and melancholia.

Repeat: God is in the obstacle.

When the seeker would ask about this struggle, Abba Poemen would advise: “Watchfulness, self-knowledge, and discernment. These are the guides of the soul,” according to “Desert Fathers and Mothers” by Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove.
Isadore of Pelusia offered this: “Many desire virtue, but fear to go forward on the way that leads to it, while others consider that virtue does not even exist. So, it is necessary to persuade the former to give up their habitual idleness, and to teach the others what virtue really is.”

Amma Syncletica said there is an asceticism determined by the enemy and practiced by his disciples. She asked, “How are we to distinguish between the divine and demonic tyranny?” Her answer was: “We must arm ourselves in every way against the demons. For they attack us from outside, and they also stir us up from within; and the soul is like a ship when great waves break over it, and it sinks because the hold is too full,” as recorded in “The Sayings of the Desert Fathers” by Benedicta Ward. And you ask, how is God in the obstacle?

Amma Theodora, renowned for her wisdom, tells us it is good to live in peace, practicing perpetual prayer. “However,” she says, “you should realize that as soon as you intend to live in peace, at once evil comes and weighs down your soul through accidie, faintheartedness and evil thoughts. It also attacks your body through sickness, debility, weakening of the knees and all the members. It dissipates the strength of the soul and body, so that one believes one is ill and no longer able to pray,” also from “The Sayings of the Desert Fathers.”

Yes, you’ve had this experience. You sit down to pray, feeling quite good, knowing you will talk with God … when you remember your shopping list, calling your mother or watering the plants. It will only take a minute, so you do that thing. Then the phone rings, the TV goes off, the kids pack in from school … and it keeps happening. Those little demons of distress wiggle into your soul, and it seems there’s not much you can do about the indifference, weariness, lax intentions or dryness that grows.

Cassian wrote that “if we are overcome by sloth or carelessness and spend our time in idle gossip, or are entangled in the cares of this world and unnecessary anxieties, the result will be that a sort of species of tares will spring up and occupy our hearts, and as our Lord and Savior says, wherever the treasure of our works or purpose may be, there also our heart is sure to continue.”

Sloth is a culpable lack of physical or spiritual effort; acedia or laziness. One of the capital sins, according to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, sins are called “capital” because “they engender other sins or vices.” (1866) This spiritual effort manifests itself mainly during prayer and in the life of one given to God; this is a disaster. “Someone said to Antony, ‘Pray for me.’ The old man said to him, ‘I will have no mercy upon you, nor will God have any, if you yourself do not make an effort,’” writes Benedicta Ward from Carrigan’s “The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers and Mothers.”

Acedia in full bloom looks like frustration or weariness, experienced as sadness – “sadness in relation to a spiritual good … a retreat from the divine good itself,” as St. Thomas Aquinas says in “Summa Theologica.” I just don’t care. I can’t be bothered.

Kenneth Russell, in his article in “Review for Religious,” writes that “acedia is a gray morning’s inclination not to intensify the original yes to God, community or spouse … choose to swim no further. … What they really opt for is some means of control over their own comfort. … The victims of acedia tread water and console their anxieties with sleep or attempt to dissipate them in one distraction after another.”

David of Augsburg (d. 1272) described “accidie” in three kinds: the first is bitterness of mind that cannot be pleased by anything cheerful or wholesome; the second, a kind of indolent torpor loving sleep and comfort; and the third, “a weariness in such things as belong to God, praying without devotion, rushing through, thinking of other things as not to be bored.” Chaucer’s “Parson’s Tale” notes that “envy and anger cause bitterness, which is the mother of acedia, and takes from a man the love of all goodness. Then is acedia the anguish of the troubled heart; as St. Augustine says, ‘It is the sadness of goodness and the joy of evil.’”

How can God be here?

It has been a very hot summer; maybe your prayer is distressed? Think of the Noonday Devil, as acedia is often called – for at the height of noon the sun beats down, the pray-er is hungry, nothing is going right, and one could not be convinced God is in these obstacles. Give up. But I was meant for this – this community, this vocation, this spouse. Or was I? The demon of doubt squeaks in. This is where my talent lies – the very one given to me by God, you try to think. Mark Cuban, the entrepreneur, quipped: “Talent without effort is wasted talent. And while effort is the one thing we can control, applying that effort intelligently is next on the list.”

Finally, Abbot Jean-Charles Nault, OSB, sums it up when he writes that “acedia is the enemy of spiritual joy … a profound withdrawal into self to save one’s freedom at any price … no longer any room for an abandonment to the other or for the joy of gift. What remains is sadness or bitterness … distancing oneself, separated from others and likewise separated from God,” as he wrote in “Enemy of Spiritual Joy” in Communio journal.

What to do: Intensify your prayer. Don’t look for distractions. Be vigilant. Don’t settle for being less than you can. Don’t refuse responsibility. Do for others. Search for God in the obstacles. Life in God is not a spectator sport.

“And should our branches be broken off by negligence, carelessness, disdain or ruin, may these reckless prunings carry even more significance as symbols of peace in a broken world,” wrote Sister M. Guider, OSF.

God is in the obstacles.

God has found you.

Blessings.

(sister alies therese is a canonical hermit who prays and writes.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI

Does God have sense of humor?

This may seem a frivolous or impious question, it’s anything but that. It’s an important question and a reverent one as well. Why? Because healthy humor and playful banter help bring joy, lightness of heart, and healthy perspective into our lives. Can we imagine all that wonderful lightness of heart having no connection to God?

Does God have a sense of humor? For sure! Without doubt! Jesus teaches that God is the author of all good things. Humor, playfulness and healthy banter are good, healthy things. They can have their ultimate origin only in God.

Why are they good things? What positive role do they play in our lives?

Freud once suggested that sometimes we can understand things more clearly by looking at their opposites. What are the opposites of humor, playfulness and banter? We see their opposite in three things: over-seriousness, needless irritation and pomposity (none of which are healthy).
Consider this example: I have lived almost my entire adult life within a religious community of men, and by and large it has been positive and life-giving. But among the (literally) hundreds of men with whom I have shared community over more than fifty years, there have sometimes been confreres who were over-serious and their presence in the community room or at table could sometimes effectively rob the room of joy.

I recall one such incident at table where someone shared a rather earthy joke (spicy, though not in bad taste). Most of us responded with a hearty laugh, but as soon as the laughter died down, one of our confreres in a heavy and overly pious tone, asked: Would you tell a joke like that in front of the Blessed Sacrament? That not only ended the laughter in the room and injected a certain heaviness into our gathering, it also effectively drained the oxygen out of the room.

Over-seriousness, while not a moral deficiency, can leave us too raw before the demands of family and community to which we can never perfectly measure up. On the other hand, playfulness, humor and banter, when healthy, can provide some important “grease” for family and community life.

For example, when you join a religious congregation you take a vow to live within a community (of men, in my case) for the rest of your life. Moreover, you don’t get to choose with whom you get to live. You are simply assigned to a community, which invariably will include some members whose temperament is very different from yours and with whom you would not normally choose to live.

Well, I have lived in this type of religious community for nearly sixty years and, with very few exceptions, it has been life-giving and enjoyable; mostly because I have been blessed nearly always to live in a community where part of our very ethos has been the daily exchange of humor, playfulness and banter. Prayer and a common mission of course have been the main glue that held us together but humor, playfulness and banter have been the grease that have kept petty tensions and the occupational hazard of pomposity at bay.

It’s interesting to note that the classical Greek philosophers understood love as having six components: eros – infatuation and attraction; mania – obsession; asteismos – playfulness and banter; storge – care; philia – friendship; and agape – altruism. When we define love, we generally make room for most of those components, except asteismos, playfulness and banter. We pay a price for that.

My oblate novice master, a wonderful French-Canadian priest, once shared with us (a group of young novices) a joke with a purpose. It runs this way: a family was planning the wedding of their daughter but were unable to afford a venue for the festivities after the church service. So, the priest made them an offer: “Why don’t you use the entrance, the foyer, of the church? There’s enough room for a reception. Bring in a cake and have your reception there.” Things were fine, until the father of the bride asked the priest if they might bring liquor to the reception. The priest replied most emphatically, “Absolutely not! You may not have liquor in a church!” The father of the bride protested, “but Jesus drank wine at the wedding feast of Cana.” To which the priest replied, “But not in front of the Blessed Sacrament!”

This joke can serve as a parable, cautioning us vis-à-vis stripping God of humor and playfulness.
God has a sense of humor, a sense of playfulness, and a talent for banter far beyond that of our best comedians. How could it be otherwise? Can you imagine spending eternity in heaven without laughter and playfulness? Can you imagine a God who is perfect love, but with whom you would be afraid to joke and banter?

Is the last laugh before we die to be our last laugh forever? No. God has a sense of humor which will without doubt be for all of us a delightful surprise.

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