IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI

The early years of my adulthood and priesthood were spent teaching theology at Newman Theological College in Edmonton, Canada. I was young, full of energy, loved teaching, and was discovering the joys of ministry. For the most part, these were good years.

However, they weren’t always easy. Restlessness and inner chaos find us all. The demands of ministry, the tensions inside community, the obsessions I’m forever prone to, the not-infrequent departure of cherished friends from the community, and the constant movement of people through my life, occasionally left me in emotional chaos, gasping for oxygen, struggling to sleep, wondering how I was going to still my soul again.

But, I had a little formula to help handle this. Whenever the chaos got bad, I would get into my car and drive four hours to our family farm just across the border in Saskatchewan. My family still lived in the house I’d grown up in and I was able to eat at the same table I’d eaten at as a child, sleep in the same bed I’d slept in as a boy and walk the same ground I’d walked while growing up. Usually, it didn’t take long for home to do its work. I’d only need a meal, or an overnight stay and the chaos and heartache would subside; I’d begin to feel steady again.

Coming home didn’t cure the heartache but it gave the heart the care it needed. Somehow home always worked.

Today, the same kind of emotional chaos and heartache can still unsettle me on occasion and leave me unsure of who I am, of the choices I’ve made in life, and of who and what to trust. However, I cannot drive to my childhood home anymore and need to find the steadying that going home once gave me in new ways. It isn’t always apparent where to find this, even amidst a good community, a still supportive family, loving friends, and a wonderful job. Home can be elusive on a restless night. What one needs to steady the heart isn’t always easy to access. Once you’ve left home, sometimes it’s hard to find your way back there again.

So, what do I do now when I need to go home and retouch my roots to steady myself? Sometimes a trusted friend is the answer; sometimes it’s a call to a family member; sometimes it’s a family that has become family to me, sometimes it’s a place in prayer or in nature, sometimes it’s immersing myself in work, and sometimes I can’t find it at all and have to live with the chaos until, like a bad storm, it blows over.

Through the years, I’ve discovered that a special book can take me home in the same way as driving there once did. Different people find home in different places. One of the books that does this for me, almost without fail, is The Story of a Soul by Therese of Lisieux. Not surprising, it’s the story of a recessive journey, the story of Therese’s own effort at recapturing what her house, home, and family once gave her. But the recessive journey in itself is not what gives this book (which I highly recommend for anyone whose heart is aching in way that unsettles the soul) such a special power. Many autobiographies unsettle more than they settle. This one soothes your soul.

However, remembering alone doesn’t necessarily care for the heart and sometimes our memories of home and childhood carry more pathology and pain than steadying and healing. Not everyone’s home was safe and nurturing. Tragically, one’s initial home can also be the place where our trust and steadiness are irrevocably broken, as is the case often in sexual and other forms of abuse. I was fortunate. My first home gave me trust and faith. For those who were not as lucky, the task is to find a home, a place or a person, that caresses a wounded soul.

What makes for a home that caresses the soul?

Home is where you are safe. It’s also the place where you experience security and trust and where that steadiness enables you to believe in the things of faith. I used to drive four hours for a meal or a night’s sleep in order to find that. Today, I need to make that recessive journey in other ways.

It’s a journey we all need to make in times of chaos and deep restlessness in our lives, namely, to find a place, a space, a friend, a family, a house, a table, a bed, a book, or something that grounds us again in security, trust, stability, and faith.

Of course, there are headaches and heartaches for which there is no cure; but the soul doesn’t need to be cured, only properly cared for. Our task is to go home, to find those people, places, prayers, and books that caress our souls at those times when our world is falling apart.

(Partial rewrite of a column from 2006)

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

Reflections on Life
By Melvin Arrington
Of all the saints across the Christian centuries one had a special meaning to my father, who by the way, wasn’t even Catholic. That was Polycarp (d. 155 or 156 A.D.), an early church leader whose feast day is celebrated on Feb. 23. What really made an impression on Daddy was the account of the saint’s death.

Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna (now the city of Izmir, located on the western coast of Turkey), was considered a person of great holiness. In his youth, he had been a disciple of St. John the Evangelist. As a mature adult, he took Irenaeus of Lyon as one of his own disciples, became friends with Ignatius of Antioch, and wrote an epistle to the church at Philippi in Macedonia.

Polycarp was an old man when, during the Roman persecutions of Christians, he was arrested and taken to the arena in Smyrna for trial. Three days before the arrest he had a vision in which he saw his pillow engulfed in flames. In this manner it was revealed to him that his fate was to be burned alive. Some friends persuaded him to go into hiding, but a young servant, after being tortured, betrayed his master by revealing the location of the hiding place.

When the saintly bishop refused to deny his faith in Jesus Christ, the governor first threatened to throw him to the wild beasts, but Polycarp remained steadfast; he simply would not recant. Next, they tried to tie him to the stake and burn him, but the flames surrounded him forming a protective wall in such as way that the fire did not touch him. Finally, one of the governor’s henchmen came forward and stabbed him to death. The centurion then gave the order for the body to be burned. Afterwards, the bishop’s fellow believers collected his bones, conserving them as relics. Fortunately, the written narrative of Polycarp’s death has survived; it is the earliest extant document detailing the martyrdom of a Christian.

At some point during his studies for the ministry Daddy must have read a description of these events. For almost 15 years, he and my mother served as Baptist missionaries in the Amazon Basin region of Bolivia. They spent most of those years living along the banks of the Chapare River ministering to the Yuracarés (Yuras), the indigenous peoples of that area. Mama was a registered nurse. She set up a clinic and provided much-needed medical care for the Yuras. Daddy, in addition to his duties as pastor, made various survey trips into some of the most remote jungle regions searching for nomadic tribes who lived far from what we know as civilization. This was dangerous work, but he felt God had called him to go there, so he went. I believe Daddy thought he might be killed like the Protestant missionaries who, after venturing into the jungles of eastern Ecuador, suffered violent deaths at the hands of the Auca tribe. This may explain, at least in part, why he was drawn to Polycarp and the details of his martyrdom.

Shortly after Daddy returned from the mission field he passed away. He has been gone almost 40 years now, but I can still remember how on several occasions he made references in his sermons to the death of Polycarp. I wish I could have a conversation with Daddy right now about this martyr. In fact, I wish I could talk to him about my conversion to Catholicism and a million other things, including the meaning of martyrdom in the world today.

In our time, more so than ever, Christians in far away parts of the globe are being persecuted and killed for their religious beliefs. Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen spoke of a distinction between “wet” and “dry” martyrs. The former, like those in the early centuries of Christianity, shed their blood for the faith; the latter, more typical of our era, have suffered brainwashing and other forms of mental torture at the hands of their Communist or terrorist oppressors. Sheen claims that those in the wet category die only once, while the dry ones die a thousand times.

Here, in this country the persecution hasn’t reached that degree of intensity, and maybe it never will. But those who live according to the teachings of the Gospel will, in some sense, become martyrs, which means “witnesses” in the original Greek. As we go about our lives, we will all have to carry a cross and endure some form of suffering. By taking up that cross daily and bearing it faithfully, we will surely undergo a martyrdom of sorts. Pain, suffering, and sorrow are inevitable in this life. How we react to these trials, be they large or small, is what makes all the difference.

Nobody likes the word “mortification” but that’s what is required. It involves slaying the ego, denying ourselves, giving up something, or perhaps doing something we normally would not be inclined to do, such as taking on an extra burden in order to lighten the load of someone else. Clearly, as St. Josemaría Escrivá says, our attitude should be one of “welcoming generously the opportunities for small, daily sacrifice.” This type of martyrdom confounds the materialists and skeptics of our day because it runs contrary to the spirit of the age, which tells us possessions and prestige are what lead to happiness.

Our sacrifices certainly can’t compare with the sufferings of Polycarp. But we can still be “witnesses” by proclaiming Christ to the culture and by living to serve others rather than ourselves. As Lent approaches, now is the time to start thinking and praying about things we can do, such as performing good works and practicing self denial, to help advance the Kingdom of God.

(Melvin Arrington is a Professor Emeritus of Modern Languages for the University of Mississippi and a member of St. John Oxford.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Can a lazy lack of creativity ever be good for the soul? Normally, I would answer no – unless you asked me during Lent when I was 19 years old.

That was a Lent I intended to take more seriously than I had before. A growing realization that, ready or not, adulthood was dawning led me to reflect more thoughtfully on that sacred season. Even then, I understood that in the wisdom of the church’s ancient calendar, forty days is a perfect length of time for a season of preparation.

I know that number has its origins in sacred traditions. But, as is true with so many things, the sacred tradition is beautifully matched with human nature. Forty days devoted to preparation is a season that is short enough that a commitment to something ambitious is less frightening than it might otherwise seem. Yet, it is long enough that a new practice or habit of the heart and soul has a chance of becoming more permanent.

In spite of my good intentions, when the Sunday before that long-ago Ash Wednesday rolled around, I had not yet decided what I could do so that my 19th Lent might be the season I hoped it would be. There were three days left, and nothing of note had crossed my mind.

Fortunately for me, that Sunday I was blessed to hear a homily that changed my life. It was filled with practical suggestions about Lenten practices that seemed especially intended for those of us who had not planned ahead. One that caught my ear was the simple, obvious invitation to attend Mass during the week during Lent. I had rarely given that any thought. Unless it was a special occasion, I was on the Sunday plan.

However, to my practical mind, this was a do-able Lenten suggestion. Conveniently, I walked past my parish church every morning on the way to my college classes. The three Masses celebrated every day meant no early wake-up was required. It was merely a half-hour time commitment. Most importantly, although I did not know the exact words from the Catechism at the time, I knew in my heart that Mass was “heart and summit of the church’s life.”

Thus, for want of another plan, I very casually began a practice that has lasted, with varying degrees of regularity, to this day – decades after that long ago Lent drew to a close.

I found that I began to treasure this weekday celebration, secure in the happy knowledge that around the world in tiny remote chapels, grand urban cathedrals, crumbling city churches, secluded mountain monasteries, far-flung military bases, parochial school auditoriums, and quiet convents, countless others were doing the same. A weekday morning Mass is the Eucharist at its simplest. Without distractions, it is a quiet, intimate start to the day and a cherished oasis before the hectic pace of life begins anew.

I love a grand liturgical celebration. Whether it is celebrated with an enthusiastic student choir, or majestic organ music shrouded with incense, or, yes, even the felt banners and tambourines of my childhood years, such celebrations fill the heart with awe. A large Sunday crowd gathered to praise the same God together is a beautiful reminder that we are all part of the family of God. A stirring Sunday homily, carefully planned, and an altar reverently adorned with flowers all point the way to God in a powerful celebration. The sometimes-too-rare moments of silence in a large Sunday crowd offer a chance to offer praise, petitions, apologies and thanks in the company of an extended parish family.

Yet, when I have the wisdom to make time for it, I also treasure those quiet celebrations during the week when two or three or more of us gather in God’s name, bringing Him the hopes, happiness, worries and woes of the day and receiving far more in return. I am grateful for the silence before and after this celebration, the way this time of the day reminds me that the journey through the day is never traveled alone or without sustenance.

I am grateful for that chance invitation years ago that introduced me to the sacredness of the simple, daily Mass. Now, I share that invitation with you. Come and share this beautiful prayer of ordinary times.

May your journey through Lent be filled with blessings this year.

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

GUEST COLUMN
By James Tomek, Ph.D

Synodality in Mississippi? A meeting concept to seek basic truths. In line with the synodality listening sessions designed to give all us Catholics a voice, Father Nick Adam organized a workshop, led by Father Jim Wehner, a seminarian rector in New Orleans, for priests, deacons and lay ministers, to help them/us review ministry tactics in order to become better disciples, helping all parishioners talk about what the church needs to do to become better in the major vocation areas of priest, prophet and king. With the goal of voicing all our concerns to Pope Francis, parishioners in the diocese are meeting to discuss how the church can respond to biblical situations, renewing our Good Samaritan status.

Two major questions: what essential action should the church take? What is most important to you about what the church offers? Father Jim presented sessions where he took on subjects: the essence of the church; the New Evangelization of unchurched former Catholics; the meaning of discipleship, with examples from the Bible; and, finally, how the Eucharist is our defining “Sacrament” for exploring and creating missionary and ministry tactics. A good preparation for the Synodality sessions.

Father Jim starts, citing Jesus asking “Who do you say that I am?” to Peter. The “I” is really Jesus as the church. Peter says that Jesus and the church have words of everlasting life. The “enemy,” in various forms, causes confusion and separates us from Christ and the church. How do we respond to the enemy’s tough questions? Peter advises us to give answers in reverence and gentleness (1Peter 3:15).

Father Wehner takes us to the 17th and 18th centuries, where philosophers Hobbes and Locke promoted individual rights over the common good. While respecting individual rights, our discussion leader insists that the overall concern of the church and Jesus is the common good. We are all friends of Jesus, and no longer servants, in this struggle together. The “enemy” would prefer rugged individualism and no communion. Apathea is a virtue of detachment and a positive impersonal value where we leave our egos to support our neighbor, above any personal concerns. Our ego is the enemy. What specific vocational gift do I have to help and combat the enemy of self interest?

In the next session, Father Jim explains the new evangelization movement, where the church tries to get back former Catholics who have left the church, as well as the unchurched in general. The “enemy” here is further defined as “metaphysical disorientation.” We have privatized the important concerns of discernment. Our individual views take precedent over the community’s will. All our sacraments need to be community minded. Our mission is to act in unity as we, all lay people included, are invited to priesthood. By studying our institutions, like marriage, hospitals, education and so on, we need to rearticulate them with our current world.

Next session – discipleship. When did I become a disciple? Can we lose discipleship? What grace or gifts do we need to this discipleship? We find the gifts, or offices, of priest, prophet, and king in Luke when Jesus reads from Isaiah (Lk 4: 17-28).

Father Jim glosses these offices: the priest offers himself as victim sacrificing for others; the prophet teaches and proclaims truths; while the “king” takes care of others. Some hold these offices formally, but we all practice these ministries by our baptism.

An example of becoming a disciple is seen in the Magi when they come to witness Jesus’s birth. They became ministers, especially when they go back a different way, showing that they have changed their lives after witnessing Jesus. This session ends with a healing sentiment. Jesus cures Bartimaeus by opening up his ears – and our ears, as we train to listen better to each other.

In the final session, Father Jim shows how the Eucharist/Mass is the ideal place and order for things to happen. What is polarization? Two sides of an issue. Right or wrong? Win an argument. The wrong way. This is “Metaphysical disorientation.” Let’s be attentive to the whole story of issues.

The Eucharist is the Sacrament of Unity where we can partake in the discussion. We take the bread – taking on Jesus as our friend and model. We bless the bread – saying that it is good and worthy of our community. Then, by breaking the bread, we become wounded healers sharing our penance with the community.

The Mass means “sent” – mission – sent to do the work of the intercessions that we prayed earlier. These intercessions, like feeding the poor and being pure in our intentions, are beatitudes – those conditions that bring us closer to the Kingdom of God. Us? The Communion of Saints, including family and friends, living, and gone, whom I pray for often, offering a spot of the eternal. Why do I go to church?

(James Tomek is a retired language and literature professor at Delta State University who is currently a Lay Ecclesial Minister at Sacred Heart in Rosedale and also active in RCIA at Our Lady of Victories in Cleveland.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI

In the world of the arts, they make a distinction between persons who create an artifact, an artist, a sculptor or a novelist, and persons who write about artists and their works. We have novelists and literary critics, artists and art critics; and both are important. Critics keep art and literature from bad form, sentimentality, vulgarity and kitsch; but it’s the artists and novelists who produce the substance; without them critical assessment has no function.

For example, the book The Diary of Anne Frank is a masterpiece. Countless books and articles have been written about it, but these are not the masterpiece, the substance, the artifact that so deeply touched the soul of millions. They are commentaries about the artifact. Of course, sometimes a person can be both, a novelist and a literary critic, an artist, and an art critic; still the distinction holds. These are separate crafts and separate disciplines.

That same distinction holds true within the area of theology and spirituality, though it is often not recognized. Some people write theology and others write about theology, just as some people write spirituality and others write about spirituality. Right now, I’m writing about theology and spirituality rather than actually doing theology or spirituality.

Perhaps an example can help. Henri Nouwen was one of the most popular spiritual writers in the past seventy years. Nouwen wrote spirituality; he never wrote about it, he wrote it. He was not a critic; he wrote spiritual texts. Many people, including myself, have written about Nouwen, about his life, his works, and why he influenced so many people. Strictly speaking, that’s writing about spirituality as opposed to writing spirituality as Nouwen did. Truth be told, we don’t have an abundance of spiritual writers today the caliber of Nouwen. What we do have, particularly at an academic level, is an abundance of critical writings about spirituality.

I offered the example of a contemporary spirituality writer, Henri Nouwen, but the distinction is perhaps even clearer when we look at classical spiritual writers. We have in fact created a certain “canon” of spirituality writers whom we deem as classics: the Desert Fathers and Mothers, the Pseudo-Dionysius, Julian of Norwich, Nicholas of Cusa, Francis of Assisi, Dominic, Ignatius, John of the Cross, Theresa of Avila, Francis de Sales, Vincent de Paul and Therese of Lisieux, among others. None of these wrote works of criticism in se, they wrote spirituality. Countless books have been written about each of them, critically assessing their works. As valuable as these books are, they are in the end not spirituality books, but books about spirituality.

The same is true for theology. We have infinitely more books written about theology than we have books that are actual theology. The word “theology” comes from two Greek words, Theos (God) and logos (word). Hence, in essence, theology is “words about God.” Most theology books and courses on theology contain some “words about God,” but these are generally dwarfed by “words about words about God.”

This is not a criticism, but a clarification. I have taught and written in the area of theology and spirituality for nearly fifty years and am blissfully unaware of this distinction most of the time, mainly because we need both and the two simply flow in and out of each other. However, there is a point where it becomes important not to confuse or conflate the critical assessment of an artifact with the artifact itself, and in our case to recognize that writing about theology and spirituality is not the same thing as actually doing theology and doing spirituality. Why? Why highlight this distinction?

Because we need the artist and the critic to speak to different places inside of us and we need to recognize (explicitly at times) where we need to be fed or guided. The artist speaks to the soul with one kind of intent, namely, to inspire, to inflame, to deepen, to bring new insight and to move us affectively. The critic speaks with a different intent: to guide, to keep us balanced, sane, robust, clear-headed, and within the bounds of decency, community, proper aesthetics, and orthodoxy. Both are important. One saves the other from unbridled sentimentality and the other saves the other from simply being an empty exercise. In a vast over-simplification, we might put it this way. Critics define the rules of the game and hold the players to the rule; but art, theology and spirituality are the game. Games need to be refereed or they quickly degenerate.

In our churches today there is often a tension between those who are trying to create new insight, generate new enthusiasm, and speak more affectively to the soul; and those who are guarding the castles of academia, orthodoxy, liturgy and good taste. Academic theology is often in tension with devotional life; liturgists are often in tension with pastors, and popular spiritual writers are often in tension with critics. One or the other may irritate us, but each is ultimately a friend.

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

SPIRIT AND TRUTH
By Father Aaron Williams

It seems that more and more we are referencing time today by “before” or “after” COVID. One of the effects of the pandemic has been a tendency for families to request to forego the normal funeral Mass and to simply have an outdoor graveside service for their deceased loved ones. Usually this is done to avoid gathering a large crowd, and because it is outside and in open air. However, I fear that sometimes families are having graveside services in order to avoid the stress or expense that usually comes with planning a full funeral. In these situations, I usually like to counsel people that it is far less likely they will regret having a funeral for their deceased loved one, than they would regret not having one.

But we as Catholics do not believe in the necessity of funeral Masses simply because it seems like “the right thing to do.” The Catholic Funeral Mass, we believe, accomplishes a spiritual work, which is absent in a funeral outside a Mass, let alone a graveside service. (Perhaps it is important to mention that there is technically not a Catholic rite for a ‘graveside service.’ There is simply the rite of burial which is always done at a graveside whether a funeral Mass precedes it or not).

The secular world has started to call funerals “celebrations of life,” but this opposes the Catholic understanding of a funeral. When a Catholic goes to a funeral, we are not there because we need to celebrate a life lived. In death “life is changed, not ended,” we say in the funeral preface. A funeral which merely makes mention of a person’s earthly life denies our belief in the resurrection, and the very real need that the dead have of our prayers.

In the Second Book of Maccabees, we hear the story of Judas Maccabeus and his soldiers gathering the bodies of the those who had fallen in battle and offering prayers and sacrifices for them. This was done because Judas realized these fallen men had committed the sin of idolatry, which needed to be atoned. Afterwards, the sacred author records, “they turned to prayer, beseeching that the sin which had been committed might be wholly blotted out … [and they] also took up a collection, man by man, to the amount of two thousand drachmas of silver, and sent it to Jerusalem to provide for a sin offering. In doing this [Judas] acted very well and honorably, taking account of the resurrection. For if he were not expecting that those who had fallen would rise again, it would have been superfluous and foolish to pray for the dead.” (2 Maccabees 12:42-44)
The fundamental purpose of the Catholic funeral is to pray for the dead, and the most efficacious prayer we can ever offer is the Holy Mass. Hence, there is no greater prayer for our dead loved ones than a funeral Mass. In doing so we fulfill both a spiritual and corporal work of mercy, by praying for and burying the dead.

All of the texts and prayers of the Catholic funeral point to this double reality: that the dead are in need of prayer and purification because of their sins; and that God is merciful and promises us the hope of resurrection unto eternal life. We come to the funeral, in the words of Father Paul Scalia (preaching at his father — Antonin Scalia’s funeral) “to lend our prayers to that perfecting, to that final work of God’s grace, in freeing [the dead] from every encumbrance of sin.”

The overall emotion of the funeral Mass is mercy, which is why even in the reformed liturgy the prescribed liturgical color for a funeral is violet or black. In the Dioceses of the U.S., white is given by indult as a third option “when pastorally appropriate.” It should be noted that in some cultures, particularly in some Asian cultures, white is the color of mourning.

The funeral Mass is not, as some call it, a “celebration of resurrection,” as we know that before being raised to the perfection of heaven, most Christians must undergo the spiritual purification that God offers to souls in purgatory. We do our deceased loved ones a great injustice by failing to pray for them.

Often, when planning funerals, we are filled with difficult emotions, and we want to forget the reality of death by distracting us with happier thoughts. But the truth is that death is a result of the fall — of the sin of our first parents, and our inherited sinfulness. The hope and joy of Christian death is that Christ can purify us with His grace and make us worthy of His presence forever. And we can lend our aid to this perfecting by our own works of prayer, fasting and almsgiving and most especially by our offering of the Holy Mass.

(Father Aaron Williams is parochial vicar at St. Patrick and St. Joseph Meridian.)