IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Recently I was listening to a religious talk show on the radio when a caller asked: How do we know that God exists? A good question.
The radio host answered by saying that we know it through faith. That’s not a bad answer, except what needs to be teased out is how we know this through faith.
First, what does it mean to know something? If we believe that to know something means to be able to somehow picture it, understand it, and imagine its existence, then this side of eternity, we can never know God. Why?
Because God is ineffable. That’s the first and non-negotiable truth we need to accept about God and it means that God, by definition, is beyond our imagination. God is infinite and the infinite can never be circumscribed or captured in a concept. Try imagining the highest number to which it is possible to count. God’s nature and existence can never be conceptualized or imagined. But it can be known.

Knowing isn’t always in the head, something we can explicate, own in a picture, and give words to. Sometimes, particularly with things touching the deepest mysteries in life, we know beyond our head and our heart. This knowing is in our gut, something felt as a moral imperative, a nudge, a call, an obligation, a voice which tells us what we must do to stay true. It’s there we know God, beyond any imaginative, intellectual, or even affective grasp.
The revealed truths about God in scripture, in Christian tradition, and in the witness of the lives of martyrs and saints, simply give expression to something we already know, as the mystics put it, in a dark way.
So, how might we prove the existence of God?
I wrote my doctoral thesis on exactly that question. In that thesis, I take up the classical proofs for the existence of God as we see these articulated in Western philosophy. For example, Thomas Aquinas tried to prove God’s existence in five separate arguments.
Here’s one of those arguments: Imagine walking down a road and seeing a stone and asking yourself, how did it get there? Given the brute reality of a stone, you can simply answer, it’s always been there. However, imagine walking down a road and seeing a clock still keeping time. Can you still say, it’s always been there? No, it can’t always have been there because it has an intelligent design that someone must have built into it and it is ticking away the hours, which means it cannot have been there forever.
Aquinas then asks us to apply this to our own existence and to the universe. Creation has an incredibly intelligent design and, as we know from contemporary physics, has not always existed. Something or someone with intelligence has given us and the universe a historical beginning and an intelligent design. Who?
How much weight does an argument like this carry? There was once a famous debate on BBC radio in England between Frederick Copleston, a renowned Christian philosopher, and Bertrand Russell, a brilliant agnostic thinker. After all the give and take in their debate, they agreed, as atheist and believer, on this one thing: If the world makes sense then God exists. As an atheist, Russell agreed to that, but then went on to say that ultimately the world doesn’t make sense.
Most thinking atheists accept that the world doesn’t’ make sense; but then, like Albert Camus, struggle with the question, how can it not make sense? If there isn’t a God then how can we say that is better to help a child than to abuse a child? If there isn’t a God, how can we ground rationality and morality?
At the end of my thesis, I concluded that existence of God cannot be proven through a rational argument, a logical syllogism, or a mathematical equation, albeit all of those can give some compelling hints regarding God’s existence.
However, God is not found at the end of an argument, a syllogism, or an equation. God’s existence, life, and love are known (they are experienced) inside a certain way of living.
Simply put, if we live in a certain way, in the way all religions worthy of the name (not least Christianity) invite us to live, namely, with compassion, selflessness, forgiveness, generosity, patience, long-suffering, fidelity, and gratitude, then we will know God’s existence by participation in God’s very life – and whether or not we have an imaginative sense of God’s existence is of no importance.
Why do I believe in God? Not because I’m particularly persuaded by proofs from great philosophical minds like Aquinas, Anselm, Descartes, Leibnitz or Hartshorne. I find their proofs intellectually intriguing but existentially less persuasive.
I believe in God because I sense God’s presence at a gut level, as a silent voice, as a call, an invitation, a moral imperative which, whenever listened to and obeyed, brings community, love, peace and purpose.
That’s the real proof for the existence of God.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese
“When the soul is willingly emptied for love in order to have Him who is all. Then it is able to receive spiritual rest.” –Julian of Norwich, d. 1416
I had finished my prayer time … in silence, surrounded by my icons … and I gazed out the window to an overcast and cold morning … trying to allow Jesus to give me rest amidst recent anxiety and concern. It was not going to happen, and I was sure of that. I could not make it happen myself, and Jesus seemed far, far away. The middle of Advent and on into the “Os” is a fragile time. The fullness of Christmas had filled everyone else, and many had a lack of peaceful rest.
A few days later, I ran into Cardinal Zen’s “Advent Reflections” while tidying up a bookshelf. Perhaps you have read it or used it for your own reflection?

First, “Who likes darkness? Isn’t the light sure to prevail? Unfortunately, it is not necessarily so. Darkness often tempts us. In the dark, we can do shoddy things.” (p. 23) In so many of our places, the sun sets early. Darkness might be experienced, as Cardinal Zen says, “For Christians, ‘despairing of hope’ for salvation and thinking that God could not save us is indeed a sin … But what is it exactly that you doubt? … the power of God or His mercy? … He is always with us, so His plan must succeed.” (p. 19)
Another: “Because of His excessive love for us, God sent us His Son in the likeness of our sinful bodies – a fragile infant laid in a manger; only with the help of an angel, He could escape the attempt on His life. He wanted to experience all the hardships of human existence, hoping that we might trust Him and recognize Him as one of us.” (p. 74) This reminded me of my favorite saint, Julian of Norwich … who reminds us of the extraordinary love God has for us.
Off I went exploring the nearly end of her “Revelations of Divine Love” … and I read some paragraphs as if I’d never seen them before. I lived for 20 years not some 26 miles from her cell in Norwich (England) and frequently went there to pray.
How could she experience this silence and rest when “surrounded by the Black Death, parts of the Hundred Years War, the peasants’ revolt, Edward III and Richard II, and Henry IV taking the throne”? Does any of that sound in the least like what surrounds you? Pandemics, natural disasters, crime, political intrigue, extreme consumerism … ? How could one be expected to pray in that environment? How can there be spiritual rest?
Today we expect everyone to comment on most things – politics, family, religion. What is our business? What is none of our business? In the day, Julian commented on none of it. “Instead of pointing to men’s failures to be human and Christian, Juliana focuses on the love of a living, loving, personal God, His sufferings, and her response to them. The anchorhold at Norwich might as well have been in China for all the notice she takes of current sins and scandals, local persons and events, or the … immoralities of the failed shepherds of a spiritually starving, helpless flock … she is to observe God alone, to listen to Him and to make her response, and to transmit the experience to her fellow Christians.” (Introduction)
Cardinal Zen’s reflections kept me considering this notion of “excessive love.” Fit right in with Julian. He points to the reality that God wanted from all eternity to be our God, and that we become His people. How do we come to understand this? How do we know we are loved by God?
Julian explained that dread is caused by fright, pain, doubt and reverent dread. Curiously, she says, “Love and dread are brothers. They are rooted in us by the goodness of our Maker and can never be taken from us. We have the power to love from nature and from grace. We have the power to dread from nature and from grace … it is proper for us to love Him for His goodness.” (p. 217)
In considering how we learn to trust, she reminds us that love and dread take on different aspects: “In love we shall be friendly and near to God, and in dread we shall be gentle and courteous.” Advent brings us near to God either through love or dread.
Advent can be a time of renewal or discovery. Cardinal Zen poses this: “How many still do not know Jesus Christ? … How many who know Him are yet unwilling to obey? … But it is undeniable that ‘the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (p. 144)
The darkness will not prevail. Julian tells us: “All shall be well … not only the noble and great things but also the little and small, lowly and simple things … not one of the smallest things will be forgotten … He wants us to be more at ease in soul and more peaceful in love and to stop looking at all the tempests that could keep us from rejoicing in Him!” (p. 132) That is fruitful spiritual rest.
Blessings.

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

ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia
If there is ever a time when the difference in perspective between children and adults is stunningly clear, it is during the four weeks of Advent.
As Advent begins, children will say, with a sigh of impatience, “Four whole weeks to Christmas.” My younger self did too.

Adults, looking at the exact same calendar, are more likely to say, with a much deeper sigh, “Only four weeks to Christmas.” My older self does too.
Through the eyes of a child, the days of December drag on, with a slow march toward the glory of Christmas – a march filled with excitement and joyful expectation. Through the eyes of adults, however, Christmas arrives in a flash and flurry of activity, and the fleeting days of Advent can go unnoticed because they pass so quickly.
Cynics will say that the excited joy of children comes more from the coming of Santa than of Savior. Maybe that is true. Indeed, my younger self would acknowledge mixed motives.
Yet, there is more. There is something to be learned from the joyful, unencumbered anticipation that children have as they wait, wonder and hope.
They seem, simply, to be more ready than adults. Certainly, some of that is because life’s responsibilities have not yet taken a toll. They have less to do to prepare for Christmas in a season when much adult labor is spent preparing Christmas celebrations for them. They seem less distracted and freer to anticipate all that is to come.
A child counts the days. A child notices when decorations first come out. A child notices when a crèche goes up and rejoices when the figures in the nativity scene move closer to the manger. A child notices when the Jesse trees in their churches start to fill up. A child counts the number of candles that are lit on the Advent wreath – not with fear that the number of days to Christmas is dwindling but with anticipation that what is to come is closer. With special joy, a child notices that on Gaudete Sunday the rose candles offer hope that the wait is almost over.
A child anticipating Christmas seems to understand, more than I do, what it means to wait. Yes, they enjoy the festivities leading up to Christmas. But they also have a single-minded focus on Christmas itself. To adults, so often, it can seem as though Advent is a season of events that can exhaust us before Christmas arrives, leaving us with the feeling that Christmas is over before the Christmas season has even begun.
A child longing for Christmas will never say, as I do, that last Christmas seems like it was yesterday. A child is unlikely to wonder how the year went by so fast because, in the temporal economy of childhood, time moves more slowly, and last Christmas seems like an eternity ago. Perhaps that is why each Christmas seems so special.
The children in my life teach me much about what it means to wait with joy and wait with readiness. They are not distracted by all that they think needs to be done before Christmas. Instead, they are ready to welcome the birthday of Christ with simple joy, uncomplicated excitement and the knowledge that something special and awesome – in all senses of that word – is about to happen.
I cherish the events leading up to Christmas. The traditions, celebrations, time with loved ones and special occasions fill my calendar and my heart. Yes, they also keep me busy.
But this season, I hope to wait for Christmas a little bit more like my younger sisters and brothers in faith. I hope that the distractions and busyness of December do not make my heart hope that Christmas can wait until I am ready for it.
My ancestors in faith spent millennia eagerly awaiting the birth of Christ. The ancients who came before me, and the young who come after me, did not and do not spend their days hoping for delay and more time until that silent, holy night. They want no unnecessary distance between themselves and the night that brings the “thrill of hope” when “a weary world rejoices.” They know how to anticipate that extraordinary time.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is Professor of Law at the Catholic University of America’s Columbus School of Law. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
John Muir once asked: “Why are Christians so reluctant to let animals into their stingy heaven?”

Indeed, why? Especially since St. Paul tells us in the Epistle to the Romans that all creation (mineral, plant, animal) is groaning to be set free from its bondage to decay to enter eternal life with us. How? How will minerals, plants and animals go to heaven? That’s beyond our present imagination, just as we cannot imagine how we will enter heaven: “Eye has not seen, nor ear heard. Nor has it entered the heart of man the things God has prepared for those who love Him.” Eternal life is beyond our present imagination.
What John Muir asks concerning animals might be asked in a wider sense: are we too stingy about who gets to go to heaven?

What I mean by “stingy” here is how we are so often obsessed with purity, boundaries, dogma and religious practice that we exclude millions from our church doors, our church programs, our sacramental programs, our Eucharistic tables, and from our notion of who will be going to heaven. This is true across denominational lines. As Christians, we all tend to create a stingy heaven.
However, I can appreciate the instinct behind this. Following Jesus must mean something concrete. Christian discipleship makes real demands and churches need to have real boundaries in terms of dogma, sacraments, membership and practice. There is a legitimacy in creating a dividing line between who is in and who is out. The instinct behind this is healthy.
But its practice is often not healthy. We often make heaven stingy. Metaphorically, we are too often like that group in the Gospel who is blocking the paralytic from coming to Jesus, so that he can only get to Jesus by entering through a hole in the roof.

Our instinct may be right, but our practice is often wrong. We, those of us who are invested deeply in our churches, need to be strong enough in our own faith and practice to be anchors of a spirituality and ethos that welcomes in and dines with those who are not invested. How so? Here’s an analogy.

Imagine a family of ten, now all adults. Five of the children are deeply invested in the family. They come home regularly for visits, have meals together every weekend, check in with each other regularly, have regular rituals and celebrations to ensure that they stay connected, and make it their family business to see that their parents are always okay. They might aptly be called “practicing” members of the family.
Now, imagine that five of the children have drifted from the family. They no longer cultivate any regular meaningful connection with the family, are dissociated from its everyday life and ethos, aren’t particularly concerned with how their parents are doing, but still want to have some connection to the family to occasionally share an occasion, a celebration, or meal with them. They might aptly be described as “non-practicing” members of the family.

This poses the question: Do the “practicing members” of the family refuse them entry into their gatherings, believing that allowing them to come jeopardizes the family’s beliefs, values and ethos? Or do they allow them to come, but only on condition that they first make a series of practical commitments to regularize contact with the family?

My guess is that in most healthy families the “practicing” members would happily welcome the “non-practicing” members to a family event, gathering or meal – grateful they are there, graciously accepting them without initially asking for any practical promises or commitments. Nor would they feel threatened by them joining the celebration and taking a seat at the table, fearful that the family’s ethos might somehow be compromised.

As “practicing” members of the family they would have a steady confidence that their own commitment sufficiently anchors the family’s ethos, standards and rituals so that those who are present and uncommitted aren’t threatening anything but are making the celebration richer and more inclusive. That confidence would be grounded on knowing (in terms of this particular family) that they are the adults in the room and can welcome others without compromising anything. They would not be stingy with the gift and grace of family.

There’s a lesson here, I submit: We who are “practicing” Christians, responsible for proper church practice, proper doctrine, proper morals and the authentic continuation of preaching and Eucharist, should not be stingy with the gift and grace of Christian family.

Like Jesus, who welcomed everyone without first demanding conversion and commitment, we must be open in our welcome and wide in our embrace. Inclusion, not exclusion, should always be our first approach. Like Jesus we should not be threatened by what seems impure, and we should be prepared to occasionally scandalize others by whom we are seen with at table.

Let’s not be stingy in sharing God’s family, especially since the God we serve is a prodigal God who isn’t threatened by anything!

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese

A driver appeared in court charged with parking his car in a restricted area.

“Defense?” asked the judge.

“Yes, there shouldn’t be such misleading signs around … the sign clearly said, Fine for Parking Here.”
Oops – how things can get easily misunderstood! Still, it is a bit funny, isn’t it? What makes you laugh? What makes you hee hee hee or haw haw haw until your sides wiggle?

You know what I mean. What do you consider hilarious? Michael Dorris, the Native American author of Guests, once wrote, “I got dizzy from laughing, lost my breath from laughing. My stomach hurt from laughing. Tears ran from my eyes, everything was funny.”

Quite possibly, on the other hand, you do not laugh but a little he he hey … almost like a tiny sneeze? Or are you a giggler, one who guffaws, or one who hides behind your hands and lets no one know you found something amusing? Maybe laughter is not your thing – or so you say – and yet you laugh and laugh when hidden in the bathroom or away from people.

Henry Ward Beecher once said, “A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs – jolted by every pebble in the road.” I have to say, I think a sense of humor is critical to the spiritual life. Where do we begin?

A good laugh at ourselves usually works. Not taking myself too seriously helps me get things into perspective. As Proverbs 17:22 reminds us, “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”

Yes, go to the Scriptures and discover laughter mentioned more than once: “He will fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy.” (Job 8:21) Check out the Psalms: “Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy” (Psalm 126:2), and “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy.” (Psalm 28:7)

As with our driver who got it wrong, we can as well – by laughing at others. Not recommended. Nothing is more painful than being laughed at. Yes, we are called to laugh, but how about laughing with?
I marvel at those who have been badly treated, who teach me so much about laughter. W.E.B. Du Bois, the African American educator, once wrote in “My Soul Looks Back, ’Less I Forget”: “I am especially glad of the divine gift of laughter; it has made the world human and lovable, despite all its pain and wrong.”
Can you laugh in November? That’s a good test! Death, purgatory, people dying around us, wars, abortions, hunger, governmental challenges, the death penalty – darkness falling all around us. So what’s so funny?

It is more difficult to laugh or make decisions when the days are rainy, cold and lonely. Yet Norton Juster reminds us in “The Phantom Tollbooth” – “Ordinance 175389: It shall be unlawful, illegal and unethical to think, think of thinking, surmise, presume, reason, meditate or speculate while in the doldrums.”

What comes, however, into our orbit near the end of the month? Thanksgiving, of course – and if you don’t laugh at that dinner table, you will cry! Maybe it will be an old story Uncle George tells, a funny accident by a 3-year-old or even a teenager venturing out to tell a joke. Who knows? It might be the food. It might be just anything.

Go prepared – or you might get caught in a bit of misery. Arguments are ugly. I love this little prayer: “Give me eyes to see what I would miss without you!” (anonymous)

Go to that kitchen to help, that table to eat, and take that opportunity to clear up – having asked the Lord to show you! You just might be the one to prevent a Thanksgiving Day disaster.

T. Hulbert of Rockaway, Oregon, once shared this in Guideposts (1999): “My 1998 resolution: With the help of God, I resolve to be a good witness to those around me by what I say and through what I do.”
David Saltzman wrote in “The Jester Has Lost His Jingle” – “Laughter’s like a seedling, waiting patiently to sprout. All it takes is just a push to make it pop right out.”

Be careful at that table, in that kitchen or dining room. Things often pop out that we had no intention of saying! There is much left to heal.

“Laughter is God’s medicine; the most beautiful therapy God ever gave humanity,” says an anonymous author. Why in the world would laughter be medicine? What needs healing? We often don’t find out until someone pushes that little button we thought we had hidden so artfully away.

There is hope for most of us if we have learned anything this past year. When we join others at the table, watch the person you trust the most before you speak. He or she will give you the go-ahead or hold up a hand – like any good base coach.

I have that super picture of Jesus laughing in my prayer corner. He had to laugh now and then – look who he surrounded himself with!

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4)

Your laughter does not need to be outrageous or loudly offensive – just a good deep chuckle will get those endorphins working. It might even be as simple as a sweet smile to dispel the gloom.

As Sister Monique of Owatonna once said, “May this Thanksgiving help you give thanks for all the turkeys in your life.”

Blessings.

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

By Effie Caldarola

A few years ago, Marie Kondo, a Japanese organizing consultant, established a career by encouraging people to declutter.

“What gives me joy?” she told us to ask ourselves. If it doesn’t give you joy, out it goes.

I’ve repeated that little mantra, often with a touch of sarcasm, as I prepare our old house for a major interior paint job. Everything comes off the walls and shelves, nothing remains on the counters.

We’re stripping rooms to only the furniture the painters can easily cover. Everything else migrates to the attic, where I ask the inevitable question, “Where does all this stuff come from?” Photos, clothes, knick-knacks, piles of books, souvenirs. Gifts, family memorabilia.

Moving everything around has propelled me to want to declutter. Organize. Get rid of “stuff.” And deciding — what’s treasure and what’s “stuff?”

During this season leading up to Thanksgiving and Advent, this project becomes spiritual as well as material.

I have a spot by the window where I pray in the morning, and the approach of autumn — and now winter — stirs something within me.

Maybe in part it’s the turmoil in our country and world right now. It’s a time of seeing things pass, of letting go, of feeling a sense of uncertainty. I watch the lush green foliage that climbs up my neighbor’s garage. It turned bright red, then its leaves wilted and fell. Now only the naked stems remain.

This is the cycle of life, I remind myself. Things pass away. I feel that cycle now more clearly as I get older. I don’t say that in a gloomy way; I see opportunity in the paring down, the digging through the junk to the essentials, whether in my overburdened attic or in my overburdened soul.

And my faith teaches me to remember that seeds are falling into the dormant soil, seeds of rebirth.
Lately, I have begun praying each morning with the day’s Scripture. I read slowly, and I stop when something touches me specifically. Some days, I find the readings less inspiring or more difficult than other days, but I dig for the nuggets, and I let the prayer follow.

St. Paul tells me, “The Spirit comes to the aid of our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit intercedes with inexpressible groanings.”

I sense that groaning as the darkness encroaches and the air grows colder. I sense it as I peruse my attic room. How can I connect my morning prayer to this room, this collection of my life? How can I know what to let go?

Just this morning, I gave a friend some old issues of a Catholic magazine. I still had them tucked away as I was going to “finish” them — someday. She was delighted. Move on, I remind myself. The next issue will be in the mailbox soon.

Simplify, my prayer tells me. As Christmas beckons, I face the inevitable shopping list, and I pray about how to pare down, to simplify, to make gifting more about experiences than about more plastic and more stuff. This is an environmental and moral issue.

Sort, throw, save, give away. Make room for those things valued most. As I write these words, I see how they pertain both to the clutter and detritus of my material goods, but also to the clutter of my interior life, my soul.

Buy less. Give more. Worry less. Pray more.

There’s peace in sitting in the morning silence, seeing the naked stems of a once flourishing plant and realizing this, too, brings me joy.

(Effie Caldarola is a wife, mom and grandmother who received her master’s degree in pastoral studies from Seattle University.)

By Marcellino D’Ambrosio

(OSV News) — For Americans, the term “Thanksgiving” conjures up images of turkey and cranberry sauce, parades and football games. These are “traditions” that have come to mark an event made a perpetual institution of American life by President Abraham Lincoln.

But why did Lincoln proclaim the last Thursday in November as a national holiday? Because it was clear to him that the blessings of food, land, family and freedom enjoyed by Americans are all gifts from the Creator. But Americans, he realized, had forgotten this. A special day was needed for us to forget our differences and remember our blessings. And from remembering naturally follows giving thanks to the source of those blessings.

The Israelites had an annual thanksgiving feast, as well. It was really a combination of two feasts, Passover and Unleavened Bread, and occurred in early spring. This is when the first crop, barley, began to be harvested and when the ewes gave birth to their lambs. The pagan Canaanites had already celebrated the feast of unleavened bread at this time to thank the gods for the harvest and offer them the first fruits as a sacrifice of gratitude. The pagan bedouins — wandering from place to place with their flocks — celebrated the spring gift of lambs by sacrificing some of them to the gods in gratitude for the gift of fertility.

The ancients did not need divine revelation to know that divine forces brought about the world and all its creatures. That’s just plain common sense. That we owe these divinities a debt of gratitude is justice, pure and simple.

But for the Jews, Passover was not just giving thanks for the blessings of creation. For them, God was not just the author of nature, with its seasons and life cycles. No, God was also the master of history. Among all ancient peoples, only the Jews believed that God entered into human history, manifested his love and power, and acted decisively to save his chosen people.

So while the pagans thanked their gods for the blessings each spring for food and fertility, the Israelites thanked the Lord for food, but even more, for freedom. They remembered not only that creation comes from him, but that salvation from slavery comes from him as well. This remembering happens each year in a solemn way at a special Passover meal that is the climax of the Jewish year.

On the night before he died, Jesus celebrated this solemn memorial by deepening its meaning yet further. Liberation from Pharaoh’s oppression was certainly something to celebrate. But there was a crueler slavery that a change of geography and regime could not alter. This slavery to Satan was kept in force through the shackles of sin. Just as he acted through Moses to free his people from Pharaoh, God was now about to act decisively to liberate his people from the ancient curse. He would act personally, not through proxies.

But this liberation would be costly. The only way that it could be won would be if God were to give not only his blessings, but his very self. To do this, God had become man, capable of offering the supreme sacrifice. And before he did it in actual fact, he did it in sacrament by offering himself under the unassuming forms of bread and wine. Before delivering himself into the hands of the Romans to be their victim, he delivered himself into our hands to be our nourishment.

For his aim was not just to open the way to future bliss in heaven. His aim was to pour into our wounds the balm of Gilead that would begin the healing process here and now. The bite of the serpent had injected venom. His body and blood would be the antidote, the “medicine of immortality,” in the words of St. Ignatius of Antioch.

Blood brings nourishment and life to every cell of our bodies. It also carries away impurities that poison our system. The Eucharist offers us a transfusion — we put aside our old life and receive his ever-new life, his divine vitality for our tired, toxic blood.

The life of a thing was in its blood. It was poured out at the foot of the altar and could never be consumed, for it belonged to God alone. But here God pours out his own blood at the altar of the cross and gives it to us as our drink, for the transformation of our lives.

“Do this in memory of me.” We are commanded to remember the supreme love of Christ for us that holds nothing back, that gives everything for our freedom. So naturally the sacrificial banquet of remembrance is called the Eucharist, or “thanksgiving.” The priest introduces the great central prayer of the celebration with these words: “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.” And we respond, “It is right and just.”

During the Eucharistic Prayer, I always silently add in thanks for my personal blessings. I think of the natural blessings of home and work, of food on the table and the health of my family. I also thank God for my own salvation history, especially for plucking me out of danger as a teenager, running with a wild crowd. I thank God for bringing me together with a woman who loves him and loves me, and for having kept us faithful to him and each other for many years. I thank him for our own family’s salvation history.

If you haven’t already established the habit of adding your personalized thank-yous to the priest’s Eucharistic Prayer, try it next time you’re at Mass. It’s a very appropriate mode of participating in that part of the Eucharist.

But true thanksgiving is not just a matter of words and warm sentiments. Gratitude for a gift means offering a gift in return. He gave his whole, entire self to us — his body, blood, soul and divinity. The only adequate response would be to offer ourselves.

Note what Paul says in his letter to the Romans: “I appeal to you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship” (Rom 12:1).

So thanksgiving cannot be separated from sacrifice. The Mass is a celebration of his love and the freedom it won for us through his sacrifice. Through it, the love of God is poured into our hearts and enables us to love with his love. In the power of that love, we offer ourselves back to him and enter into that sacrifice which we celebrate. True thanksgiving means self-giving. This is the meaning of Eucharist.

(Marcellino D’Ambrosio is a speaker, author, pilgrimage director and theologian who directs the Crossroads Initiative.)