We are nearing the end of a historic year for our seminary program. We jumped up from six seminarians to 12, and I’m very grateful for all of the support we have received to help our men engage in their formation. About half of our seminarians are at Notre Dame Seminary in New Orleans and the other half are at St. Joseph Seminary College in Covington, Louisiana.
After a man is accepted to the seminary, we consider which environment would be ideal for him to start his time as a seminarian. As you would expect, the atmosphere in New Orleans is city immersed. Classes are held within two large buildings on the west end of New Orleans, and while there is space to play basketball and tennis out back, there is not much in the way of nature – with mostly cars zooming up and down South Carrollton Avenue.
St. Joseph is nestled in the farmland north of Covington. It’s less than an hour to the Mississippi line on I-55. There are plenty of walking paths, a river and lakes. It’s a nature-lovers paradise, but it is more isolated from the conveniences of the city.
Both places are beautiful and have pluses and minuses. The biggest consideration is typically the age of the new seminarian. Anyone who is still within the age-range of an undergraduate college student will start at St. Joseph. The community there tends younger and I would be concerned about someone in their early 20s feeling comfortable and confident at Notre Dame at such a young age. Once a man turns 25, typically we send him to New Orleans so that he doesn’t start to feel like a ‘senior citizen’ in the community. I know, it’s funny to think of someone in their 20s thinking of themselves as ‘old!’
We have used seminaries in different parts of the country throughout the years, including during my time as Vocation Director, but typically I like to keep our men at these more local seminaries so long as the program there remains solid. It is a great gift to be able to drive to see our guys.
Bishop Kopacz has made it a priority to attend annual evaluations in person, which is not typical, but it is a great gift. His presence helps the men feel connected to the diocese and to realize how seriously we are taking their journey through formation. When Bishop and I come down for evaluations we like to pray evening prayer with them and take them out to dinner so that the day isn’t just ‘all-business.’ We also ask the guys at the ‘other seminary’ to drive up, or down, for the occasion so we can all be together. I think this has helped create an atmosphere of trust and accountability over the years. I am grateful for these trips because it has really helped me continue to update the bishop on the men’s progress in a way that is consistent and personal, and he gets to check in on them himself, which means so much to our seminarians.
(Father Nick Adam is Director of Vocations for the Diocese of Jackson. He can be contacted at nick.adam@jacksondiocese.org.)
REFLECTIONS ON LIFE By Melvin Arrington Our modern culture tells us beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that it’s subjective, something each person can determine for himself. But in the Catholic tradition that which is genuinely beautiful can be verified objectively because it has been so imbued with harmony, order and splendor, that personal preference no longer has any bearing on the matter. Simply put, the eye and the ear have to be trained to recognize and appreciate the beautiful.
Melvin Arrington
One of my first discoveries of the beauty of classical (actually baroque) music occurred during my sophomore year of college, long before I became Catholic. One afternoon while passing through the auditorium to get to a class, I happened upon the college choir and orchestra rehearsing for a concert. As I entered the auditorium and made my way down the side aisle, I was so moved by the majestic harmony of sounds and words that I quietly eased into a seat and sat there captivated by the heavenly music. Later, I learned that what had caused me to be late to class was a portion of Handel’s Messiah, specifically the part taken from the ninth chapter of Isaiah that deals with the birth of Christ: “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given, and the government shall be upon His shoulder; and His name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.” Every time I hear that selection it brings up memories of that day when I stumbled upon something truly beautiful.
On the other hand, my enjoyment of Gregorian chant and the use of Latin during Mass developed over a period of time. Neither chant nor the Latin language appealed to me at all when I was a Protestant, but after being received into the Catholic Church I slowly gained an appreciation for that ancient musical form and idiom. Although I have no technical knowledge of music theory, I’m fascinated by the way the voices of the chanters resonate as they blend together in offering up prayers to God. During reconciliation services at my church, recordings of Gregorian chant play softly over the speaker system, providing a soothing backdrop that aids prayer and reflection and enhances the overall experience of those in attendance.
Because Latin is the official language of the Church, most of our traditional prayers are translations from the Latin original. Despite my low-level proficiency in the language, I’ve found abundant joy in learning to sing various parts of the Mass – the Gloria, the Sanctus, the Agnus Dei, and the Marian antiphons – in that age-old tongue. When we pray and sing these prayers in that so-called dead language, we unite our voices to those of the great saints across the centuries. But in the final analysis, the beauty of the liturgy comes across no matter what language is spoken. I discovered this to be true several years ago when I visited a foreign country and found out how relatively easy it was to follow along during the Mass, even though I didn’t know the language.
St. Augustine wrote, in his Confessions: “Late have I loved Thee, o Beauty, ever ancient, ever new; late have I loved Thee.” He was speaking about God in the context of his conversion experience when he was in his 30s, but a beauty “ever ancient, ever new” might also apply to our Catholic faith and to the Church itself. Everything about the Catholic Church draws me in, beginning with its history that stretches all the way back to antiquity. I find satisfaction in knowing that I belong to the one and only Church Jesus founded back in the first half of the first century rather than to a religious congregation established in the sixteenth century or later by a Protestant reformer. As St. John Henry Newman said: “To be deep in history is to cease to be Protestant.”
When you enter a Catholic Church you leave behind all the noise and ugliness of the outer world – the hatred, violence, greed, political shenanigans – and enter into a sacred precinct, a place where heaven and earth meet. Look around inside and you’ll find yourself surrounded by beauty in its many forms, shapes, colors, and sounds.
It’s impossible to catalog everything about Catholicism that exerts a pull on me, but any listing must include Catholic art, architecture, music, literature, the tandem of Scripture and Tradition, the concept of the Church as Christ’s Bride (all brides are beautiful!), the communion of saints, the treasury of Catholic prayers and devotions, the Sacraments, statues, icons, stained glass windows, relics, incense, holy water, candles, vestments, and the in cense, holy water, candles, vestments, and the symbolism that can be found in practically everything in the Catholic Church (although, as we know, everything is not just a symbol). All these things are beautiful in themselves, but they are also reflections of the perfect and eternal Beauty of God.
Inside the Church the most beautiful element of all is, of course, the Blessed Sacrament, whether exposed in the monstrance on the altar or reposed in the tabernacle. During Adoration, one can experience the full range of a church’s beauty – including the splendor of silence.
We can also find heroic beauty in the social teachings of the Church, especially those that remind us of our obligations to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and welcome the stranger. Consider how St. Teresa of Calcutta dedicated her life to care for the poorest of the poor, those Our Lord called “the least of these my brethren.” Her constant desire was, as she put it, to “do something beautiful for God.”
What things did I do today that could be called beautiful? That’s a question we all need to ask ourselves every evening before going to bed. Christ paid the ultimate price. I should at least be willing to make some small daily sacrifice in order to advance the Kingdom, something that would be pleasing to the One Who is the source of all beauty.
(Melvin Arrington is a Professor Emeritus of Modern Languages for the University of Mississippi and a member of St. John Oxford.)
IN EXILE By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI With the resurrection of Jesus, time started over. Simply put, up until Jesus rose from the dead all things that died stayed dead. After Jesus’ resurrection, nothing stays dead anymore. Time has begun anew. Luke’s Gospel account of the resurrection begins with the words “on the morning of the first day.” This is a double reference. He is referring to Sunday, the first day of the week, but he is also referring to the first day of a new creation. With the resurrection, time has started over. In fact, the world measures time by that day. We are in the year 2026 since that morning when Jesus rose from the dead.
Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
From the beginning of time until Jesus’ resurrection, everything mortal died and remained in death. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, in the story of Adam and Eve and their fall from grace, we are given to believe that originally humans were not intended to die. In this view, death entered the world through the sin of our first parents. Today, for sound theological and scientific reasons, the Adam and Eve story is considered, like the other “in the beginning” stories in Genesis, to be more metaphoric and archetypal than literal. To be human is to be mortal.
Irrespective as to whether you take the Adam and Eve story literally and see death because of their sin or not, the bottom line is the same: From our first parents onward, everything that died stayed dead.
That changed with the resurrection of Jesus. When God raised him from the dead, creation was changed at its very roots. Nature changed. A dead body was brought to new life. Impossible? Yes, except that time started over! There was a new first day, a new Genesis, a second time when we can say, “in the beginning.”
And nothing stays dead now because Jesus is the “first fruit” of this new creation. What happened to him now happens to us. We too will not stay dead but will rise to new life. Moreover, this isn’t just true for us as humans. It’s also true for the earth itself and everything on it. Jesus came to save the world, not just the people living in the world.
St. Paul makes this clear in his Epistle to the Romans when he writes that all creation, physical creation, has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth and – it itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. (Romans 8:21-23)
Our planet earth, like our human body, is also mortal. It is dying too. As we know, the sun will eventually burn out and that will spell the death of our planet. Our planet also needs to be resurrected, and scripture assures us that it will.
What all this means stretches our imagination beyond its limits. Does this mean that animals will also have eternal life? Will our beloved pets be with us in heaven? Will plants enter heaven? Will the whole cosmos and our planet earth be transformed and enter heaven?
The answer is yes, though how this will happen is beyond our imagination. Our human mind is too limited. This is impossible to imagine, except, except that God who is the Father of Jesus Christ is ineffable, beyond imagination, and can do the unimaginable, including transforming all things into new life.
The Gospel of John has a particularly poignant text which links the resurrection of Jesus to the original creation as described in Genesis. John tells us that in his first resurrection appearance to the apostles, Jesus finds them huddled in fear inside a room with the doors locked. The resurrected Jesus goes right through the locked doors, enters their midst, greets them, shows them his hands and his side, and then breathes on them. (John 20:21)
This breathing out by Jesus parallels what happened at the original creation when God breathed over the formless void, and light began to separate from darkness and creation began to take shape.
After the resurrection, Jesus breathes on his disciples and for the second time in history light begins to separate from darkness. The confusion, fear, timidity, and the weaknesses of the apostles, their “formless void,” their darkness, begins to separate from the new light brought by the resurrection, namely, the eternal light of charity, joy, peace, patience, goodness, the fruits of the Holy Spirit.
So, it’s appropriate to say that with the resurrection of Jesus, time started over. There was a new first day where light again separated from darkness. The resurrection of Jesus is the most radical thing that has occurred since God originally said – let there be light! – nearly fourteen billion years ago. The earth itself and everything on it, humans, animals, plants, and minerals, and the earth itself, are now given life beyond death.
Until the resurrection of Jesus, all things that died stayed dead. This is no longer true. Time has started over.
(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)
We are in the midst of ‘application season’ in the diocese. Typically this time of year, we have several men who are considering whether they are called to enter seminary formation, and Father Tristan Stovall and I try to walk with them as best we can. Our goal is to help them discover whether seminary is the place for them.
We discover this through one-on-one conversations so that they can ask me what seminary life is all about. They also are encouraged to visit the seminary at some stage so they can see what it’s really like. So many young people (and older people) think that a seminary operates like a monastery, but it’s not! As Father Tristan and I get to know a discerner, there comes a point when it is appropriate to ‘hand him an application.’ Sometimes the discernment process ends without an application, but once the application is in hand, then we can plug the applicant into more resources to discover whether he’s called to the seminary.
We have the applicant work with the St. Luke Center in Louisville, Kentucky, a firm of Catholic psychologists who conduct testing that is called for by the Church. Since St. Luke works exclusively with applicants for formation, they know what to look for in a good applicant, and they give the candidate and me great information.
Once the application is turned in and the testing at St. Luke Center is through, we ask the candidate to meet with our Vocation Committee. This is a group of laity from various parishes who hear the story of the candidate and then ask him questions to get to know him better. This group has been working with me since 2020, and they have seen many applicants through the process. The Vocation Committee gives their opinion to me and Bishop Kopacz, and then a final decision is made on the candidate. I am confident that our application process helps men whether or not they end up enrolling in the seminary. It also helps us be generous but judicious with the resources entrusted to us to provide education and formation for our seminarians. We provide resources to these applicants to help them understand who they are and what God is calling them to do, and I am grateful for the collaboration of experts and the people of God in the process.
Please keep all those men applying for the seminary this year in your prayers, and pray that God’s will, not ours, be done!
(Father Nick Adam is Director of Vocations for the Diocese of Jackson. He can be contacted at nick.adam@jacksondiocese.org.)
IN EXILE By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI I heard this story from a renowned theologian who prefers I don’t use his name in sharing this, though the story speaks well of his theology.
He was giving a lecture and at one point stated that God didn’t want Jesus to suffer like he did. A woman in the audience immediately raised her voice: “Do you mean that?” Not knowing whether this was an objection or an affirmation, he invited the woman to speak to him at the break. Approaching him at the break, she repeated her question: “Do you mean that? Do you believe that God didn’t want Jesus to suffer as he did?” He replied that indeed he meant it. God didn’t want Jesus to suffer as he did. Her response: “Good, then I can pray again. I struggle to pray to a God who needs this type of suffering to pay some kind of debt.”
Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Why did Jesus suffer? Was his suffering needed to pay a debt that only a divine being could pay? Was the original sin of Adam and Eve so great an offense to God that no human sincerity, worship, altruism, or sacrificial suffering could appease God? Indeed, does God ever need to be appeased?
The idea that Jesus needed to suffer as he did to somehow appease God for our sins lies deep within our popular understanding of Jesus’ suffering and death, and there are seemingly strong references in support of that in scripture and in the theology of atonement. What these suggest is that some quota of suffering was needed to pay the debt for sin, and Jesus’ suffering paid that debt. And since the debt was huge, Jesus’ suffering had to be severe.
But, how much of this is metaphorical and how much of this is to be taken literally? Here’s another take on why Jesus chose to accept suffering as he did.
He did it to be in full solidarity with us. He accepted to suffer in such an extreme way so that no one would be able to say: “Jesus didn’t suffer in a way that I have! I have suffered in more painful and humiliating ways than he ever did!”
Well, let’s examine Jesus’ suffering in the light of that challenge.
First, in his life before his passion and death, he suffered the pain of poverty, misunderstanding, hatred, betrayal, plus the loneliness of celibacy. As well, on the cross he suffered a dark night of faith. But these are ordinary human sufferings. It’s in his passion and death that his sufferings become more extraordinary.
Jesus was crucified. Crucifixion was designed by the Romans as more than just capital punishment. It was also designed to inflict the optimum amount of pain that a person could absorb. That’s why they would sometimes give morphine or some other drug to the one being crucified, not to dull his pain, but to keep him conscious so that he would suffer longer.
Worse still, crucifixion was designed to utterly humiliate the one being crucified. Crucifixions were public events, and the one being crucified was stripped naked so his genitals would be exposed and in the spasms as he was dying, his bowels would loosen. Utter humiliation. This is what Jesus suffered.
Moreover, scholars speculate (albeit there is no direct evidence for this) that on the night between his arrest and his execution the next day he was sexually assaulted by the soldiers who had him in their custody. This speculation grounds itself on two things: a hunch, since sexual assault was common in such situations; and to suffer this kind of humiliation would be Jesus’ ultimate solidarity with human suffering.
Perhaps no humiliation compares with the humiliation suffered in sexual assault. If Jesus suffered this, and the hunch is that he did, that puts him in solidarity with one of the deepest of all human pains. Everyone who has suffered this humiliation has the consolation of knowing that Jesus may have suffered this too. Why did Jesus accept to suffer as he did? Why, as the Office of the Church puts it, did he become sin for us?
Whatever the deep mystery and truth that lie inside the motif of paying a debt for our sins and atoning for human shortcomings, the deeper reason Jesus chose to accept suffering as he did was to be in full solidarity with us, in all our pain and humiliation.
Jesus came from our ineffable God, brought a human face to the divine, and taught us what lies inside God’s heart. And in doing this, he took on our human condition completely. He didn’t just touch human life, he entered it completely, including the depth of human pain.
Indeed, there are particular sufferings that perhaps Jesus didn’t explicitly experience (racism, sexism, exile, physical disability) but in his dark night of faith on the cross and in his humiliation in his crucifixion, he suffered in a way that no one can say: “Jesus didn’t suffer as I have suffered!”
(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 “Don’t turn a deaf ear when I call to You, God. If all I get from You is deafening silence, I’d be better off in a Black Hole.” (The Message, E. Peterson, Ps 28:1)
And that’s how it is for many of us … there is no answer to prayer, no sense that God is listening. During Lent we have been turning our minds and hearts toward the relationship we have with Jesus so that we might be purified vessels for God to use. How is that working for you? Have you made great progress this year, unlike years before? Maybe not.
Our CCC highlights this issue in Part Four, Christian Prayer. Here are a few key ideas: “Why do we complain of not being heard? (2735 ff) … what motivates our prayer: an instrument to be used or the Father? … pray to be able to know what He wants? If we enter into the desire of the Spirit, we shall be heard.”
Psalm 28 continues, “I’m letting You know what I need, calling out for help and lifting my arms toward Your inner sanctum. Don’t shove me into the same jail cell with those crooks who are full-time employers of evil. They talk a good line of ‘peace’, then moonlight for the devil.” Oh, ok … I’m letting You know … what arrogance! Deciding what God should do and how He should do it. Maybe it is all ‘about me’? Afterall, it is my prayer. Really, I’m the one who knows who I want to pray for, what I need, and what I think God needs to hear. Does it surprise you that He might not be listening to that attitude while deciding what He will be gifting you?
We also find this in the CCC (2697 ff): “Prayer is the life of the new heart. It ought to animate us at every moment. But we tend to forget Him who is our life and our all … prayer is a remembrance of God often awakened by the memory of the heart: ‘We must remember God more often than we draw breath’ (St. Gregory Nazianzus).”
Because prayer is a fundamental relationship, the attitude mentioned might be how we relate to other people. Do we actually listen or are we reworking our responses as they talk? Does anger feature in our relationships; is there desire for retaliation in our resentment, bitterness or sadness? The desert Fathers and Mothers (4th century) offer lessons for us. “Abba Evagrius once defined prayer as ‘the seed of gentleness and the absence of anger.’ Further, ‘the opposite is also true. The desire to retaliate could be so deeply imbedded that any attempt at prayer would be futile; to be able to pray again, one would have to deal with the particular source of that anger.’”
You wonder if or when God is listening to you? Consider Abba Zeno: “If a person wants God to hear quickly, … one must pray with all one’s heart for one’s enemies (Mt 5:44). Through this action God will hear everything you ask.” (The Word in the Desert)
Oh, so I need to change my attitude? A new heart? Perhaps one resembling Brother Lawrence (The Practice of the Presence of God, Carmel, Paris, d. 1691): “Ah, did I know my heart loved not God, this very instant I would pluck it out. O loving-kindness so old and still so new, I have been too late loving You. You young … consecrate all your early years to His love … believe me count as lost each day you have not used in loving God.”
CCC challenges us to this kind of loving (2730) when facing difficulties in prayer: “the battle against the possessive and dominating self requires vigilance, sobriety of heart. When Jesus insists on vigilance, He always relates it to Himself, to His coming on the last day and every day, today. ‘Come,’ my heart says, ‘seek His face.’” With an attitude as arrogant as we began with, we are not seeking His face, but our will and desires. Fortunately, the psalmist has moved from that attitude to more understanding, rooting his life in thankfulness and joy, “Blessed be God – He heard me praying. He proved He’s on my side; I’ve thrown my lot in with Him. Now I’m jumping for joy, and shouting and singing my thanks to Him. God is all strength for His people …. Save Your people and bless Your heritage. Care for them; carry them like a Good Shepherd.”
As we move toward the Passion and Easter, let us, with Brother Lawrence, beg for enrichment of soul, courage in difficulty, and grateful love. “We have a God who is infinitely gracious and knows all our want … He will come in His own time, and when you least expect it. Hope in Him more than ever; thank Him…” (Br. Lawrence, Third Letter). Can He hear you now? I suspect so!
Blessings. Happy Easter.
(sister alies therese is a canonical hermit who prays and writes.)
ORDINARY TIMES By Lucia A. Silecchia Not long ago, I was sorting through some of my Dad’s old papers and I came across a candy wrapper and a Father’s Day card tucked into an envelope that bore a March 2001 postmark from Rome. As soon as I saw it, it brought back happy memories of a sabbatical I spent living and working in Rome for several spring months.
One of the highlights of my stay was the chance to celebrate the Feast of St. Joseph – Italian style. I have long thought that this strong, silent hero of the New Testament gets far less attention than he deserves. First, of course, I honored him by indulging in several of the zeppole di San Giuseppe – a pastry made in his honor. I do not know the history of this sweet tradition, but that did not prevent me from following it with enthusiastic respect.
Lucia A. Silecchia
Second, I celebrated at a lively street festival. Although I was living in the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica, my local parish was dedicated to St. Joseph. Thus, our festival was particularly exuberant. Talented chalk artists sketched portraits of St. Joseph in the middle of the closed street and crowded sidewalk. A traditional procession of a floral wrapped statue wended its way through the crowd, and the sound of hymns – and joyful noises – filled the evening air. In the windows of bakeries and bars were signs advertising – what else? – zeppole. Falling in the heart of Lent, the Feast of St. Joseph was the justification for a very welcome and high-spirited celebration.
Third, and most personal, was the fact that St. Joseph’s Day is also the day Italians celebrate Father’s Day. That explained why I sent my Dad a Father’s Day card in March – along with some Italian chocolate he would like. The fact that he saved the card and the evidence of the long-gone chocolate warmed my heart and made me glad I braved a crowded, inefficient Roman post office to send it to him.
I like the link between rejoicing in St. Joseph’s Day and celebrating Father’s Day. Sometimes, like St. Joseph, good fathers also get far less attention than they deserve. Fathers who are careless, absent, or worse, get attention, while those who live their vocation well are often not noticed quite as much. So, when March 19 comes around, the Feast of St. Joseph may be a time to be prayerfully grateful for loving dads if we are, or once were, blessed to have them journey with us through life.
St. Joseph was asked to undertake a challenge he did not fully comprehend. Thanks to all dads who face difficult challenges, bearing their struggles with strength, trust and endurance.
St. Joseph housed his family in a stable when that was the best he could find. Thanks to all those struggling dads who ache to give their families more in material comfort while they give them the shelter of great love.
St. Joseph practiced his faith through his life of prayer and following religious traditions with fidelity. Thanks to all those dads who, through their example, give their children the precious bequest of faith. St. Joseph spoke not a single word recorded in Scripture. Thanks to all those dads who work in quiet ways, putting the good of their families ahead of their own needs and wants.
St. Joseph was a carpenter and made his living with manual labor – his art and trade. Thanks to all those dads who work long hard hours in labor, art or trade to support their families, contribute to their communities, and glorify God through their work.
St. Joseph searched for Jesus when, as a boy, Jesus stayed behind in a temple in Jerusalem after a family pilgrimage. Thanks to all those dads who seek for their own children when they are lost in so many different and heartbreaking ways.
St. Joseph cared for his beloved during the months of her unexpected pregnancy. Thanks to all those dads who care for the mothers of their children as they carry their infants within them, especially when the circumstances are most difficult.
St. Joseph loved and honored Mary. Thanks to all those dads who give their children a priceless gift when they love and honor their mothers.
My own Dad has finished his journey through this life. So, on March 19, I cannot send him a card or candy as I once did. But now, like then, I can still offer him my thanks on St. Joseph’s Day. And, in a particular way, I am thankful that my Dad saved an old card and a candy wrapper. It reminded me to be grateful for ways he walked with me through ordinary times.
(Lucia A. Silecchia is Professor of Law at the Catholic University of America’s Columbus School of Law. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)
GUEST COLUMN By Joe Pearson There were many sleepy eyes as we seminarians gathered for Mass at 3:15 a.m. before departing for our mission trip to Costa Rica. The chapel was dark and quiet, without the usual buzz of the choir rehearsing, but there was an air of excitement and anticipation.
The prayer over the Offerings for that Mass, the Memorial of St. Francis Xavier, was a fitting send-off: “Receive, O Lord, these offerings we bring you in commemoration of St. Francis Xavier, and grant that, as he journeyed to distant lands out of longing for the salvation of souls, so we, too, bearing effective witness to the Gospel, may, with our brothers and sisters, eagerly hasten toward you. Through Christ our Lord.”
Joe Pearson
As part of our priestly formation, each year the class of first-configuration seminarians travels to the Diocese of Limón on the western coast of Costa Rica. The week consists of evangelization, manual labor and the celebration of liturgy with the people.
Our flight arrived in the capital city of San José, and from there we bused to our base camp in Limón. We were joyfully greeted by Father Pablo Escriva de Romani, a missionary priest originally from Madrid, Spain, who would be our leader for the week. We immediately gathered for an hour of Eucharistic exposition and evening prayer.
“It is important to remember we are evangelists, not social workers,” Father Pablo said over dinner that first night, a point he reiterated throughout the trip. The source of our strength was prayer. Our purpose was not merely to perform charitable acts but to encounter people. Our motivation was not simply that it is good to help those in need. We have encountered the gratuitous love of our Lord, and as a consequence we are compelled to share that love with our neighbors, especially the poor, with whom Christ aligns himself in a unique way.
The next day, we set out a few miles down the road to work in conjunction with the Missionaries of Charity, the religious order founded by St. Mother Teresa. Through them, we were connected with two refugee families whose homes were in desperate need of repair. We spent the day tearing out rotting floors and digging holes for the concrete pillars that would support new ones. Throughout our work, we spoke with the families, and at the end of the day we gathered to pray with them and thank them for the opportunity to serve.
From there, our trip transitioned as we drove to remote villages of the indigenous people to minister to them and celebrate Mass. I rode with Father Pablo as we bounced along rough mountain roads in his old 4Runner. His excitement was contagious. He grinned from ear to ear, like a child awaiting Christmas morning. His love for the people was tangible.
For more than 40 years, the indigenous communities had not been visited by a priest until Father Pablo began doing so about 10 years ago. The people knew they were Catholic in name but little else about the faith. Over years of loving, zealous care, Father Pablo has helped build up a vibrant community.
I was deeply moved by the faith of the indigenous people. Many walked miles along rugged mountain paths from neighboring villages when they heard Mass would be offered on Sunday. They prayed fervently late into the night before the Blessed Sacrament.
At the end of our trip, we set aside a full day for a silent retreat to reflect on our experiences and the graces the Lord offered during our time on mission. It is true that the Lord is never outdone in generosity. As missionaries, we prepare to give of ourselves and to witness selflessly and boldly to the Gospel. Yet so often it is the people we encounter who witness to us by their faith, leaving us spiritually edified.
Over the course of the mission trip, we experienced the essence of the priesthood: offering worship to God and, out of longing for the salvation of souls, inviting all to share in the joy of the Gospel. And what a joy it is. As we invite others to hasten toward the Savior, we simultaneously hasten toward him ourselves. There is no greater gift, no greater happiness.
(Joe Pearson is a seminarian for the Diocese of Jackson in the first-configuration class at St. Joseph Seminary College in St. Benedict, Louisiana.)
Our seminarians are back at school following Christmas break. Many of our men spent time in their home parishes or in other parishes throughout the diocese. One of the movements of formation is a desire to spend time in the parish and in the rectory as guys progress closer to priesthood. I hosted several of our seminarians here at the Cathedral Rectory, and I’m grateful to other brother priests who made their homes available as well.
Beyond spending time with family and in parishes, our seminarians also participate in diocesan events as they are able when they are home. The winter SEARCH retreat hosted by the Office of Youth Ministry has long been a great event where our guys can share their gifts. SEARCH has long been a keystone event for high schoolers in our youth groups and Catholic schools. It is a weekend-long retreat that has helped countless young people come closer to Christ at this key point in their lives.
I appreciate Abbey Schuhmann, our diocesan youth coordinator, for having the seminarians help plan and execute liturgies and to help accompany the teens who are on retreat. This tradition goes back at least 2012 when I was in seminary. Back then, Father Aaron Williams was a SEARCH alum who made it a priority to provide beautiful opportunities for liturgical prayer for the teens while he was a seminarian. He passed that role to Father Andrew Bowden, who passed it to Deacon Will Foggo, who is passing that role (I think!) to Joe Pearson.
I was very proud to see Deacon Will at SEARCH this year leading adoration and benediction for the teens. It was a full-circle moment for him, having been a youth group member at St. Paul Flowood and a SEARCH participant, and now leading the teens in prayer as an ordained minister. This is the sort of homegrown story that I always try to highlight. The seminarians we have are from our communities, and, when ordained, will serve our communities. So much goodness can come forth from this type of continuity, both for the people of God and for the seminarians and priests of our diocese.
I was a little embarrassed, however, during benediction. Like a proud dad, I got my phone out to take a picture of Deacon Will, and I forgot to put it on silent. So when I took the photo, there was a loud click in the midst of the beauty and silence of benediction. Whoops. Sorry, Lord.
IN EXILE By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI It is becoming ever more acceptable today, whether in politics or in general discourse, to speak of brute human strength, force, and power as being the forces we need to guide our lives. Indeed, empathy is now sometimes named explicitly as a weakness.
It is one thing for people to say that strength, force, and power are in fact what govern the world, but it is dangerously wrong to try to throw a Christian cloak over this. In brief, this is the antithesis of Jesus, as the Gospels make clear.
Padre Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Here’s how the Gospels define strength and weakness.
For centuries the chosen people, feeling oppressed, longed and prayed for a Messiah from God who would come brandishing intimidating muscle, would vanquish their enemies, bring them prosperity, and bind them together in community by a strength, force and power that was superhuman. But that’s not what they got.
Against every one of their expectations, when their hopes and prayers were finally answered, their longed-for Messiah appeared, not as a superhuman, but as a helpless baby unable to feed himself, helpless to nurture himself into adulthood.
Granted, as an adult he performed miracles and sometimes displayed a strength and power that was supernatural. However, the power he displayed in his miracles was never political, militaristic, or physically intimidating. His miracles were always displays of God’s compassion and fidelity.
There’s an interesting play of words in the Gospels when they speak of “power” or “authority”. They use three different Greek words: Sometimes they refer to power as Energia – the type of power a star athlete can bring to a playing field; and sometimes power is referred to as Dynamis – the type of power a rock star can bring to a stage. However, whenever the Gospels refer to Jesus as powerful or as having authority, they never use these words. Instead, they use the word Exousia (for which we have no English equivalent), though we do have a concept of it.
Exousia is the paradoxical power a baby brings into a room. On the surface, it looks like powerlessness, but ultimately it’s the greatest power of all – vulnerability, the moral power to create intimacy. Simply put, if you put three people into a room: an athlete in the prime of his physical prowess, a rock star who can electrify a stadium with energy, and a baby. Who ultimately has the most power? Jesus answers that.
We see this clearly in the manner of his death. As he hangs on the cross, suffering and humiliated, he is being taunted, if you are the son of God, come down off that cross! If you have divine power, show it! Jesus doesn’t take the bait. Instead of demonstrating the kind of power we like to believe God should be using, Jesus instead resorts to another power, a higher one. In his powerlessness, he gives over his spirit in love and empathy and, in that, shows us the place where intimacy is born.
Moreover, Jesus could not be clearer in his teaching. As he makes clear in the Sermon on the Mount (perhaps the greatest moral code ever written) human strength, force, and power are not what bring about the kingdom. What creates community and intimacy among us?
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5:3-11)
Unfortunately, today in our politics and in our civil discourse (which sadly often lacks civility) people are increasingly putting their faith in brute human power – political power, economic power, military power, social media power, historical privilege. These, as many politicians now claim, are what’s real. They decide things in the world. It’s the strong, the powerful, and the rich who will inherit the good things of this earth. Those who are poor in spirit, who mourn, who are meek, who are merciful, and who are persecuted, will miss out on life. And, undergirding this is the belief that empathy is a weakness.
What’s to be said in the face of this? What should be the Christian response?
Since the beginning of human life on this planet, brute strength and power have always made themselves felt and have often been a dominant force in shaping history. The meek haven’t always inherited the earth (at least not this earth). And today the meek are being threatened from all sides.
However, whatever its political or economic expediency, this kind of raw strength and power may not cloak itself with Jesus and the Gospels. It is the antithesis of Jesus and the Gospels.
(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)
