In Umbris Sancti Petri

There is nothing which strikes more to the very core of Catholicism than seeing someone's heart converted before your eyes. For all the suffering and struggle that being a Christian in the modern world brings about for those who love Christ truly, the glory he shows those same disciples is laden with an inexplicable splendor and purity. The outcome of the Christian life is seeing Christ, and seeing him work miracles and signs greater and more proximate than any one could imagine. We are called to the work of the Lord and to being his very instruments. I will write it here, though: the only reason we ever "succeed" in this is because we simply let the Lord do the work for himself.

Our "success" is born from our failure. Our strength, as Paul writes, is born from our weakness, in which the Lord's power is made manifest. In our pains, the pains of Christ on the Cross are shown forth; and in our inability to redeem ourselves, his gift of redemption is boldly announced. In all things, the power of the Paschal Mystery pervades our very existence as human beings. It provides unmistakable meaning in the face of the meaningless and unfulfilling promises offered by the world around us--offered by our own flesh and desire for independence from a superior and loving God.

"All men, by nature, desire to know," says Aristotle, but our desire for knowledge is not as we often imagine it. There is knowing that happens through empirical and scientific research. There is also knowing that occurs as a result of being burned. We can study the fire of our lives and our human existence, but we can also reach out and touch it. What we know from being burned is infinitely more 'real' than what we will ever know from observation. What we know from a searing encounter with the Lord Jesus, who burns away our fleshly narcissism, is ever more real than what we know from studying our own flesh and desires. Both are knowledge, but one is limited while the other is supernatural. Only by way of the latter do we touch the divine life we are called to share in, and only in being burned by its sweet Flame do we know its power and glory.

Christ is risen! The fire of the divine life in the Holy Trinity is ablaze! Let us approach it with great reverence and awe, and know quite certainly that there is power here to burn us. Christ will ignite our hearts, and we will show his Light to the ends of the earth.

I presume the silence of the last few days has bespoken my absence (albeit a mental absence more than a physical one). All without a blog post on Easter proper; what a terrible commentator I am! Nevertheless, this Easter Week has been a great time for some much needed rest and relaxation, avoiding at all costs the books and focusing on re-energizing for the rest of the semester. Thankfully, the scandalous amounts of sleep I've gotten so far have been a pretty good start...

I hope to be back at the blogging on a daily basis as soon as classes kick back in on Monday. But for now, enjoy the rest of this awesome week we celebrate and continue to pray for me! Thanks.

The Second Reading from Matins for the Divine Office of Holy Saturday presents a glimpse of the mystery we celebrate today, which is unrivaled in eloquence and clarity. I was very struck when I heard this spoken in the chapel this morning; it sums up well, in beautiful detail, the whole mystery of our salvation.

__________

From an ancient homily for Holy Saturday

Something strange is happening – there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear.

He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone: “My Lord be with you all”. Christ answered him: “And with your spirit”. He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: “Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light”.

I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be separated. For your sake I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took the form of a slave; I, whose home is above the heavens, descended to the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I was crucified in a garden.

See on my face the spittle I received in order to restore to you the life I once breathed into you. See there the marks of the blows I received in order to refashion your warped nature in my image. On my back see the marks of the scourging I endured to remove the burden of sin that weighs upon your back. See my hands, nailed firmly to a tree, for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree.

I slept on the cross and a sword pierced my side for you who slept in paradise and brought forth Eve from your side. My side has healed the pain in yours. My sleep will rouse you from your sleep in hell. The sword that pierced me has sheathed the sword that was turned against you.

Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly paradise. I will not restore you to that paradise, but I will enthrone you in heaven. I forbade you the tree that was only a symbol of life, but see, I who am life itself am now one with you. I appointed cherubim to guard you as slaves are guarded, but now I make them worship you as God. The throne formed by cherubim awaits you, its bearers swift and eager. The bridal chamber is adorned, the banquet is ready, the eternal dwelling places are prepared, the treasure houses of all good things lie open. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for you from all eternity.

"The banners of the King go forth, and now shines the mystery of the Cross, upon which the creator of all flesh was himself suspended in the flesh."

So begins the proper hymn for the Divine Office during Holy Week, and a fitting summary of the meaning behind it all. During this time, as I wrote last time, the Church celebrates not only the historical Passion of Jesus Christ, but also its enduring relevance and effective power in today's world and in the universe as a whole. The "mystery of the Cross" brings us to marvel at the greater mystery of God himself, who chose to reveal the summit of his saving love in no other way than a gruesome and excruciating death. Nevertheless, in this way we come to know him most perfectly, and to know the result of our sin and its gratuitous remission in a way that would be incomparable by any other means. "We proclaim Christ crucified," says St. Paul, "a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are called, Jews and Greeks alike, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God." (1 Cor 1:23)

Today marks the beginning of the heart of Holy Week: the Easter Triduum. On Thursday evening, the Mass of the Lord's Supper begins the solemn period of prayer and meditation that surrounds Christ's Paschal Mystery; on this evening, we remember Jesus' Last Supper with his Apostles, his teaching of service, his prayer for unity among his followers, the institution of the Eucharist, the betrayal by Judas Iscariot and the subsequent imprisonment of the Son of God. Within a few short hours, the aim of Christ's life becomes directed at its final goal, the goal for which he was born in the first place and about which he had preached and prophesied up until this very moment: "The Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised." (Lk 9:22) Suddenly, everything for the Apostles comes into horrific focus.

Perhaps one of the most insightful realities the Church gives us about this time of great trial, though, is that it should really come as no surprise; Jesus was constantly preaching self-denial, self-offering, suffering, patience, even death for the cause of salvation. Even before he was born of Mary's womb, Christ's mission was precisely to redeem mankind of its sins by any means necessary. His death on the Cross not only restores our fallen nature, but actually elevates it and glorifies it beyond what is naturally human. In essence, his goal of salvation is one of transformation in a very real and actual way, which renews and then exalts our human nature unto the supernatural realm. This is present all throughout Jesus' preaching in the Gospels, and is always coupled with the need for self-sacrifice and carrying the Cross; he never lets us lose sight of that.

Here, then, the Cross becomes the new Tree of Life, created by the Father to counter the sin that the first Tree of Good and Evil permitted in the Garden of Eden. Jesus Christ is manifested as the primordial Adam, generated by the Father to redeem the fall of the first Adam. The Blessed Virgin Mary, at the foot of the Cross, is the new Eve, perfectly submissive to the will of God and the will of her son, even though she did not fully understand all that was happening; she offered her heart to be pierced by a sword of sorrow beyond imagination, and allowed to be restored what was pridefully taken by her predecessor. The drama of the Cross is nothing less than the drama of Creation anew, this time a Creation into the glorified and exalted humanity that our Lord has desired for us since the beginning of time. The work taking place is truly divine, and ought to truly humble us and make us gasp in awe at the passionate love of our God. Indeed, as the Church sees, we are now bound to sing the anthem of this great feast of our redemption: Vexilla Regis prodeunt, fulget Crucis mysterium.

Thus begins the Paschal Triduum, and the celebration of our salvation.

Before the liturgical reforms of Vatican II, Holy Week was known as the "Great Week": Maior Hebdomada. This is a fitting title, seeing how the fullness of Christ's Paschal Mystery is actualized and consummated within the span of its days. In Holy Week, Catholics celebrate the triumphal entrance of Jesus into Jerusalem (Palm Sunday), his Last Supper and first Eucharist with the Apostles (Holy Thursday), his Passion and death (Good Friday) and finally his Resurrection from the dead (Easter Sunday). Certainly, these events--especially when seen together--are worthy of the title, "great."

I could write a book on Holy Week; there's just so much to say. The opportunities to reflect on the suffering, death and Resurrection of the Son of God are too much to describe in words. In fact, they transcend words, yet we only know them because of words: we know them through the Gospels and Tradition of the Church, and we live them in the Eucharist. Indeed the greatest thing about this "Great Week," then, is that we realize it's effects and mysteries perdure even until today. We are drawn into an experience of Christ's saving mission that demands our physical and mental attention; we are able to reflect on the mysteries as we participate bodily in the liturgies the Church has celebrated for 2,000 years. Here is a chance to experience completely the beauty of the Catholic faith--the same faith preached and defended by the first Apostles with blood and martyrdom--which subsists in the one, true Church, washed in the Blood of the Lamb of sacrifice, offered on the altar of the Cross. Holy Week demands more of us than just our participation in the liturgies of Palm Sunday, Good Friday and Easter Sunday, however. If we truly wish to delve into the mysteries that we are faced with in such a proximate and real way, we are called to offer our very selves, if only for this week, to the God who offered his only Son for our sake. It is safe to say that if we fail to join Christ in his sacrifice upon the Cross, we will certainly fail to experience his true glory in the Resurrection.

To modern ears, this seems like an extreme claim. The fact is that for ancient ears the claim was no less severe. Sacrifice demands suffering, and suffering demands pain. Our lot as Christians is nothing less than the lot of Christ, who told his Apostles just before his trial and suffering that "no slave is greater than his master. If they persecuted me, they will also persecute you." (Jn 15:20) As our Master tells us this on Holy Thursday, we ought to consider the rest of the Easter Triduum (the three days from Thursday to the Easter Vigil on Saturday night) as our chance to share in the persecutions of Christ. These three days, in particular, provide a time to share in the trials and tribulations of the early Apostles: with Peter, who denied the Lord; with Judas, who betrayed him for worldly gain; with John, who stood by him as he suffered; with Mary his mother, who pondered and suffered the fullness of the Passion in her heart, and whose faithful witness can be seen as the first faith of the Church during Christ's bloody Mass of the Cross. All of these mysteries become accessible to us, and all in profound depth during this Holy and Great Week before Easter.

Focusing on the day at hand, Palm Sunday provides us the chance to acclaim Christ as our Lord, and as the "Son of David" whose salvific mission will set us all free from sin. The traditional Latin chant, which starts the entire week of liturgies on Palm Sunday morning, begins with the words, Hosanna filio David, benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini: "Hosanna, O Son of David; blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" The Church calls us to raise our hearts in acclaim of the Lord, riding triumphantly into the royal city of Jerusalem to take his throne; we carry palm or olive branches to join in the homage of the Israelites who did the same thing almost two millennia ago. Our adoration of the Lord will be short lived, though, for in the course of a week we will find him guilty of the harshest crimes and sentence him to a cruel death by our sins and the hardness of our hearts. His love is insurmountable, though, even by death; he raises up to life what had previously condemned innocent life to death. The "Great Week" of the Church is our participation in this drama of salvation. Indeed, let us not forget what lies before us now. Let us go forth to the altar of God--to Christ upon the throne of the Cross--and fall down in worship: Hosanna filio David! Adoramus et glorificamus te Christe, Fili Dei vivi, quoniam per crucem tuam redemisti mundum!

Whether or not one agrees with all the subsidiary (and sometimes off-shoot) slogans that this über-axiom of Catholic social teaching often gives rise to, the fundamental and "preferential option for the poor" is something deeply seated in Catholic Tradition. During his earthly ministry, Christ is depicted in the Gospels as having had myriad encounters with the poor, both spiritually and physically. In fact, his ministry really centered around and specifically targeted the poor as its primary aim. Certainly, there is something to be said of the inherent power of poverty if the Son of God himself chose such people to manifest the glory of the Kingdom of God.

In the end, it is precisely the same Kingdom of God that is at stake for us all. When serving the poor, Christians build up the Kingdom of God in a very real way. If Christ is the archetype of realizing the Kingdom, then love is the fundamental tool used in its construction. This love is not a disconnected reality, but flows from Christ and allows his ministry to be something inseparably connected to him. The ministry of Christ continues in the ministry of his Church; priests and bishops, who are the proper 'minsters' of the sacraments, are ordained to follow the example of the first Apostles. Pope Benedict XVI writes in Deus Caritas Est concerning the promises made by every bishop upon his consecration to the episcopacy: "[The bishop] promises expressly to be, in the Lord's name, welcoming and merciful to the poor and all those in need of consolation and assistance." (32) In this way the priest being consecrated, whose role it is to act in persona Christi in administering sacramental graces and celebrating the Eucharistic sacrifice, pledges specifically to aide the poor as an outward sign and model of his new episcopal office. The entire structure of the Catholic Church is built upon this "preferential option for the poor," and particularly upon the importance of love in carrying it out. In short the Church, by virtue of its divine appointment and mission, is a type of the Kingdom of God on earth.

Faithful Catholics, then, must never tire of being stewards of the Church's resources; the wealth of the Church, as the deacon and martyr, St. Lawrence, is quoted as saying, consists not in the beautiful churches or religious objects we enjoy as Catholics, but rather in the very people of God, particularly the poor. If Catholics are supposed to be stewards of their time and money for the service of the Church, then how much more are they called to serve the living and breathing treasure with which God has blessed us? But, how often as Catholics do we fail to remind ourselves that such treasure has even been given us? How often do we look to the work of great people, like Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, and say, "That's beautiful...but I couldn't possibly be called to do that"? How much time do we spend in prayer each day asking the Lord to show us his call for us? No doubt, the degree to which we give ourselves to him in prayer is the degree to which we can give ourselves to others in charity and service. If the prayer of the Church ceases, the love of the Church will cease. One is the water that nourishes us and the other the blood that generates life; both flow from the side of Christ.

A final dimension comes to mind when considering the poor and their place in actualizing God's kingdom. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven." (Mt 5:3) Those who are truly poor are not simply expectant of the Kingdom, but rather are its citizens even in their earthly life. If one looks at the Greek text of Matthew, the verb used is «estin», "it is." There is no waiting for them, but simply a mysterious participation. Anyone who has served the poor would surely agree that there is a level of joy in their hearts inexplicable by human and societal standards; through the most intense suffering and humiliation, they find the simplicity of God's love so much more easily than we ever could. Not only are we called to serve the poor, but they are called to show us the fruits of God's intense and boundless love for the human person and for human life. Going out on a limb to help those in need is undoubtedly a scary thing, but so must have been the terrifying limbs of the Cross, which Christ carried all the way to Calvary only to be nailed to them. If we do not embrace the Cross of poverty, we will never be able to embrace the Cross of Christ. And if we do not embrace the Cross of Christ, we will never experience the joy of the Resurrection in supernal light.

Amidst all the regular discord between the Church and secular society, saints are still being born into eternal life. Just today, news hit that the Chaldean Catholic Archbishop of Mosul (Iraq), Paulos Faraj Raho, was found dead after being kidnapped and held for ransom since the 29th of February. In the war-torn region of Mosul, Archbishop Raho was seized after having celebrated the Stations of the Cross in his cathedral and taken away; two of his bodyguards and his driver were shot dead during the conflict. In addition to being an elderly man, Raho also had a serious heart condition for which he was on regular medication. While it still isn't clear if he was assassinated or died of natural causes, the fact that he was so violently abducted and denied the normal means of medical treatment both point toward a terrible death in any case. The news of Archbishop Raho's death has rocked the Iraqi people, and was even the impetus for an all-out search for his whereabouts on the part of the nation's prime minister and military. In the Vatican, Pope Benedict XVI has similarly expressed his deepest grief over the archbishop's death, and proclaimed the kidnapping "an act of inhuman violence that offends the dignity of the human being."

I don't want to jump the gun here, but this is precisely the kind of situation from which martyrs arise. In times of persecution, when the faith is subjected to the whims of state and politics, courageous men and woman submit their lives most fully to the God whom they love. In this case, Archbishop Raho must have known that what he was doing by publicly celebrating Masses and other liturgies, especially in a hostile environment, would draw lots of attention; most of it initially turned out to be bad attention. However, now that he has died at the hands of a terrorist organization (in one way or another), that attention is bound to become much more profound, and even perhaps a cause for conversion.

As I recently quoted in a previous post, the early Latin writer, Tertullian, is attributed the saying that "the blood of martyrs is the seed of the Christian faith," and I cannot think of a better modern-day example than this. Although we are often led to believe that the Church prospers most easily when everyone feels fuzzy toward everyone else, the fact of the matter is that for 2,000 years conflict and strife has provided the continuing life of the Catholic Church. While our aim must be peace, since that is what we believe God desires most fully for us both here and in heaven, we must also take note that the Paschal Mystery of Jesus Christ is laden with the depths of suffering and the most excruciating agony imaginable. Our redemption came forth from the pierced side of Christ on the Cross, in his Precious Blood and in his Body, scourged and crucified for our sake. If we are followers of Christ then we also must die with Christ, and I'm inclined to believe that Archbishop Raho did precisely that. Only time will tell the details of his death, but for now we ought to pray for him and for his local church, that they see the great honor with which the Lord has graced them: the death of his faithful one.

Hopefully this will be the last post concerning the changing-of-the-prayer by Pope Benedict XVI (not because it's not important, but because it pretty much seems to be a closed issue). I felt I should put this up just to conclude the dialogue offered in the comment-box when I wrote about this topic before. It seems that, despite the continuing disagreement on the wording expressed by non-Catholic groups (and some Catholics alike, I would presume), the wording of the prayer for the Jews in the 'extraordinary form' of Mass will stay as it is:

Vatican, Mar. 10, 2008 (CWNews.com) - Despite the disappointment expressed by some Jewish leaders at the revised text of a Good Friday prayer, Pope Benedict XVI does not plan to make any alterations in the text, Cardinal Walter Kasper has disclosed.

Speaking to a German ARD television audience, Cardinal Kasper-- who heads the Vatican commission for relations with Jews-- said that no further change in the Good Friday prayer is necessary because "it is entirely correct from a theological perspectieve."

The German cardinal is scheduled to meet this week with Jewish leaders who will make a last effort to persuade the Vatican that a second change in the prayer is necessary. Cardinal Kasper made it clear that the chances of such a change are extremely remote. He added that he hoped relations between Catholics and Jews could be renewed on a friendly footing despite any "irritation" caused by the disagreement.

In February, Pope Benedict released the text of a revised prayer for Jews, to be used in the Good Friday service celebrated according to the 1962 Roman Missal. The revised text-- which will be used only in traditional liturgies celebrated in Latin-- eliminated a reference to the "blindness" of Jews but retains a prayer for their conversion.

The statement from Walter Cardinal Kasper, head of the inter-religious dialogue committee in the Vatican, is pretty powerful. Although he does not possess in his person or office the authority to resolve such disputes, he is nonetheless a well-respected and popular Catholic theologian. By saying that the prayer is now "entirely correct from a theological position," he is not only agreeing with Benedict (who quite obviously agrees with his own move to change the prayer) but is also agreeing with the traditional prayer of the Church for the same conversion, represented in the Good Friday prayers for the 400 years preceding 1965. In short, Kasper is in good company with the Catholic Tradition when he says such a thing.

Nevertheless, some would argue that the issue is in no way resolved and that the Church's own voice, through the mouthpiece of Nostra Aetate, proclaims something quite contrary to what is currently being promulgated. This is something worthy of further study and research; however, it is an issue not for catechetical blogs but theologians trained in the faith and in proper ecclesiological methodology. In the end, it's always possible to question, "why," but at least now we have something solid to grasp onto, giving us a new point of view in an age-old argument.

Well, Luxembourg doesn't often draw world news headlines, but today seems to be an exception. Although one of the smallest countries on earth, their recent decision to legalize euthanasia has incited discontent on many fronts, particularly in the Vatican. Last month, Luxembourg's parliament voted in favor of the legalization, despite the president's attempt to halt the effort. This all gained notable attention after the same president, Jean-Claude Juncker, visited with Pope Benedict in recent days. Even though there is another phase of ratification left before the legalization takes place, the odds are high that it will pass, which will make Luxembourg the third European nation to accept such a policy. What's more shocking: the small country is 87% Catholic. (Click here for the complete ZENIT story.)

This story just adds to the state of secularization sweeping the European continent. What once provided the seedbed for Christian virtue is currently becoming a haven of decadent practices staunchly opposed to that same model of virtue and knowledge of Christ. In fact, the problem in Europe is almost discouraging, and I think it would be a thoroughly inauspicious one if we did take a moment to realize a striking historical similarity: it was precisely the same environment of decadence and corruption in the Roman Empire that enabled Christians to witness most formidably to their faith.

If the axiom that "history repeats itself" holds any water, than even more accurate would be the presumption that "courageous tendencies of faith repeat themselves." After all, it is the same Holy Spirit who permeates the acts of fortitude and virtue for all Christians throughout the ages. Just as the Roman imperium caved in not because of external pressure, but because of internal degeneracy, so too modern Europe is experiencing a similar phenomenon. And, just as the rotting empire provided nourishment for souls stalwart in the faith, contemporary hedonism is quickly forming an environment of sure growth for those willing and ready to witness to the truth of Christ.

Ultimately, this struggle is the manifestation of a quest for true humanity; how is it actualized and achieved? Pope Benedict XVI writes that "faith is the fundamental act of Christian existence. In the act of faith, the essential structure of Christianity is expressed, the response which answers the question: 'In what way can we possibly realize our destiny, the destiny of our humanity?'" (cf. Ratzinger, L'Europa di Benedetto) As Tertullian tells us, "the blood of martyrs is the seed of the faith," and what better time for martyrs to arise than in the heat of an intense battle for human identity? Certainly, Pope John Paul II's proclamation of the "Springtime" of the Church was not blind to this phenomenon either. We are indeed living in the midst of the new evangelization, and the potential for faith is at a peak. Our responsibility is to actualize it.

On the heels of last day's post about the proper formation of one's conscience, I thought a brief look at examining growth in that area would be appropriate. All of us, if we hope to truly grow closer to the Lord, need to be able to recognize some guideposts in order to tell which direction we are moving, or if we are even moving at all. If we are fortunate enough to have access to the last item I recommended, i.e. a holy and wise priest as a spiritual father for our journey, these signs will be easier to recognize and grow from. The reality is, however, that most Catholics either don't have immediate access to a priest for the amount of time it requires for spiritual direction, or just simply don't feel comfortable in approaching one for such a thing. In either case, if someone really feels prompted to follow the Lord's call more closely in his or her own life, I would urge them to fully trust the Church's wisdom in this matter and seek out a solid spiritual father. We can only do so much on our own, and the counsel and prayer of a holy director does inestimable good in augmenting our own spiritual awareness. Thus, I do not intend to substitute for such a relationship in these posts, but simply to address some fundamental points that should help any of us see the Lord's face more clearly.

One indispensable and very noticeable aspect of being formed in conscience is the degree of charity we have for our friends and neighbors. Quite obviously, charity is the groundwork of the whole Christian life, as well as its ultimate goal; after all, Deus caritas est: "God is love." If we want to gauge our progress in our own personal formation, we need look no further than our consciousness and exercise of charity. When we are being formed in conscience, we are being formed in a disposition of love, since all decisions we make in conscience should ultimately call us to self-giving and Christ-like love. Formation in conscience is not formation in virtue though, and so we cannot simply equate the two; someone who is genuinely charitable may be terribly misinformed about what is right and wrong in a certain situation. Forming one's conscience allows for a formation in virtue. When we are properly formed, and thereby disposed to better decisions in our moral life, an increase in charity naturally follows.

Oftentimes, this distinction is misunderstood in a manner that leads some to great confusion. We must not simply think that all charity is good enough; there are some ways of loving that are higher and more perfect than others. For example, if someone believes they love another person and decides to express that love in sexual activity outside the bond of marriage, there is a level of love being expressed, but certainly not the highest degree of love possible; here, the love is more self-centered than self-donating, and this selfish form of affection ultimately leads to a grave sin (wherein we love ourselves above God). Thus, love does not equal a well-formed conscience. Rather, if a Catholic is properly formed in conscience, they realize that such behavior is not intended by God and that the same sexual activity should be reserved to marriage: a formed decision resulting in a greater and more perfect exchange of love. Although this example is a rather clear one, the same principle applies in all situations. We cannot ever presume that our love is pure unless we have based that expression of love on an understanding of the situation that is formed according to the truths of the faith.

In the end, love is the true test of our lives as Christians. If our understanding of reality lessens our ability to love authentically, then we haven't understood the truth of reality authentically. All formation of conscience, all learning about our faith and the world we live in is designed to free us to love God with our whole heart, mind and soul, and to love our neighbor as ourself. If we keep this objective in mind, becoming formed in conscience will be much easier and more realistic.

In talking about virtue a while back, the comment arose that perhaps a simpler discussion of forming one's conscience would be helpful. While the previous article was intended to explore the more philosophical and theological sense of virtue, there is no doubt that understanding its practical application in our lives is inestimably more valuable. As Catholics, the need for a well-formed and well-examined conscience is important for more than a few reasons; principally, we ought to have formed consciences to make formed moral decisions, and we ought to examine them in order to participate most fully in the Sacraments, particularly the Sacrament of Reconciliation. 'Easier said than done,' is surely what you are thinking. So, naturally, how should we go about doing this?

To begin, forming one's conscience is a necessary starting point; there isn't much we can do if we haven't first formed our conscience. This isn't a one-time event either, but rather a life-long process of formation and re-formation, just as we are re-converted to the Lord each day in our knowledge of his love for us. Ultimately, being formed in conscience is both an active and passive reality, wherein we must both actively seek out the truth (which the Church preserves and teaches) as well as become open and receptive to the truth, which God presents in the world and in human interaction. There is no simple way to sum this up, it seems, since it really is a huge and all-encompassing endeavor. Being formed in conscience is being formed as a person and nothing less.

Fortunately for us, the Church offers some great aides in this process. One primary example is the liturgy of the Mass, where we move from examination of conscience (in the Confiteor and Kyrie) to scriptural lessons of morality and faith (in the Liturgy of the Word), and finally to a participation in the total self-sacrifice of Christ offered in the Eucharist. For us, Jesus' self-gift provides a model of that active and passive willingness to be formed by the truth of God; he actively offered himself for God's will and was passively yet beautifully receptive to the ultimate pain of the Cross. The moral teachings we hear in the Liturgy of the Word augment our understanding of Christ's sacrifice; they provide concrete examples and expectations for our own lives, which ought to be molded into the form of Jesus' life. Finally, the examination and confession of our faults in the penitential rite of the Mass permits us to rightfully prepare our hearts for the reception of the greater mysteries to come. Although I explained the Mass in reverse, the fact that we as Catholics should be going to Mass at least every week means that one Mass simply paves the way for another. In reality, the Mass becomes something we live throughout the week and which truly does not 'finish.'

Another great resource for actively discovering what it is the Church teaches on almost any topic (viz. morality, revelation, the saints, prayer, etc.) is the Catechism of the Catholic Church. This was first published in 1997 under Pope John Paul II, who called the book a "sure norm for teaching the faith." (Fidei depositum, 3) Undoubtedly, anyone seriously interested in the content of the Catholic faith ought to study the Catechism on a regular basis. Often, parishes have classes set up for such an opportunity. If you are a member of a parish that does not, and you have a desire to learn more, I would recommend taking the initiative to help something like this get off the ground. Oftentimes you don't realize how many other people are longing for a similar and deeper understanding of the faith they profess.

In addition to the liturgy and Catechism, another great help in forming one's conscience can come from talking with a good and holy priest, either casually or in the context of spiritual direction. Priests are education in theology and spirituality specifically for the purpose of helping people come to see the fullness of truth in Jesus Christ. Likewise, they make promises to live celibately and simply so that their entire life might be at the disposal of those same people. The Church desires that all priests grow in wisdom and holiness specifically for this purpose of becoming good shepherds in the image of Christ, the true Good Shepherd. My recommendation to any Catholic experiencing this desire to become well-formed in conscience would be to actively seek out such an edifying spiritual relationship with a spiritual father, one known for his holiness, understanding of the faith and adherance to the Church's teachings.

Hopefully this more pragmatic view of virtue (or at least the beginnings of it) has helped to show just how we can go about becoming truly holy as Catholics. Being formed in conscience requires much work and perseverance, and is never an easy task. However, Our Lord so eagerly desires our growth in faith and charity, as well as our virtuous interaction with our neighbors, that there is no reason why we shouldn't start in that life-long process of formation and conversion right now.

In light of recent discussions here in the seminary and also with friends elsewhere, I wanted to do a brief post on the nature of catechesis versus the nature of theology. Both topics appear with great frequency on this blog, and I think that identifying one or the other and the traits proper to each will aide in making some posts more effective. Perhaps it goes without saying, but if one tries to read theology within a catechetical framework, problems may arise and vice versa.

The main distinction between catechesis and theology is in the intent: catechesis is intended to demonstrate the official findings of the Church throughout her Tradition, while theology is an ongoing attempt to seek out God through scholarly questioning and research. Both are commendable, and ultimately dependent upon one another; catechesis would not exist without prior theological considerations, and theology without the Catholic truth is hopeless in really finding God. Although vastly different in scope, the two disciplines complement one another perfectly, and truly hold a tension that enables us to delve most fully into the mystery of the Trinity that Christ reveals to us in his Incarnation.

There can be a danger, though, when one reads catechtically into a topic proper to theology, and likewise in reverse; since theology is sometimes speculative and calls upon analogies in its pursuit which are not entirely resistant to all critique, taking theological thought for a norm of the faith can result in a misunderstanding of what it is the Church actually believes. Likewise, it can result in a misapprehension of what the author is truly intending to say. Similarly for the one who reads theologically into something entirely catechetical; the established truth of the Catholic faith which is professed by the authority of the Magisterium is questioned inappropriately and without regard to its foundation in the 'deposit of faith.' Both 'misreads' can end in great calamity, and so avoiding this trouble ought to be a top priority for any writer or student of both.

I only bring this up to ensure two things: First, that what I am writing here be understood for what it is meant to be (theological topics will always be tagged as such, and catechetical topics will be tagged as regards their specific area of pertinence). Second, I want to ensure that what is written in no way adversely affects the reader, who may or may not be a scholar of theology or philosophy or a well-catechized Catholic, but rather that these posts might offer a window into a greater and fuller understanding of the richness and wisdom preserved in the Catholic Tradition. I hope that, thus far, you have found this blog edifying as I fully intend to keep posting. Remember, comments and feedback are welcomed and helpful! Thanks.

As I was considering today the many woes of life (i.e. complaining to myself about how much I had to do and was pushing off till later), something kind of great struck me. In the midst of all the hectic schedules and pending assignments, I suddenly had the realization that God is more powerful than all of it, and that he ultimately has the ability to make our hearts so set on him that the turmoils of the world are powerless in distracting us. Really, it was a brief actualization of God's efficacious ability to truly and positively do things in our lives, something we often don't give him the credit for.

Although it might seem a little tangential, I think that understanding Jesus' Sacred Heart is key in understanding what it means to be unswervingly set upon God's will, precisely what I meant above. Often, we consider the Sacred Heart as being nothing more than a nice painting, representing Christ's burning desire for us and at the same time the agony he endured on the Cross. While this representation is absolutely true, I find that a superficial glimpse of 'desire' and 'agony' doesn't seem to hold much weight in itself unless both elements are seen together and in light of one another. Desire is only worth anything if it is willing to endure the pains of agony in its actualization.

This meditation can take place right in our own lives. There seems to be a tremendous correlation between the openness of our heart to the needs of others and our own openness to being hurt; when we expose ourselves to others' torments in the hope of helping them, we also leave ourselves vulnerable to attack in that unguarded moment of self-gift. Our desire for charity becomes the instance of our deepest agony. This is true in any human situation, but particularly those where the charity offered and the intensity of human suffering are deepest. Often, if we reach out to another and find ourselves deeply pained by their lack of response or reciprocal self-gift, it can be a good sign that the Lord's grace in our actions was quite profound.

The example par excellence of this painful self-offering is Jesus Christ; it was only out of love for us that Christ came to earth, and his openness to teaching us the Truth of God was pierced through it's soft core with nails, against a Cross. The tender love of God was awarded the response of cold and brutal death. But, the same heart that was pierced by the lance of the centurion immediately issued forth both blood and water, and all attempts to subdue divine charity were covered by the outpouring of divine grace. In short, love conquers agony, and grace washes away even the hardness of human cruelty.

This is so true in our lives, if we live by the statutes the same Lord teaches us through the gift of his Church. In the end, our hearts, open to the tumult of daily life and the ills of worldly disdain and struggle, will triumph in confluence with the Sacred Heart of our Lord on Good Friday. This is precisely the role of the sacraments: to provide the font of divine grace in our lives by which we are filled up, so that when our lives are demanded of us (in physical or spiritual ways) we might provide the world a glimpse of that same life-giving agony that redeemed us all in Christ.

Generally, suffering is something we try to avoid as human beings. Suffering means pain, and pain is a natural indication of loss (or at least some type of decay) in our person; psychologically or physically, untreated decay ultimately results in death. Despite our aversion, we can never escape pain and suffering as hard as we may try, and so we are forced to find a manner in which to reconcile it as something bearable and meaningful in our minds and hearts. Although we can fathom "bearable," perhaps the word "meaningful" seems quite out of place in a discussion of pain and suffering. Rightly so, since, although both can be borne, suffering alone (not pain) can provide meaning to the human person.

As human beings, we are composed of both body and soul; both experience pain in very different forms. Pain, per se, is the initial stimulus necessary for suffering to occur. In and of itself, pain is nothing more than the reaction of a living organism (spiritual or corporeal) to the decay mentioned before. In short, it is a natural reaction proper to all living and conscious beings. Suffering, on the other hand, results when the pain inflicted on an organism is both perceived and viewed by that organism as undesirable and ultimately detremental to its own integrity. Here, the mere phenomenon of pain is transcended by the introspection of the one being hurt. In other words, it seems that only those with the potential to know themselves from an exterior point of view can experience suffering, first-hand. This, then, is a reality reserved to human beings alone, and even those whose consciousness is limited by lack of maturity or serious medical problems, since the ability for self-knowledge still exists in the human soul which functions beyond temporal restrictions.

Understanding the peculiarly human dimension of suffering, then, one begins to see how meaning can therefore be ascribed to it. No element of human life is without meaning to some degree; meaning pervades even the most static and base phenomena of man's perception. We continually apply the categories of our understanding to our experiences of the world around us, thereby interpreting and inevitably drawing meaning from it all. As it goes, the bigger and more profound an experience, the more prone to an intense meaning it becomes. Suffering, as the recognition of personal decay, is thus grounds for some of the most striking meanings we can impose; among the possibilities, it can mean for us either the beginning of an inevitable spiral toward the ubiquitous and untimely fate of death, or the perfect chance to re-examine our innermost understanding of what it means to be truly 'human.'

As Catholics, the reality of suffering takes on an entirely new dimension in the person of Jesus Christ, and particularly in him crucified. The all-too-typical agony of self-decay is epitomized in the suffering of the God-Man, the Son of God, who descended from the heights of glory in order to suffer unto the depths of his divine being, crying out on the Cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Mt 27:46) No bit of cruelty and torment was reserved from him, who bore our infirmities in his own Precious Body. As the cause of our salvation, Christ's suffering is endowed with meaning beyond our comprehension; his saving act a bridge between the truly human and the truly divine and one which contains an infinite wealth of beauty.

For this reason, the Catholic Tradition has always viewed the Passion and Cross of Christ as the sweetest of sufferings: the one imbued with meaning beyond all the rest, which provides purpose for our lives and beauty in all the struggles of daily life. "Dulce lignum, dulce clavo," declares the traditional hymn of Good Friday, "Dulce pondus sustinens": "Sweet the wood and sweet is the nail, which sustains so sweet a burden" as the Body of our Lord, crucified.