In 2008, I attended a summer program in Omaha, Nebraska for seminarians, focusing on spirituality.  It was one of the most impactful experiences of my life, as it was a time when I really learned not just about prayer, but how to pray in a deeper and more relational way.  We had an 8-day silent retreat and there are several graces that came from that retreat that are just as vivid to me today as they were 18 years ago.

One of the images from that summer that I often go back to is that of a statue at which I would often pray.  It was a statue of Jesus with His right hand pointing to His Sacred Heart.  His other hand is extended as if to invite one to come to Him, to encounter the burning fire of His love overflowing from that Sacred Heart.  Whether it was on the retreat I mentioned, or just walking by it during an early evening walk, I always found a sense of peace, and that image in my mind continues to offer an invitation to return to that place to reclaim that peace.

Of the various elements of traditional depictions of the Sacred Heart, I have always been drawn to the fire that emanates from the Heart of Jesus.  When we go to confession, we present to Jesus our hearts that have become tarnished and cold because of our sins, but as we come into contact with the burning fire of His love, our hearts are purified and warmed up.  When feeling dry in prayer, we can draw close to that Heart and we are renewed as we are reminded of His love which continues to burn for us, and to realize how He so longs to share that love with us, constantly inviting us to draw near.  For this reason, I have chosen the following invocation from the Litany of the Sacred Heart for this week:

Heart of Jesus, glowing furnace of charity, have mercy on us

At the beginning of the Gospel for this Sunday, Jesus says to His disciples: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” (Jn 14:1) There are no doubt many times when our hearts become troubled.  It can happen as a result of something that has been done to us, such as a harsh word or a perceived slight.  Sometimes we can feel overlooked and ignored.  There are times when we have received some troubling news that leaves us unsettled.  At other times, our hearts are troubled because of something we have done – how we have treated somebody, how we have said something insensitive, how we have given into sin.  When our hearts are troubled, we can tend to turn in on ourselves, hurt, ashamed, angry, or sorrowful, trying to manage the emotions ourselves, which usually leads to our hearts being even more troubled.  In a line that is key to devotion to the Sacred Heart, and one which is depicted so well in the image I recall so fondly that summer, are those offered by Jesus, perhaps to the same disciples, in Matthew’s Gospel:

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. (Mt 11:28–29)

When are hearts are troubled, when we are burdened, instead of turning in, look up and see Jesus with His hand extended, inviting you to draw near to His heart, to experience the glowing furnace of charity for you, and may that love settle you heart and renew your peace.

If you read chapters four and five of St. Bonaventure’s life of St. Francis, you may be a bit put off by St. Francis’ demanding and radical mortifications. In some instances, if we saw someone doing the same today, we would potentially think he was medically insane – that something was truly wrong with him. We may ask questions like, “Does he suffer from self-hatred? Does he suffer from some mental illness?” I and others who know Francis well (and far better than me) would answer, “No,” to these questions, and for good reason. 

To give a very cursory answer to this question, it is helpful to take a cursory glance toward some of the history of ascetical (disciplinary) practices in Christianity. Francis was not the first to behave like this; really, he is following a centuries-old way of living Christianity. It is just a way we are not at all used to seeing today.

These heavy penances and mortifications, as well as St. Francis’ attitude toward them, remind me of the Desert Fathers of the Church. These Desert Fathers were men (and women) who in the first centuries of the Church, in places like Syria, Egypt, and around the Holy Land, went out into the desert and willfully embraced lives of the most severe penance. They did this, we have to understand, in full freedom, and out of love for Jesus Christ. They did this, we have to understand, in imitation of Jesus’ own mortification in the desert and his passion on the cross. 

It is necessary for us to recognize that these men and women did not hate their bodies – they hated sin. They disciplined their bodies as a way to drive sin from their lives and draw close to Jesus. It is fascinating to read about the lives of some of these people, including St. Francis and his brothers in the early Franciscan order, and to hear that despite these severe penances, they enjoyed health, energy, and a composure before God and others that allowed them to be sources of love and wisdom. 

To the question of possible mental illness, it is also important to recognize that none of these people took on these practices before they had a profound encounter with the risen Lord. St. Anthony of the Desert, perhaps the most famous of the desert Fathers, only went into the desert after he was inspired by the Holy Spirit upon hearing the words of the Gospel – Jesus inviting the rich young man to leave everything and follow him. 

St. Francis as well encountered Jesus and only then, out of love for him and in imitation of him, began to take on penitential practices. 

We often say that these great saints and their practices are “to be admired, not imitated.” That is true, to an extent. Not all of us are called to such a life. And in fact, most of us, with our modern daily duties and cares, truly could not survive with such a straining life of penance. For example, excessive fasting is fine when driving is unnecessary, but nearly all of us have to drive and the effects of fasting can make driving a danger to ourselves and others. 

Still, according to our state in life and keeping in mind our vocational responsibilities, there is something more than admiration that we can take from the lives of these saints. We can look to them as an example of love. We can admire the fire that lived in their hearts and we can strive to imitate that depth of desire. Maybe the penances are not all to be imitated, but the inferno of love is to be desired and imitated. 

How can I be more like St. Francis? Jesus, set my heart on fire with a burning love for you and for your cross. Help me to sacrifice where I am able and to learn to live only for you!

Every year, the 4^th Sunday of Easter is nicknamed “Good Shepherd Sunday” due to the fact that the Gospel for this Sunday in all three years of the three-year cycle of Sunday readings come from John 10 where Jesus speaks about Himself as the Good Shepherd.  The Opening Collect for the Mass, as well as the Prayer after Communion, use the language of Jesus as the Good Shepherd.  For this reason, the invocation from the Litany of the Sacred Heart which seems most appropriate for this Sunday is the following:

Heart of Jesus, full of goodness and love, have mercy on us

Jesus explains how, as the Good Shepherd, He does not flee in the face of danger, but rather He stays in order to protect His flock from being harmed.  He will never abandon His flock.  Even when they have strayed, as we do when we sin, Jesus goes in search for us in order to bring us back.  He explains that if even one out of the ninety-nine wander off, even that one is worth His going to search for them.  Only a shepherd whose heart is full of goodness that comes from love will be willing to show attention to every member of His flock.  During this Easter Season, we rejoice in the victory that this Good Shepherd has won by sacrificing His very life for us so that we can be assured of being brought to the peaceful pastures of Eternal Life.

Good Shepherd Sunday is day on which the Church invites the faithful to pray for their shepherds – the Pope, the bishops, and the priests.  I would ask that you pray today in particular for the priests of our diocese who will be making announcements about assignment changes this weekend.  I know how hard it can be for a parish to receive the news that one of their shepherds is leaving.  No doubt the sadness stems from an appreciation for the love that the priest has shown to them as he has served the flock entrusted to his care.  For the priest who is leaving, this is also hard.  As priests, we love the people that God has asked us to care for for the duration of the time we have been asked to serve in a particular parish.

By this point, I think most of you reading this are aware of my being one of those priests who will be leaving at the end of June.  The uniqueness of my new assignment as Vice Rector of Kenrick-Glennon Seminary in St. Louis necessitated a slightly earlier announcement, but I am happy that I can finally announce this weekend who my replacement will be.  As I have been praying about this transition since it became clear last November, I have found great comfort in praying about that image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd.  Though I hope that I have been a good shepherd to all of you, I am consoled in knowing that we all follow the Good Shepherd who is Jesus Christ.  The greatest gift a priest can give to His people is to facilitate a deeper relationship with the Good Shepherd, such that when changes take place, though my relationship with you may change, your relationship with Him remains firm.  He will continue to be that source of strength and comfort to you, and in that I have great peace.  To be sure, I will miss you all terribly, but I am so grateful for the six years that the Lord has given to me to be your shepherd.  You have helped me to experience the love of the Good Shepherd in your love and support for me, and my love for you has prompted me to do my very best to serve you and help you to grow in holiness.  Please pray for me, for our Cathedral priests, and our Bishop today, and please know of our daily prayers for you.

There is love in the silence.

One of the most profound moments of my prayer life – a moment when I knew God was present – was precisely when I heard God’s “voice” the least. 

On a long, silent retreat, I found myself in a deep stretch of silence: silence exteriorly, silence interiorly, and silence from God. You might think this would be peaceful, but at first it wasn’t – it was unsettling, and I wondered where God was in it all. 

The grace came one day during the retreat as I was sitting in front of a tabernacle in a small chapel. I didn’t “feel” any more of God when this grace came. I didn’t “feel” any less silent. It was a “knowing” grace – more an intellectual grace than anything – but still, it changed the way I experienced the silent exterior, silent interior, and silent God. 

As I sat before the tabernacle, listening to God’s silence and seeming lack of presence, the words came to my mind, “There is love in the silence.” I stopped. I knew. “God is love.” If God is silent, it doesn’t mean he’s not with me. He is a person, and we can’t feel persons. If my mom is sitting behind me and I don’t recognize it, does that mean she isn’t with me and isn’t actively loving me? No, not at all.

If God is in, around, and all through me, but isn’t allowing me to feel anything of that presence, does that mean he isn’t with me and isn’t loving me? No, not at all!

The Lord cries out today, “…the sheep hear his voice, as the shepherd calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.” 

Our hearts yearn for the voice of Christ.

We want nothing more than to hear that voice – a voice that knows us and loves us.

If you’ve ever been apart from a loved one for a long time, you know the experience of hearing that voice for the first time. It is like a breath of fresh air – like a glass of cool water on a hot day… There’s really no great way to describe how refreshing it is. It is almost new, but still old, an old nostalgia comes back.

The voice of Jesus… how do we describe this? For the most part, even most saints don’t hear it (audibly), but anyone who has a consistent life of prayer I think knows and understands when that voice speaks (even inaudibly). It is a calm, refreshing, new, knowing – words fail – sort of voice. 

I have come, over the course of time since the grace of that retreat, to trust the love in the silence far more than any “voice” I hear in my mind in prayer. Do I believe that God speaks to us in our minds and hearts as we pray? Certainly, I have many experiences of that. But do I also recognize that I can make up words and thoughts and unintentionally put words in the mouth of God? Yes, I realize that too. 

But I can’t “produce” silence, because it is simply an absence. And in that absence, there is an unmistakable presence of God’s love. It exists with me apart from any experience of my senses – interior and exterior.

Praise God for his silence, his silent presence, and his silent voice.

There is love in the silence. 

Recently, I was reading a commentary on the Gospel of Luke by the Anglican scripture scholar, N.T. Wrigh, and the following line really resonated with me:

If the story of the prodigal son has a claim to be the finest story Jesus ever told, the tale of the two on the road to Emmaus must have an equal claim to be the finest scene Luke ever sketched…At the level of drama it has everything. Sorrow, suspense, puzzlement, gradual dawning of light; then, in the second half, unexpected actions, astonished recognition, a flurry of excitement and activity. It is both a wonderful, unique, spellbinding tale, and also a model (and Luke surely knew this) for a great deal of what being a Christian, from that day to this, is all about. (Tom Wright, Luke for Everyone (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 2004), 292–293.)

The Gospel account of the two disciples going to Emmaus is one that I always look forward to reading, and these words from N.T. Wright put words to why I (and so many) are drawn to this passage.

I am always struck by the candor of the two disciples as they speak to Jesus about Jesus (as they did not yet know it was Him to whom they were speaking).  They said: “we were hoping that he would be the one to redeem Israel.” (Lk 24:21) Their hope about Jesus, that He might finally be the Messiah, seemed now to be dead, just as Jesus was dead.  Jesus then takes the opportunity to present to them the story of salvation, the details with which they were no doubt familiar, but Jesus connects those details in a way that makes it clear that Jesus was indeed the Messiah.  Their hope had not been in vain!  No doubt Jesus stirred something within them, as seen in the reaction to Him as He prepared to part company, urging Him: “Stay with us, for it is evening and the day is almost over.” (Lk 24:29) Then, as Jesus breaks and blessed the bread, Luke writes that “their eyes were opened and they recognized Him.” (Lk 24:31) The hope that they thought dead was revived, which meant that everything He had said about Himself and what He would accomplish in bringing about salvation was true.  I have therefore chosen the following invocation from the Litany of the Sacred Heart to connect with this scene from the Gospel:

Heart of Jesus, Salvation of those who hope in thee, have mercy on us

During this Easter Season, we are invited to renew our faith that all that Jesus did and said is true.  Nothing is more remarkable than what happened on that Easter Sunday, and if He was able to accomplish that miraculous feat, then all of His promises can be trusted, not the least of which the one He gives to us when speaking about the Eucharist, which Pope Pius XII calls a gift of the Sacred Heart of Jesus to the Church.  Here is that promise from Jesus about the Eucharist:

he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so he who eats me will live because of me. This is the bread which came down from heaven, not such as the fathers ate and died; he who eats this bread will live for ever. (Jn 6:54-58)

As I write this, I don’t have access to my copy of St. Bonaventure’s life of St. Francis, so the continuation of those reflections will have to wait a week.

The First Reading for this weekend’s Mass, however, provides us with a good scriptural reality to ponder. St. Peter, in his speech on the day of Pentecost in the Acts of the Apostles, quotes Psalm 16 to teach about Jesus. This quotation is significant, and it begins to teach us the powerful and profound truth that Jesus has fulfilled the scriptures of the Old Testament. 

We read in the Gospel of Luke that after Jesus rose from the dead he appeared to his apostles in the upper room and “he said to them, ‘These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’ Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures…” (Luke 24:44-45). Everything written about him in the Psalms must be fulfilled.

When we think of the psalms, we generally think of long sung prayers from a book in the Old Testament. We might think of a song between the two readings at Mass – generally kind of hard to hear or understand. We might even love to pray the Psalms and think of them as beautiful prayers to God. All of that is true, yet it is good for us to remember and read them also as strikingly accurate prophecies of the Messiah, Jesus Christ – words that he himself prayed. 

Really, the book of the Psalms is the most-quoted book of the New Testament. The early Christians and the Apostles especially, with their minds opened to the ways that the Old Testament scriptures had been fulfilled, saw in the Psalms a rich prefiguring of Jesus. Perhaps most poignantly is the great Psalm 22 which we hear quoted by Jesus himself on the cross, “My God, My God, why have you abandoned me.” If you read through the rest of that psalm, you will see that the whole of it really describes in detail the sufferings Jesus would endure during his passion. 

On a happier note, in this Easter season and particularly with today’s first reading in mind, the Psalms also prefigure the resurrection of Christ. We read in the Psalms about how God triumphs over worldly struggles and even over death itself. The quotation of today’s first reading is, again, from Psalm 16. One could, before Christ, read this psalm about God’s promise that he would take care of the one who takes refuge in him. After Christ, however, we see that the words of this psalm are clearly oriented toward the future resurrection. 

Here is the section of the Psalm that St. Peter quotes. Read it as though you were Christ preparing for his passion in the Agony in the Garden:

“I saw the Lord ever before me,
with him at my right hand I shall not be disturbed.
Therefore my heart has been glad and my tongue has exulted;
my flesh, too, will dwell in hope,
because you will not abandon my soul to the netherworld,
nor will you suffer your holy one to see corruption.
You have made known to me the paths of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence.”