Corpus Christi is my favorite solemnity in the entire Church year, minus the three big ones (Palm Sunday, Easter Vigil, Christmas). You won't find it anywhere else in Christianity, though some traditions might try to do as we do. It's full of the sounds and smells and devotion that make us truly Catholic.
Well, at least it should be full of those things. Not everyone is lucky enough to go to "that sort of parish."
Sometimes, people in the pews don't know what the Real Presence is. They don't know what transubstantiation means. And very few of that demographic seems to care enough to ask someone.
Most of that is just bad catechesis. No one ever taught them the Faith, and if they were taught, it was done wrongly or not reinforced at home.
But then there's bad liturgy, and bored -- or worse, heretical -- priests. And there are the people that will rant, nitpick and mourn, yearning for the 1950s when clergy actually followed the rubrics, everything was perfect and no one sneezed at Mass.
I contend that looking for the ideal parish is like looking for the ideal spouse. Perfection doesn't exist in this world. In fact, sometimes we fall depressingly short of the mark.
But here's the beautiful thing about Christ and His Church: it subsists in the middle of all that mess. For the Eucharist to be valid, all we need are the right words, the right stuff, and the intention to do what Jesus did: give the people His true body and blood.
And even if the place is a disaster area, He'll come to dwell in the midst of it, uncaring priests and bad music included. He is just as present as He would be at St. Peter's Basilica.
Does that mean we should be content with mediocre worship? No, absolutely not. If anything, it's for that same Real Presence we should be working hard to ensure what we give is our best. It's just reassuring to know that in those moments we fail, He is still with us.
The way I see it, we can allow ourselves to be distracted and judge everything/one around us, or we can thank God for His reliability. He loves us a lot more than we do, for sure.
Simcha Fisher over at the National Catholic Register wrote one of the best blog posts on this topic I've ever read. You can check it out here. While you're at it, read her entire blog. She's a genius.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Corapi, accused priests get the short straw
Today is a very sad one for the Church in America. We've lost one of our most prominent, influential and hard-hitting priests, Fr. John Corapi, SOLT.
After an allegation of sexual misconduct was made against him several months ago, Corapi announced he has been indefinitely suspended from ministry.
The announcement was made via his YouTube channel earlier today. Corapi said that his superiors with the Society of Our Lady of the Trinity were strong-armed into removing him following pressure from certain bishops. You can watch the entire thing here.
I'm not going to make any comments as to his guilt or innocence. We can't know for sure what exactly led to the allegations, and from the sounds of things we probably never will. As much as I love my Church, we're not exactly fans of transparency.
And there, I think, lies the problem.
The abuse scandal has been going on for decades with varying degrees of publicity, and people both in and outside the Church demand answers. For the most part, I feel like we've gotten little more than canned, empty PR.
Of course, as a Catholic I can understand the need to protect our reputation. That's important. But in today's society, we can't expect to "keep things in the family" and have that be acceptable to everyone else. Corapi deserved at the very least a fair hearing. The faithful also deserve to have all of the details laid out in the open. Yet in this case, as with so many others like it, all of us will be left guessing.
Beyond that, the way we treat our accused priests in reprehensible. As Corapi said, in civil law we are innocent until proven guilty. Yet in the Church, if you sneeze the wrong way while wearing clerics, you can generally expect to have your ministry irreparably soiled.
We've done a lot of work to remove guilty priests of late. That's laudable. At the same time, I believe we should be a hell of a lot more aggressive ... but this is not the way to go about that. Not even close. Too often, we are throwing out our good men just as often as the bad. In doing that, the Church is only hurting more.
What we're left with is good men who are forced to live their priesthood in fear, both in their personal lives and in what they say at the pulpit. And, heaven help us, the true criminals.
Now if we could only be so merciless in dealing with bad doctrine.
St. John Vianney, pray for our priests.
After an allegation of sexual misconduct was made against him several months ago, Corapi announced he has been indefinitely suspended from ministry.
The announcement was made via his YouTube channel earlier today. Corapi said that his superiors with the Society of Our Lady of the Trinity were strong-armed into removing him following pressure from certain bishops. You can watch the entire thing here.
I'm not going to make any comments as to his guilt or innocence. We can't know for sure what exactly led to the allegations, and from the sounds of things we probably never will. As much as I love my Church, we're not exactly fans of transparency.
And there, I think, lies the problem.
The abuse scandal has been going on for decades with varying degrees of publicity, and people both in and outside the Church demand answers. For the most part, I feel like we've gotten little more than canned, empty PR.
Of course, as a Catholic I can understand the need to protect our reputation. That's important. But in today's society, we can't expect to "keep things in the family" and have that be acceptable to everyone else. Corapi deserved at the very least a fair hearing. The faithful also deserve to have all of the details laid out in the open. Yet in this case, as with so many others like it, all of us will be left guessing.
Beyond that, the way we treat our accused priests in reprehensible. As Corapi said, in civil law we are innocent until proven guilty. Yet in the Church, if you sneeze the wrong way while wearing clerics, you can generally expect to have your ministry irreparably soiled.
We've done a lot of work to remove guilty priests of late. That's laudable. At the same time, I believe we should be a hell of a lot more aggressive ... but this is not the way to go about that. Not even close. Too often, we are throwing out our good men just as often as the bad. In doing that, the Church is only hurting more.
What we're left with is good men who are forced to live their priesthood in fear, both in their personal lives and in what they say at the pulpit. And, heaven help us, the true criminals.
Now if we could only be so merciless in dealing with bad doctrine.
St. John Vianney, pray for our priests.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Time to Sleep
Well, today didn't go exactly the way I planned...
Over the past ten days or so, my cat has been gimping around on three legs, favoring her back paw. After waiting to see if it would correct itself, we decided to take her to the vet today.
What we learned was that at 14 years old and a whopping four pounds thanks to a thyroid condition, she had irreversible nerve damage in that leg. Soon, the vet said, it would spread to her other back leg, leaving her unable to walk.
We didn't want to put her through that. Instead, we said goodbye and let her go.
I wasn't there to watch it happen, but we spent her last hour together before her appointment asleep in my bed. She was curled up against my chest, my arms draped over her, both of our faces buried in my pillow.
Now, she rests tucked between two trees in my backyard, with her bed and favorite toys. As much as I'll miss her, I won't mourn for long. She was suffering, and it was time. The best part of making the decision today was that the huge personality and peace never failed.
She died as she lived -- with peace and beauty and joy. And from her I learned what perfect Christian love really is -- selfless, total, and loyal.
Animals really are amazing.
Rest well, my Missy girl. See you someday.
Over the past ten days or so, my cat has been gimping around on three legs, favoring her back paw. After waiting to see if it would correct itself, we decided to take her to the vet today.
What we learned was that at 14 years old and a whopping four pounds thanks to a thyroid condition, she had irreversible nerve damage in that leg. Soon, the vet said, it would spread to her other back leg, leaving her unable to walk.
We didn't want to put her through that. Instead, we said goodbye and let her go.
I wasn't there to watch it happen, but we spent her last hour together before her appointment asleep in my bed. She was curled up against my chest, my arms draped over her, both of our faces buried in my pillow.
Now, she rests tucked between two trees in my backyard, with her bed and favorite toys. As much as I'll miss her, I won't mourn for long. She was suffering, and it was time. The best part of making the decision today was that the huge personality and peace never failed.
She died as she lived -- with peace and beauty and joy. And from her I learned what perfect Christian love really is -- selfless, total, and loyal.
Animals really are amazing.
Rest well, my Missy girl. See you someday.
Monday, June 6, 2011
I Believe
A week or so ago, I stumbled upon an article that eulogized a Canadian man who blogged his battle with cancer. He was unflinching and candid throughout the journey, and even had a postmortem post ready for when his time came.
Of course, that last post drew comments in droves, and one in particular stuck out to me: "I am not a religious man," the commenter wrote, "but in times like these, it would be so nice to believe that this is not the end."
I found myself in that moment full of pity for that man, and for so many others who contend all that waits for us is, well...nothing.
Are they wrong? I don't know. Is my faith correct? I hope. Many say we can have full assurance of the truth. But let's face it -- not one of us will know the capital-t-Truth until we get there.
Until that day, I choose to believe.
I believe because a world without faith is inconceivably grim in my eyes. What is there to hope for in the future if there is nothing but death after this? Why would my actions, my words, matter at all? Why do we live, and why in the world would anyone care?
It's a sad mindset for me, one that I'll never be able to fully wrap my mind around. I've been mocked, ridiculed and challenged for what I believe, but in my eyes, it's better to hope and rejoice than spend my life waiting for oblivion. That's not what I'm about.
I believe because I have seen the power of faith at work. I have seen relationships and wounds healed, and lives changed.
Maybe those other guys are right. Maybe it is a fantasy. But that "fantasy" is my hope and strength as this world hurricanes around me. It's what gets me through those irritating moments at work, and the crippling nights in bed wondering what the future holds for me and those I hold dear.
I am strong in my weakness because of Him, and able to have joy in the midst of terrible grief and uncertainty thanks to His promises. And you know, the one thing I've learned in the last five years is that He always keeps His promises.
That's why I believe. If I'm wrong, then I've lived my life with optimism and integrity, and have made a difference in the world for it.
If they're wrong, well ... let's just say I'm not going to hedge my bets!
Of course, that last post drew comments in droves, and one in particular stuck out to me: "I am not a religious man," the commenter wrote, "but in times like these, it would be so nice to believe that this is not the end."
I found myself in that moment full of pity for that man, and for so many others who contend all that waits for us is, well...nothing.
Are they wrong? I don't know. Is my faith correct? I hope. Many say we can have full assurance of the truth. But let's face it -- not one of us will know the capital-t-Truth until we get there.
Until that day, I choose to believe.
I believe because a world without faith is inconceivably grim in my eyes. What is there to hope for in the future if there is nothing but death after this? Why would my actions, my words, matter at all? Why do we live, and why in the world would anyone care?
It's a sad mindset for me, one that I'll never be able to fully wrap my mind around. I've been mocked, ridiculed and challenged for what I believe, but in my eyes, it's better to hope and rejoice than spend my life waiting for oblivion. That's not what I'm about.
I believe because I have seen the power of faith at work. I have seen relationships and wounds healed, and lives changed.
Maybe those other guys are right. Maybe it is a fantasy. But that "fantasy" is my hope and strength as this world hurricanes around me. It's what gets me through those irritating moments at work, and the crippling nights in bed wondering what the future holds for me and those I hold dear.
I am strong in my weakness because of Him, and able to have joy in the midst of terrible grief and uncertainty thanks to His promises. And you know, the one thing I've learned in the last five years is that He always keeps His promises.
That's why I believe. If I'm wrong, then I've lived my life with optimism and integrity, and have made a difference in the world for it.
If they're wrong, well ... let's just say I'm not going to hedge my bets!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Tough Stuff
Some weeks are bad. And then there are some weeks where you want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
That kind of week is where I find myself now. There's work, where no one is returning my calls, a suddenly blossoming relationship that I am nowhere near emotionally ready for, and family problems.
A cousin of mine has needed a liver for 30 years. Last night, they found a match. My family rejoiced. I praised God, for just that morning I called all my friends and we prayed together for a miracle. Today, as they began the transplant, they learned that he has a secondary issue that for now prohibits transplant. The liver he needed was passed on, and now he remains deathly ill.
Our hearts are extremely burdened over this. I can say personally that I feel stabbed in the back and betrayed by the God who I believed was going to give us a miracle.
But as a coworker reminded me gently in a private moment outside the newsroom, sometimes His answer is no. And sometimes the only words of consolation we receive are "trust Me." Until then, we learn to walk in the dark and listen in the silence.
Now that I've had some time to process and write a letter to a friend, I'm a little more rational. This is not God's fault. Hating Him will accomplish nothing, and screaming at Him will only tire out my soul more. Considering the last few weeks, that's the last thing I need. (Really, it's pretty bad when you walk up to a random priest and ask for confession on a Monday. I'm trying to stay out of more trouble!)
One of the things I said in that letter was that it's the rough things in life that really make us holy.
I don't know if I like the way that feels. But for now, these are the cards He has dealt me. I've seen the consequences of running away too many times, and I'm learning in the midst of my anxiety (which I'm now being treated for) that I just can't be strong on my own.
That's okay. I need Him like I need air. And I can either accept that, or watch my life fall to despair.
I think you know which one I'm going to choose. :)
That kind of week is where I find myself now. There's work, where no one is returning my calls, a suddenly blossoming relationship that I am nowhere near emotionally ready for, and family problems.
A cousin of mine has needed a liver for 30 years. Last night, they found a match. My family rejoiced. I praised God, for just that morning I called all my friends and we prayed together for a miracle. Today, as they began the transplant, they learned that he has a secondary issue that for now prohibits transplant. The liver he needed was passed on, and now he remains deathly ill.
Our hearts are extremely burdened over this. I can say personally that I feel stabbed in the back and betrayed by the God who I believed was going to give us a miracle.
But as a coworker reminded me gently in a private moment outside the newsroom, sometimes His answer is no. And sometimes the only words of consolation we receive are "trust Me." Until then, we learn to walk in the dark and listen in the silence.
Now that I've had some time to process and write a letter to a friend, I'm a little more rational. This is not God's fault. Hating Him will accomplish nothing, and screaming at Him will only tire out my soul more. Considering the last few weeks, that's the last thing I need. (Really, it's pretty bad when you walk up to a random priest and ask for confession on a Monday. I'm trying to stay out of more trouble!)
One of the things I said in that letter was that it's the rough things in life that really make us holy.
I don't know if I like the way that feels. But for now, these are the cards He has dealt me. I've seen the consequences of running away too many times, and I'm learning in the midst of my anxiety (which I'm now being treated for) that I just can't be strong on my own.
That's okay. I need Him like I need air. And I can either accept that, or watch my life fall to despair.
I think you know which one I'm going to choose. :)
Monday, May 16, 2011
Grounded
How often do we hear the voice of God? And when we hear it, how often do we listen?
This was the question we were asked this past weekend for Good Shepherd Sunday. That Saturday night came on the heels of my graduation, which was official Friday afternoon. God, in His great humor, had a way of speaking to me right where I was.
Lately, I haven't been listening...haven't listened, and haven't cared.
That's not for lack of desire, mind you. Knowing I can be open here, I imagine now is as good a time as any to talk about it. Lately, I've been struggling with horrible anxiety to the point where it's become a physical issue.
There are two things I'm learning from this experience: first, I know that my spiritual life taking a hit isn't going to help anything. One line of a Matt Maher song says, "My fear grips my faith, and I am left unmoved." That's where I'm at.
The other thing -- and this is perhaps most important of all -- is that I am utterly dependent on God. Without Him, I lose my footing, my center, my courage.
I'm not sure yet how I'm going to get out of this, but the first place I'm going to start is my knees. And the doctor. Please pray for me.
This was the question we were asked this past weekend for Good Shepherd Sunday. That Saturday night came on the heels of my graduation, which was official Friday afternoon. God, in His great humor, had a way of speaking to me right where I was.
Lately, I haven't been listening...haven't listened, and haven't cared.
That's not for lack of desire, mind you. Knowing I can be open here, I imagine now is as good a time as any to talk about it. Lately, I've been struggling with horrible anxiety to the point where it's become a physical issue.
There are two things I'm learning from this experience: first, I know that my spiritual life taking a hit isn't going to help anything. One line of a Matt Maher song says, "My fear grips my faith, and I am left unmoved." That's where I'm at.
The other thing -- and this is perhaps most important of all -- is that I am utterly dependent on God. Without Him, I lose my footing, my center, my courage.
I'm not sure yet how I'm going to get out of this, but the first place I'm going to start is my knees. And the doctor. Please pray for me.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
The End
It's over.
On Thursday, I left my chaplain's office and walked across the Newman house, wanting to stop in the little Adoration chapel one more time. Only the day before I was studying there, wanting to avoid the distraction of music, laughter and friends.
A month ago, I sat on the floor there with three of them, all of us praying for a relative of mine as he clung to life. An hour later, we learned of his miraculous recovery.
A year ago, I prayed for strength as I faced the end of junior year in the midst of troubled times at home, not knowing what I would find when I got there. God provided for me then.
And yesterday, I sat back on my knees for a minute in silence, watching the sunlight filter through the stained glass. For just a little while, I wanted to hang on to the embrace of all those memories and relationships.
Before I knew what hit me, I was crying both in sadness for the end of this chapter of my life, and in thanksgiving for God's fingerprints on every inch of it. In some ways, it's taken me until now to notice them.
Today, I turned in the keys to my apartment, packed my life into a pickup truck and headed home to my favorite chair and my cat, who's ecstatic to have me back. To my surprise, my parents are, too. ;)
For now, for this moment, it feels wonderful.
On Thursday, I left my chaplain's office and walked across the Newman house, wanting to stop in the little Adoration chapel one more time. Only the day before I was studying there, wanting to avoid the distraction of music, laughter and friends.
A month ago, I sat on the floor there with three of them, all of us praying for a relative of mine as he clung to life. An hour later, we learned of his miraculous recovery.
A year ago, I prayed for strength as I faced the end of junior year in the midst of troubled times at home, not knowing what I would find when I got there. God provided for me then.
And yesterday, I sat back on my knees for a minute in silence, watching the sunlight filter through the stained glass. For just a little while, I wanted to hang on to the embrace of all those memories and relationships.
Before I knew what hit me, I was crying both in sadness for the end of this chapter of my life, and in thanksgiving for God's fingerprints on every inch of it. In some ways, it's taken me until now to notice them.
Today, I turned in the keys to my apartment, packed my life into a pickup truck and headed home to my favorite chair and my cat, who's ecstatic to have me back. To my surprise, my parents are, too. ;)
For now, for this moment, it feels wonderful.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Being Catholic
I've been neglecting this place. I'm sorry. I'm barreling through my final days as a college student, and lately it seems that I've been trying to drink dry every moment of them.
Life should be like that. And sometimes, I find myself so consumed by the thought of, "Oh! I need to remember this so I can blog/tweet/Facebook/whatever it later!" that the experience I was trying to capture has passed by.
So, I've spent the last little while just observing. It feels good.
Two weeks ago now we were about to enter the Triduum. On Holy Thursday, I was working on deadline and panicked because everything hinged on a phone call. The call had to come that day, or I would be stuck until after the holiday. I carried my cell phone with me everywhere, and ironically when it rang, there were only 15 minutes to spare. (I was also in the bathroom at the time. So this is what journalism is about...)
With work behind me just in time, I flew down the block to St. Bridget's for Mass. When I slid into the pew and onto my knees, it took a long time to slow down my brain.
"Lift up your hearts," the priest tells us before Communion. We respond, "We lift them up to the Lord." For me, lifting up your heart means to leave behind your "life junk" for a while. I took a breath and steadied myself.
The Our Father came shortly after that as it always does, and my friends and I all reached for one another's hands. All around us, people did the same, and as incense floated over down over our heads, I could hear two languages chanting the prayer together.
That happens every day at Mass. But when I stopped and really listened, I was amazed at how much I missed around me.
Catholicism, more than any other flavor of Christianity, is so physical. Going to Mass slams all of your senses. Every gesture and word has a reason and purpose. All of those sounds and smells and tastes are tools that bring us closer to God.
The best part is that despite how different that huge crowd is, for an hour or so, we're identical. Maybe that's why we call ourselves catholic -- universal.
Life should be like that. And sometimes, I find myself so consumed by the thought of, "Oh! I need to remember this so I can blog/tweet/Facebook/whatever it later!" that the experience I was trying to capture has passed by.
So, I've spent the last little while just observing. It feels good.
Two weeks ago now we were about to enter the Triduum. On Holy Thursday, I was working on deadline and panicked because everything hinged on a phone call. The call had to come that day, or I would be stuck until after the holiday. I carried my cell phone with me everywhere, and ironically when it rang, there were only 15 minutes to spare. (I was also in the bathroom at the time. So this is what journalism is about...)
With work behind me just in time, I flew down the block to St. Bridget's for Mass. When I slid into the pew and onto my knees, it took a long time to slow down my brain.
"Lift up your hearts," the priest tells us before Communion. We respond, "We lift them up to the Lord." For me, lifting up your heart means to leave behind your "life junk" for a while. I took a breath and steadied myself.
The Our Father came shortly after that as it always does, and my friends and I all reached for one another's hands. All around us, people did the same, and as incense floated over down over our heads, I could hear two languages chanting the prayer together.
That happens every day at Mass. But when I stopped and really listened, I was amazed at how much I missed around me.
Catholicism, more than any other flavor of Christianity, is so physical. Going to Mass slams all of your senses. Every gesture and word has a reason and purpose. All of those sounds and smells and tastes are tools that bring us closer to God.
The best part is that despite how different that huge crowd is, for an hour or so, we're identical. Maybe that's why we call ourselves catholic -- universal.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Celebrating
As I write this, there are five minutes left until Good Friday and, dutifully, I am shoving as much fiber and protein into my mouth as humanly possible.
Meanwhile, just a brief post tonight.
Last night (Wednesday), we celebrated an annual tradition at Newman: senior dinner. We all cook for one another as a rule, but once a year the underclassmen team up to prepare and serve something a bit more "fancy" to the graduating seniors, who enjoy candlelight, good china, and conversation by themselves.
There are ten of us this year, a huge chunk of the crowd. Many have been integral. The underclassmen tell me I am one of the ones that have made a difference.
(Midnight. Good Friday.)
Before breaking away to eat, they surrounded us in a giant huddle around the table while Father gave us a blessing. And afterward, one at a time, we had the opportunity to offer whatever was on our heart. Advice, thanksgiving, love.
All of that happened and there were lots of tears. As for me, I was toward the end of the line and had a decent amount of time to think about what I wanted to say. I wasn't sure until my turn arrived, but I kicked things off this way:
"You know, it just hit me. Tomorrow, April 21st, will be four years since I came back home to the Church..." Here, there were cheers and applause. It was a perfect way to finish my thought: "And ironically, almost four years to the day, I'm celebrating with the people that have helped me keep that faith. I came here isolated, and I'm leaving here with family."
It's not been an easy ride, by any means ... even recently I found myself being carried on the journey when I couldn't face hard times alone. But every year I am a little stronger, and a lot more humbled by how much God is teaching and transforming me every day.
Growing pains hurt like hell. But they, like anything worth having, are so worth it in the end.
Meanwhile, just a brief post tonight.
Last night (Wednesday), we celebrated an annual tradition at Newman: senior dinner. We all cook for one another as a rule, but once a year the underclassmen team up to prepare and serve something a bit more "fancy" to the graduating seniors, who enjoy candlelight, good china, and conversation by themselves.
There are ten of us this year, a huge chunk of the crowd. Many have been integral. The underclassmen tell me I am one of the ones that have made a difference.
(Midnight. Good Friday.)
Before breaking away to eat, they surrounded us in a giant huddle around the table while Father gave us a blessing. And afterward, one at a time, we had the opportunity to offer whatever was on our heart. Advice, thanksgiving, love.
All of that happened and there were lots of tears. As for me, I was toward the end of the line and had a decent amount of time to think about what I wanted to say. I wasn't sure until my turn arrived, but I kicked things off this way:
"You know, it just hit me. Tomorrow, April 21st, will be four years since I came back home to the Church..." Here, there were cheers and applause. It was a perfect way to finish my thought: "And ironically, almost four years to the day, I'm celebrating with the people that have helped me keep that faith. I came here isolated, and I'm leaving here with family."
It's not been an easy ride, by any means ... even recently I found myself being carried on the journey when I couldn't face hard times alone. But every year I am a little stronger, and a lot more humbled by how much God is teaching and transforming me every day.
Growing pains hurt like hell. But they, like anything worth having, are so worth it in the end.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Acting in Agony
I keep thinking about the Agony in the Garden. It's the time of year for that, both in liturgy and in that aching in my soul that I can't seem to kick.
Before He was betrayed, Jesus begged and pleaded to be set free of the circumstances that led Him here. No longer could He put the future out of mind. He was to go and die for people who didn't really know Him and mostly didn't care. What's worse is that He had to do it all alone.
And then what? He returns from that plea to find Peter and the others passed out. It's a beautiful piece of irony. I can almost see the slightest bitter smirk on His lips before the crushing sadness comes again. Just when I need someone to be there for Me, they aren't, Jesus might have thought. That sight was the salt of the earth He preached about being rubbed into the wound of grief.
Yet He went and did it again, and then once more, praying with a passion so intense and a grief so penetrating he sweat blood. Really. The capillaries burst under all of that strain and blood came out of the pores when there was no more sweat to give. How many people do you know who have done that?
But what happened next is perhaps the most important part of the whole story. He knew there was no choice but to go through with His Passion -- after all, it's not as if you can resign being the Messiah, or just erase whatever your life circumstances are. So He got up off the ground, dried His tears, and moved forward.
I can't even imagine the strength it must have taken for Him to rise from there and walk away.
We can't change the past, and we can't freeze the present moment. Sometimes, things happen that are well beyond our control. The only thing to do is play the cards we're dealt the best we know how.
And we live with the promise that when we go to die, we will live again.
"I have promised, and I will do it," says the Lord.
Do we believe Him?
Before He was betrayed, Jesus begged and pleaded to be set free of the circumstances that led Him here. No longer could He put the future out of mind. He was to go and die for people who didn't really know Him and mostly didn't care. What's worse is that He had to do it all alone.
And then what? He returns from that plea to find Peter and the others passed out. It's a beautiful piece of irony. I can almost see the slightest bitter smirk on His lips before the crushing sadness comes again. Just when I need someone to be there for Me, they aren't, Jesus might have thought. That sight was the salt of the earth He preached about being rubbed into the wound of grief.
Yet He went and did it again, and then once more, praying with a passion so intense and a grief so penetrating he sweat blood. Really. The capillaries burst under all of that strain and blood came out of the pores when there was no more sweat to give. How many people do you know who have done that?
But what happened next is perhaps the most important part of the whole story. He knew there was no choice but to go through with His Passion -- after all, it's not as if you can resign being the Messiah, or just erase whatever your life circumstances are. So He got up off the ground, dried His tears, and moved forward.
I can't even imagine the strength it must have taken for Him to rise from there and walk away.
We can't change the past, and we can't freeze the present moment. Sometimes, things happen that are well beyond our control. The only thing to do is play the cards we're dealt the best we know how.
And we live with the promise that when we go to die, we will live again.
"I have promised, and I will do it," says the Lord.
Do we believe Him?
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