IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Several years ago, I went with another priest to visit a mutual friend. Our friend, a successful businessman, was living on the top floor of a very expensive apartment overlooking the river valley in the city of Edmonton. At one point during our visit, he took us out on his balcony to show us the view. It was spectacular. You could see for miles, the entire river valley and much of the city.

We were in awe and told him so. Thanking us for the compliments, he shared that, sadly, he seldom came out on the balcony to drink in the view. Here are some of his words: “You know, I should give this place to some poor family who could enjoy it. I could live in a basement apartment since I never have time to enjoy this. I can’t remember when I last came out here to watch a sunset or a sunrise. I’m always too busy, too pressured, too preoccupied. This place is wasted on me. About the only time I come out here is when I have visitors and want to show them the view.”

Jesus once said something that might be paraphrased this way: What does it profit you if you gain the whole world and are forever too much in a hurry and too pressured to enjoy it.

When Jesus talks about gaining the whole world and suffering the loss of your own soul, he isn’t first of all referring to having a bad moral life, dying in sin and going to hell. That’s the more radical warning in his message. We can lose our soul in other ways, even while we are good, dedicated, moral people. The man whose story I just shared is indeed a very good, dedicated, moral and kind man. But he is, by his own humble admission, struggling to be a soulful person, to be more inside the richness of his own life because when you live under constant pressure and are perennially forced to hurry, it isn’t easy to get up in the morning and say: “This is the day that the Lord has made, let us be glad and rejoice in it.” We are more likely to say: “Lord, just get me through this day!”

As well, when Jesus tells us that it’s difficult for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, he isn’t just referring to material riches, money and affluence, though these are contained in the warning. The problem can also be a rich agenda, a job or a passion that so consumes us that we rarely take the time (or even think of taking the time) to enjoy the beauty of a sunset or the fact that we are healthy and have the privilege of having a rich agenda.

Full disclosure, this is one of my struggles. During all my years in ministry, I have always been blessed with a rich agenda, important work, work that I love. But, when I’m honest, I need to admit that during these years I have been too hurried and over pressured to watch many sunsets (unless, like my friend, I was pointing out their beauty to a visitor).

I have tried to break out of this by conscripting myself to regular times of quiet prayer, regular walks, retreats, and several weeks of vacation each year. That has helped, no doubt, but I’m still too much of an addict, pressured and hurried almost all the time, longing for space for quiet, for prayer, for sunsets, for a hike in a park, for a glass of wine or scotch, for a contemplative cigar. And I recognize an irony here: I’m hurrying and tiring myself out in order to carve out some time to relax!

I’m no Thomas Merton, but I take consolation in the fact that he, a monk in a monastery, was often too busy and pressured to find solitude. In search of that, he spent the last few years of his life in hermitage, away from the main monastery except for Eucharist and the office of the church each day. Then, when he found solitude, he was surprised at how different it was from the way he had imagined it. Here’s how he describes it in his diary:

Today I am in solitude because at this moment “it is enough to be, in an ordinary human mode, with one’s hunger and sleep, one’s cold and warmth, rising and going to bed. Putting on blankets and taking them off, making coffee and then drinking it. Defrosting the refrigerator, reading, meditating, working, praying. I live as my ancestors lived on this earth, until eventually I die. Amen. There is no need to make an assertion about my life, especially so about it as mine … I must learn to live so as to forget program and artifice.”

And to check out the sunset from my balcony!

When we are rich, busy, pressured and preoccupied, it’s hard to taste one’s own coffee.

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

On Ordinary Times
By Lucia A. Silecchia
Last weekend, the morning glories took me by surprise – as they always do.

During the all-too-brief months of this past spring and summer, I bought some plants and tried my best to give them the attention they needed so that they would grow into the plants I wanted and the plants I planned. I am too impatient to be a serious gardener, so I was not attempting anything more than keeping the flowers in a few pots alive and well throughout the season. Some did not make it. To my pleasant surprise, others did.

As August rolled around and the plants that thrived were reaching peak bloom, I felt the satisfaction that comes from seeing the tangible beauty of plans realized and effort rewarded. The fruit of my carefully laid botanical plans were blossoms that burst forth looking at least a little bit like the pictures in the garden shop.

Yet, just as the plants I tended were reaching primetime, their beauty was eclipsed by the bright bold explosion of vibrant pink morning glories bursting forth from previously nondescript vines along my fence and in my neighbors’ yards.

We did not plant them, and they received no care all season – except for the sun and rain freely bestowed on them. They were not planned, paid for, or cultivated. Indeed, many serious gardeners rail against morning glories as aggressive, invasive trespassers.

Nevertheless, I must admit that the most beautiful blooms in my yard right now are not those I planned. Rather, it is the morning glories – my uninvited interlopers – that catch my eye and warm my heart.
Lowly, often reviled morning glories may point to something important about life itself. So often, the plans we make – even when they are realized – pale in comparison to the joy that comes our way unexpectedly and uninvited.

So often, we can plan a well-organized and costly vacation only to find when we return home that our favorite memory is an unplanned ice cream cone bought on a beautiful night.

So often, we can meticulously plan a business trip and find that the most valuable time was not the conference we duly attended but a seemingly random conversation that began an important collaboration.

So often, we can plan the perfect Thanksgiving meal and find that decades later it was a culinary disaster that gave the family a wealth of happy memories.

So often, we can plan a specific career path and then pivot to a whole new plan because, unexpectedly, someone or something unanticipated inspired us to try something new.

Appreciating that the unexpected may be better than our own plans is not easy. For a planner like me, it is uncomfortably uncertain. In those moments, though, when I find a new, beautiful, delightful surprise in my path, it may be time to remember the lowly morning glory.

The same God who made the morning glory sees every other beautiful thing for which I have not planned, worked, or sought. The same God who freely offers the beauty of the morning glory also freely offers all the other unexpectedly beautiful gifts that are waiting to be discovered every day.

There is great joy in seeing plans realized as intended – and in seeing the flowers bought, cultivated and cared for bloom on schedule. But there is a very special joy that comes from those beautiful, unhoped for surprises that fill our lives. They are the glory of ordinary time.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America’s Columbus School of Law. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

GUEST COLUMN
By Father Patrick Briscoe, OP
As the long days of summer fade and autumn’s cool, crisp air starts to settle in, it’s hard not to feel a shift in our spirits, too. I’m not one to have a favorite season; I love them all. But there’s so much to praise about fall. The vibrant colors of the leaves, the shorter days and the cozying up with a warm drink all invite us to slow down, to take stock of where we are in life and to savor our many blessings. Fall naturally draws us to reflection. What better way to do that than through the lens of our faith? And the Catholic poet Rainer Maria Rilke can help.

Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem, “Autumn,” really nails the essence of this season. He writes, “The leaves fall, fall as from far, / Like distant gardens withered in the heavens; / They fall with slow and lingering descent.” The leaves, with their acquiescing descent, are more than just leaves – they are symbols of a fundamental principle in the spiritual life: surrender. Tempted to clutch the boughs of their trees, the leaves give in, however reluctantly, to nature’s summons.
When they begin their descent, they let go of the branches they cling to. Entrusting themselves to wind and breeze, they yield to the whims of current and weather. Whether tossed violently or permitted to descend gracefully, leaves accept it all as it comes. Each leaf relents and falls.

Rilke’s words remind us that this reluctance to let go isn’t just about the leaves. It’s something we all experience, isn’t it? Life is full of changes, and sometimes we resist them, even though we know they’re part of God’s plan. Rilke says in his poem that the Earth itself is falling – “And in the nights the heavy Earth, too, falls / From out the stars into the Solitude.” We’re falling, too, sometimes feeling like we’re drifting into precarity or uncertainty. And it’s so tempting to feel like we’re alone. But here’s the thing: God is found only in the solitude.

“The man who fears to be alone will never be anything but lonely, no matter how much he may surround himself with people,” writes the Trappist monk Thomas Merton. “But the man who learns, in solitude and recollection, to be at peace with his own loneliness, and to prefer its reality to the illusion of merely natural companionship, comes to know the invisible companionship of God.” Solitude isn’t emptiness or darkness.

Rilke doesn’t leave us hanging in despair. The beauty of his poem is that it leads us right back to God. In the midst of all this falling – whether it’s leaves, the Earth, or our own lives – there’s One who holds everything “infinitely softly in His hands.” The poem concludes, “Thus all doth fall. This hand of mine must fall / And lo! the other one: – it is the law. / But there is One who holds this falling / Infinitely softly in His hands.” How comforting is that? In a world that’s constantly changing, where everything seems to be in motion, God is the steady hand holding it all together. He’s unchanging, always there, gently guiding us through the ups and downs, the letting go, and the holding on.

So, as we move into the heart of autumn, let’s take a moment to really see the falling leaves for what they are – a summons to surrender. But even in that surrender, we’re never abandoned. Each leaf that falls is held by the same God who holds us. He’s there in every season, every transition, guiding us with a love that never fails.

(Father Patrick Briscoe, OP, is editor of Our Sunday Visitor. Follow him on X @PatrickMaryOP)