As you read the title for this article, you might be slightly confused as these two words seem very different in nature.  When we hear the word ‘judgment’ (particularly as it applies to the Last Judgment), we have a sense of uncertainty, even a bit of fear.  On the other hand, hope almost always stirs a feeling of delight and peace.

With this next paragraph in Spe salvi, Pope Benedict begins the final section of the document, looking at how judgment is a setting for learning and practicing hope.  It makes sense that he would save this for last, as judgment is indeed one of the Last Things.  Instead of treating judgment as something overwhelmingly negative, the pope invites the reader to see how our awareness of judgment is meant to influence how we live here and now, and that by living according to the Gospel, we can have great peace in believing that the promise of eternal rest, for which we hope, is something the Lord delights to give us after we complete our earthly pilgrimage.  On this point, the Holy Father writes:

From the earliest times, the prospect of the Judgement has influenced Christians in their daily living as a criterion by which to order their present life, as a summons to their conscience, and at the same time as hope in God’s justice. (SS, 41)

He then explains how these two topics – judgement and hope – were depicted in the artwork of Christian sacred buildings:

In the arrangement of Christian sacred buildings, which were intended to make visible the historic and cosmic breadth of faith in Christ, it became customary to depict the Lord returning as a king—the symbol of hope—at the east end; while the west wall normally portrayed the Last Judgement as a symbol of our responsibility for our lives—a scene which followed and accompanied the faithful as they went out to resume their daily routine. (ibid.)

This highlights an important awareness that we as Christians should always keep in mind, that there will come a time for all of us – at an “unknown day and unknown hour” (cf. Mt. 24:36) when the Lord will come to us and ask us for an account of our lives.  This judgment known as the Particular Judgment, is described in the Catechism of the Catholic Church in the following words:

Each man receives his eternal retribution in his immortal soul at the very moment of his death, in a particular judgment that refers his life to Christ: either entrance into the blessedness of heaven—through a purification or immediately,—or immediate and everlasting damnation. (CCC 1022)

Admittedly, this sounds a little bit dark, but it does not have to, especially when we live as intentionally as possible the commandments of love of God and love of neighbor.  This point is made in this paragraph of the Catechism, with a quote from St. John of the Cross:  “At the evening of life, we shall be judged on our love.” (St. John of the Cross, Dichos 64) We believe that God is love (1 Jn 4:16), and that He has poured this love into our hearts (Rom 5:5), and that by remaining in that love (Jn 15:9-10), our hope in His Promise is firm, for He delights to give us the Kingdom. ( Lk 12:32) Therefore, let us ask the Lord for the grace to persevere every day in that love of His, so that when we take our last breath, we will awaken to see Love Himself in the glory of Heaven.

After I was ordained a priest, I and a classmate took a camping trip out west to Glacier, Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons National Parks. It was an amazing trip, and I loved looking at the mountains, a feature of the landscape we certainly don’t have around here. I had never been so close to mountains before, and some of the sights left me in a state of wonder. One of the more beautiful aspects of the stony faces of the mountains was the way they reflected the sunlight. At different times of day, they appeared to be different colors, much like the clouds here in the Midwest.

During Mass this weekend, you’ll hear from Psalm 121, which begins, “I lift up my eyes toward the mountains; whence shall help come to me? My help is from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.” The Psalmist is searching for help as he makes his way up to Jerusalem, a sort of allegory for making his way up to Heaven from the depths of this earthly life. He needs (and we need!) a lot of help along the way. So, where do we turn for that help? Should we turn to the seemingly impregnable mountains? What are these mountains? 

Saint Augustine can help us understand what is going on here in this Psalm by revealing a deeper spiritual meaning behind the words. He reads the mountains mentioned in this Psalm as the “great” figures of history, especially of salvation history – the patriarchs, prophets, saints, and holy ones of the scriptures. They can help us by giving us light, a light which comes from God alone.

We read,

“… the mountains do not give off light of their own. They transmit light from him of whom scripture says, He was the true light, which illumines every human person who comes into this world (Jn 1:9). We can take the mountains to be symbols of great and illustrious people. And is anything greater than John the Baptist? What a mountain he was! …You can certainly see in him a lofty mountain bathed in light; but listen to [John’s] confession: From his [God’s] fullness we have all received (Jn 1:16). Help comes to you not from the mountains themselves but from him whose plenitude endows the mountains. All the same, unless you lift your eyes to the mountains through the scriptures, you will not be brought near to be illuminated by him” (St. Augustine, Expositions of the Psalms, 120.4).

St. Augustine calls us to keep our eyes fixed on the “mountains” by looking to the examples and words of the holy people in the scriptures. At the same time, we have to recognize that our true help does not come from these people but from God alone. In God alone is the light that fills us with life. In God alone is sure salvation. We need the models of grace so that we can be built up in faith, but they don’t give us life.  As we continue through the Psalm, we hear that the Lord alone guards us without sleeping, and that he will never fail us. 

May we put our trust in the Lord always. He stands beside us to keep us safe from all evil. He gives us great models, mountains of holiness, to serve as beacons who reflect the saving light of God. Lord, help us keep our eyes fixed on these mountains and the many beautiful ways they reflect your light – the light that gives us life. Amen.

As he brings this section on learning hope through suffering, Pope Benedict offers a few words on the spiritual practice of “offering up” our minor daily hardships, a practice that “used to be a form of devotion—perhaps less practised today but quite widespread not long ago.” (SS, 40)

For those of you of a certain age reading this may recall your parents or religious sisters in school repeating that phrase over and over again, especially when they found you complaining about your problems.  “Offer it up.”  Sadly, that phrase was often not explained well, and it simply became synonymous for “get over it” or “quite whining.” Acknowledging that this practice has suffered in the past from misguided or exaggerated forms of expression, the Holy Father pauses to question where there actually may be some value in revisiting this devotion.  He offers the following reflection:

What does it mean to offer something up? Those who did so were convinced that they could insert these little annoyances into Christ’s great “com-passion” so that they somehow became part of the treasury of compassion so greatly needed by the human race. In this way, even the small inconveniences of daily life could acquire meaning and contribute to the economy of good and of human love. Maybe we should consider whether it might be judicious to revive this practice ourselves. (ibid.)

A few months ago, I came across a podcast episode in The Road to Emmaus podcast hosted by Dr. Scott Hahn in which he interviewed Megan Hjelmstad on this very topic, referring to the book that she recently wrote, titled Offer It Up: Discovering the Power and Purpose of Redemptive Suffering (published by Emmaus Road Publishing).  Dr. Hahn wrote of this book:

In Offer It Up, Megan Hjelmstad transforms a trite slogan into an invigorating battle cry. Those who are suffering in mind or body, as well as their caretakers, will find ample encouragement to embrace their cross and participate more intimately in our Lord’s saving mission. (https://stpaulcenter.com/store/offer-it-up-discovering-the-power-and-purpose-of-redemptive-suffering)

Though I have not read the book, I was inspired by the interview.  If you are reading this and are not too scarred from past admonitions to “offer it up”, perhaps this can be a good book for your spiritual reading.  And if you do not have the time right now to read the book, perhaps listening to the interview would be a blessing.  Here is the link:  https://youtu.be/i1Akj9DcLFw?si=iJJ-EHv6thJ4MgKg (or you could search for “The Guide Through Life’s Struggles with Megan Hjelmstad and Scott Hahn” in YouTube and it should show up).

The line that really caught my attention toward the end of the interview came from words that Jesus shared with St. Faustina, the Apostle of Divine Mercy: “You will save more souls through prayer and suffering than will a missionary through his teachings and sermons alone.” (Diary of St. Faustina, no. 1764) May we never underestimate the power of suffering to teach us many important lessons and so be a means for growing in hope and being instruments of hope to others.

Spiders are one of those strange creatures that are both beautiful and frightening at the same time. They can be dangerous – and look the part! – But the traps they make for their prey, their webs, are some of the most delicately intricate structures in nature. I’m considering in particular here the orb-weaving spiders that make the wheel-like webs, though even other web shapes have a certain finesse to them. 

A quick Google search provides the information that it takes anywhere from thirty to sixty minutes to create a good web. Many of these webs are then “recycled” daily – the spider may eat the old web and create a new one each evening. This process is a good deal of work for the arachnid, and provides a unique image for Christian prayer, specifically the prayer of meditation.

In the Latin text of Psalm 90, we read this curious phrase, “Anni nostri sicut aranea meditabantur.” This can be translated, “Our years toiled around like a spider” (Translation found in St. Augustine, Expositions on the Psalms, 89.9). While St. Augustine comments on the actual meaning of the verse, I personally find the Latin text enlightening. The Latin translation of the Hebrew of the Psalm uses “meditabantur” to refer to the way a spider toils around its web. This word is the same word used for “consider” or “think about,” and it is precisely where our word for “meditation” comes from. 

When we meditate, we consider a subject from different angles. Like a spider travelling round and round its web as it is creating it, we look at the subject from all different points of view, over and over again. We ask different questions from as many different points of view as possible. This helps us to fully grasp the subject and truly understand it – in a way, to catch the prey of knowledge. 

This is the process of Lectio Divina in a nutshell. This type of prayer refers to the meditative reading of scripture. We invite the Lord into our mind and our reading and then take time to consider the passage we have read. When we want to meditate fruitfully on a passage from scripture, we don’t just read it once and leave it at that. No, we read it once, think about it for a bit, then read it again, and ask different questions about it. We may then read it again or even several more times in the course of the meditation. 

The classic steps to Lectio Divina are 

1. Lectio – Reading
2. Meditatio – Meditation
3. Oratio – Prayer
4. Contemplatio – Contemplation

While reading the passage is the first step, a reading of the passage generally also takes place before each of these steps. We turn the scripture over and over in our mind, considering it from different angles, asking questions, seeking answers, and trusting in the aid of the Holy Spirit. The spiders “meditate” daily over their webs – likewise, the more often we practice meditation, the easier it becomes. 

There is one primary difference between prayerful meditation and a more natural meditation on any other subject: when we are praying, the “prey” we are attempting to catch is not simply new knowledge but rather a deeper relationship with Jesus Christ through his Word. 

May the Lord enlighten our minds and hearts and grant us the grace to drink deeply from his Word. Amen!

As he continues to reflect on the theme of suffering with and for others, noting how important this is to the good of humanity, Pope Benedict poses the following questions we would all do well to consider regarding our willingness to suffer:

Yet once again the question arises: are we capable of this? Is the other important enough to warrant my becoming, on his account, a person who suffers? Does truth matter to me enough to make suffering worthwhile? Is the promise of love so great that it justifies the gift of myself? (SS 39)

Theoretically speaking, we know that the answer should be ‘yes’ to all of these questions.  Yet when, in reality, we have to make the decision to suffer for another, for truth, for love, we can sometimes hesitate.  We calculate the cost of extending ourselves, we consider the possible pain we might experience, the rejection that we might experience, the disappointment we might experience.  The fear of how our offering ourselves might be received sometimes results in our turning back in on ourselves and deciding not to subject ourselves to possible suffering after all.

To help us in addressing those fears, the Holy Father directs our attention to Jesus Christ, who in becoming one of us, entered into the experience of suffering and in so doing, offers us hope and encouragement.  The pope explains:

Man is worth so much to God that He himself became man in order to suffer with man in an utterly real way—in flesh and blood—as is revealed to us in the account of Jesus’s Passion. Hence in all human suffering we are joined by one who experiences and carries that suffering with us; hence con-solatio is present in all suffering, the consolation of God’s compassionate love—and so the star of hope rises. (ibid.)

As I wrote about in my previous article, knowing that somebody is with us in our suffering gives us courage, for the pain of isolation is one of the greatest pains in suffering.  Though the physical pain may not be removed, the emotional pain is often lessened significantly we someone is there by our side.

It is helpful to recall the Lord’s presence with us in any form of suffering we encounter, whether it be our own suffering, or the suffering we bear with and for others when we choose to love them.  This is one of the reasons why I always keep a small crucifix in my pocket.  When I begin to feel the pangs of suffering, I can just reach into my pocket and feel that crucifix and be reminded that He is with me in this suffering, that I am not alone.  It also serves as a reminder that when I choose to enter into the suffering of another person, whether it be visiting a sick person in the hospital, listening to them as they share their sorrow for sin in the confessional, or when delivering a hard truth that my not be received so willingly, I am reminded that the Lord is extending His arms to embrace both of us – the one suffering, and me as I share in their suffering.

The pope concludes his reflection in this section by mentioning the example of the saints who in so many ways embraced suffering – sometimes heroically, even to the point of death – and now enjoy the peace of eternal life in Heave, the fulfilment of the hope that kept them from fleeing from suffering, but leaning into it with love for God and for others.  May their witness encourage us to do likewise, and so become witnesses ourselves to a world that is in desperate need of such witnesses.

I have always loved to read, and back when I was in high school, I loved to read very large books. I think I enjoyed the challenge that a thick tome presented, and also a story that didn’t just end right away. I would read fantasy, science fiction, historical fiction, adventure, fairy tales, and even saint stories. Reading was how I found my Confirmation saint, St. Thomas Aquinas. Reading was how I grew to love writing and it has been a great conversation starter over the years. Reading has also been one of the primary ways God has chosen to work in my life. By the grace of God, a book fell into my hands when I was seventeen that not only satisfied me for its size but also changed the way I thought about God. 

This book was the spiritual diary of St. Faustina Kowalska – a big red book I found one day as I was looking for something to read. Looking back, I don’t exactly know why I enjoyed it at that age. Still, the way that St. Faustina wrote about her experience of the Mass, her time before the tabernacle, her discernment of her vocation, and especially her experience of confession made me re-think all of those things myself. I think it was one of the first times I really understood how these sacraments and parts of a life of prayer can be a real and tangible means of actually drawing closer to God. 

I also needed her message of mercy. As St. Faustina writes in one of the most often quoted passages of the diary, Jesus says to her, “proclaim that mercy is the greatest attribute of God. All the works of my hands are crowned with mercy” (300). I needed to hear that God would love me and any sinner no matter what I ever did, and that the door to his mercy was wide open in the sacrament of reconciliation. I needed to hear how real his presence in the Eucharist was and how his presence in the host at Mass is a gift from his merciful heart. He is there and he pours out love from there, from his wounded heart.

I bring this up today because if today, October 5, weren’t a Sunday, it would be the feast day of St. Faustina. Her message of mercy was nothing new, but it was God’s timely reminder to the world to turn back to him. While we’re on earth there is always time to turn back to him. Plus, once we have received his mercy, our task becomes that of helping others draw near to God’s mercy also. 

I think most Catholics have had the thought after Confession – “If the world ends now, that would be ok” – said with a grin. We recognize that the more time we have here on earth, the more time there is to mess up! But, seen in another light, the more time we have on earth, the more time we have to seek God’s mercy. Time is one of God’s greatest gifts. As St. Augustine comments on a passage from Psalm 60, he counsels us, “Don’t try to chop down the bridge of mercy after you have crossed over yourself. Let it remain in place forever” (Expositions of the Psalms, 60.6) This “bridge” is the time we have left on earth. 

While we have the time, we can enter the door of the confessional, we can receive that mercy, God’s greatest attribute. We turn to St. Faustina today and ask her intercession to help us never fear the “size” of our sins or the love of God. Pray for us today, St. Faustina, and pray for all those in need of God’s mercy!

In last week’s article, we explored the importance of not turning away from suffering, as we are so tempted to do.  Rather, by turning into our suffering, it can become a means by which we mature “through it and find meaning through union with Christ, who suffered with infinite love.” (SS 37) In the next paragraph, Pope Benedict explains how accepting our own suffering not only helps us get through suffering, but it also equips us to assist others in their suffering.  On this point, the Holy Father notes the impact that accepting personal suffering can have on the society in which we live:

A society unable to accept its suffering members and incapable of helping to share their suffering and to bear it inwardly through “com-passion” is a cruel and inhuman society. Yet society cannot accept its suffering members and support them in their trials unless individuals are capable of doing so themselves; moreover, the individual cannot accept another’s suffering unless he personally is able to find meaning in suffering, a path of purification and growth in maturity, a journey of hope. (SS 38)

One who is unwilling to endure suffering themselves will be less likely to help others when they are suffering.  But there are times when somebody close to us begins to suffer that we put aside our fear of suffering and enter into their suffering.  Though we may not be experiencing the same suffering, nevertheless we suffer with the other person, and the Lord uses that experience of suffering in another to strengthen and purify us, even as we support the one who is suffering.  Even if we cannot take away the suffering of another, our presence removes the particularly painful experience that so often accompanies suffering, loneliness and isolation.

I have a vivid memory of this from my childhood after I had a rather major surgery.  I woke up very briefly in recovery, feeling a lot of pain and feeling scared.  I did not even open my eyes, but I sensed somebody was there in the room.  When the voice spoke, it was that of my mother, and though I still felt so uncomfortable, I fell back asleep in peace, knowing that she was there with me and that I was not alone.  The following morning, I awoke early in the ICU, but nobody was there.  I do not exactly remember how I felt physically, but there was an overwhelming sense of fear of being alone.  The nurse assured me that my parents were on their way, and when they did arrive, I was able to be at peace again.  Throughout my childhood, whenever I had to stay home due to being sick, which was always miserable, my mom was always there.  Though she could not suffer what I was suffering, she was suffering with me and for me as only a mother can and her presence always made the experience much more bearable.

In that regard, we recently celebrated the Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows.  This feast recalls the beautiful truth that as Jesus was dying, Mary stood by the Cross.  Her standing signifies a posture of readiness to do whatever she could to help encourage her Son in His final hours.  From the Cross, Jesus entrusted His mother to us when He said to her about St. John, and by extension, all of us: “Behold, your son.” (Jn 19:26) Mary always stands close to us in our suffering, ready to offer her motherly encouragement, reminding us that we are never alone in our suffering.  May that truth bring us true consolation, and may we imitate her example of standing ready to assist anybody who the Lord invites us to assist in their suffering.

A question St. Augustine asks frequently throughout his many commentaries on the Psalms is, “Who is speaking here?” He reads the Psalms as prayers composed by a human author called the “psalmist,” and yet, they are also inspired by the Holy Spirit and destined to be prayed by many more people than just that psalmist, even one particular person known at first only to God. Insofar as they are inspired, the words of the Psalms come from the heart of God and are a true communication of the divine Word. This Word became flesh (John 1:14) in Jesus Christ, and therefore, the primary answer St. Augustine gives to his question, “Who is speaking here?” is Jesus Christ, the Lord. He is speaking here.

Though Jesus is the one St. Augustine understands to be speaking in the Psalms, Jesus is not speaking alone. He speaks in, with, and through his body, the Church. St. Paul gives the seed of this teaching when he writes, “He [Christ] is the head of the body, the Church” (Colossians 1:18), and “Now you are the body of Christ, and individually members of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27). This teaching of St. Paul is something that St. Augustine reflected on very deeply. The image and reality of the Church as the body of Christ became the root of St. Augustine’s understanding of the speaker in the Psalms. 

As he preaches on Psalm 61(60), especially the opening line, “O God, hear my plea, give heed to my prayer,” St. Augustine asks that very question: “Who is saying this? It sounds like a single person. But look at the next phrase, and you will see whether it can be only one: From the ends of the earth I have called to you, as my heart was wrung with pain. It cannot be one alone, then; yet it is one, because Christ is one, and all of us are his members” (Expositions of the Psalms 60.2, Translated by Maria Boulding). One person says this, and that one person is Christ, the head of the body. But, more than one person says it, and says it from the ends of the earth, because Jesus has joined a body (the Church) to himself.

St. Augustine calls this head and body unity the totus Christus, “the whole Christ.” Jesus is, in himself, a true person, and a divine person at that. He doesn’t need any additional body attached to him to make him complete and perfect. BUT, in a wonderful plan of salvation, he chooses to join human beings to himself in a mystical and sacramental union so that we become truly members (limbs) of his mystical body. We therefore share his divine life – the Father looks upon us as children, the life of the Holy Spirit dwells in our souls, and we are heirs to his Kingdom. We also, then, speak and act as Christ in our prayer and in our lives. A simple analogy is this: When my hand moves, I move; when a member of the body of Christ acts, Christ acts. 

It is, therefore, not a stretch for St. Augustine to be able to say that Christ is the one speaking in the Psalms, always. Sometimes Christ the head alone speaks, sometimes a member of the body alone, but more often than not, he can say that Christ, head and members, speak as one. The whole Christ speaks. This teaching gives a whole new meaning to those words of the Mass, that we pray through Him, with Him, and in Him, to God the almighty Father. 

Thanks be to God for this saving grace! 

A few years ago, I heard a story about how bison on the Great Plains react to storms.  Unlike cattle who tend to turn away from the storm in hopes of avoiding it, bison turn into the storm and face it head on, literally.  The claim is that by doing so, they minimize the impact the storm will have on them and they get through it faster.  For those animals that turn away from a storm in hoping to avoid it, the storm often catches up to them and they spend more time in the storm.  I do not really have a way of verifying this as a fact, though I have heard it in different presentations, but even if it cannot be proven as fact, the principle applies and it provides a helpful lesson for how we face storms in our lives as Christians.  

In the next paragraph of Spe salvi, Pope Benedict reflects on how tempting it is for us to run from suffering when it comes, to do everything that we can do avoid it in our lives.  By doing so, however, we find ourselves often worse off than if we had not turned into the suffering.  The Holy Father explains:

It is when we attempt to avoid suffering by withdrawing from anything that might involve hurt, when we try to spare ourselves the effort and pain of pursuing truth, love, and goodness, that we drift into a life of emptiness, in which there may be almost no pain, but the dark sensation of meaninglessness and abandonment is all the greater. (SS 37)

Instead, like bison about to encounter a storm, we should not flee in fear, but turn into the suffering:

It is not by sidestepping or fleeing from suffering that we are healed, but rather by our capacity for accepting it, maturing through it and finding meaning through union with Christ, who suffered with infinite love. (ibid.)

As a way of demonstrating this, the pope quotes a rather lengthy account from the Vietnamese martyr Paul Le-Bao-Tinh († 1857) who suffered imprisonment and torture in a condition the martyr described as “a true image of everlasting Hell.” It is well worth going to this paragraph and reading it to see the remarkable effect of turning into suffering with faith in Jesus Christ.

I will quote what Pope Benedict writes as he reflects on this inspiring quote, words which I find extremely fruitful for our reflection when faced with suffering:

This is indeed a letter from Hell, but it also reveals the truth of the Psalm text: “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I sink to the nether world, you are present there … If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall hide me, and night shall be my light’ —for you darkness itself is not dark, and night shines as the day; darkness and light are the same” (Ps 139 [138]:8-12; cf. also Ps 23 [22]:4). Christ descended into “Hell” and is therefore close to those cast into it, transforming their darkness into light. (ibid.)

By God’s Providence, I was recently praying with Psalm 139 and was struck by that same line, alternately translated as: “even darkness is not dark for you and the night is as clear as the day.” (Ps. 139:12) This is one of the great gifts of the Psalms, as they provide ready responses to pretty much every human emotion that we face.  Therefore, when we are confronted with the storm of suffering in our lives, we can turn toward it, and call upon the Lord, reciting those words, and asking Him to be our light to guide us through the darkness and pass safely to the other side with the gracious assistance of His protecting grace.

I find it difficult to choose one of the Psalms as a “favorite” – mostly because I have found so many of them to be undeniably powerful and meaningful at different times in my life. If I did have to choose, however, one that would be very near the top of my list is Psalm 45 – a song about the marriage of the King. I love it because of its bold and tender imagery. The first half of the Psalm is bold in its description of a very powerful king, who, if he is not God himself, is at least very God-like. The second half, on the other hand, tenderly describes how the young maiden chosen to be the spouse of the king prepares herself to “enter the palace of the king” (15).

Unsurprisingly, as St. Augustine interprets this marriage-themed Psalm, he reads it in light of the marriage that God desires to have with humanity. All through the Old Testament are hints, prophecies, and outright statements of the nearly unbelievable truth that God desires such a close and intimate relationship with his people that we would call it a “marriage.” For example, we read in Isaiah, “As a young man marries a virgin, your Builder shall marry you; and as a bridegroom rejoices in his bride so shall your God rejoice in you” (62:4-5). This prophecy is fulfilled most completely in Jesus, who comes to make us one with him. The Church becomes his body and we can be said, mystically, to have a “one-flesh” union with him: He is our head, we are his members.

In the tender second half of Psalm 45, the young woman is told that the King desires her beauty. St. Augustine comments on this verse: 

“For the king has desired your beauty. … But who is this king? He is your God. See now how right it is for you to abandon that other father, and that other nation that was yours, and come to this King who is your God. He is your God and your King, your King and your Bridegroom. The King you are marrying is God; he provides you with your portion, by him you are adorned, by him redeemed, by him healed. Whatever you have in you that can please him, you have as his gift” (Expositions of the Psalms, 44.26. Translated by Maria Boulding).

So, in a very beautiful way, for St. Augustine and for so many Christians who read and pray this Psalm in a Christian light, the King is God – Jesus Christ our Lord. And you and I as members of the body of Christ are the bride, because the Church is the bride of Christ. Jesus desires your beauty, and that beauty is what he has created in you by redeeming you and washing you clean from your sins. Your clean soul is a beautiful soul, a fitting place for God to dwell. 

I would highly encourage you to pray Psalm 45 with this reality in mind. Although the original human author would not have been thinking of Jesus as the King, the Holy Spirit certainly had our Lord in mind when he inspired this Psalm. Similarly, the human author of the Psalm would not have known the bride to be the Church, but the Holy Spirit knew. We can, therefore, recognize that the King in the Psalm can be read as Christ himself and the bride is the Church. You are the beloved one of God, you are beautifully clothed in gold when you are sacramentally washed by his blood. When you reach heaven, you will enter his palace to live with him forever.

O Jesus, beloved of my soul, draw me close to you. You desire my beauty – make me beautiful by freeing me from my sins! Amen.