What Hope Looks Like

I don’t know why it took so many years for me to realize that as the leaves drop in the fall and we enter into the tunnel of barrenness that is winter, the promise of spring is already present.

Waiting. Gestating. Doing mysterious, invisible things to prepare for spring–for resurrection–right through the heart of winter.

God works that way in us, too.

And that, I would label “hope.”

A Word of Hope for the Church, in a time of division

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Bad news is everywhere these days, and often it seems like the Church is characterized by division rather than the unity implied by our name.

We bicker over whether the Eucharist is medicine for the flawed or a reward given to those who deserve it.

We bicker over kneeling versus standing.

We bicker over whether it’s better to receive on the tongue or in the hand.

When the Pope challenges us to see the world’s issues as interconnected and inseparable, quoting the last several popes, certain extreme factions within the Church (who have a secular political agenda) launch a campaign against him that has caused confusion among many faithful people who are just trying to follow Jesus in their daily lives. (You should read that article, by the way. All of it.)

And of course, there’s the ongoing stain of the sex abuse scandal.

Given all this, it was pretty demoralizing when that Pew research survey came out a few months ago. The one suggesting that Catholics don’t even really understand the one thing that, above all others, defines us: the Eucharist.

Photo by Iarlaith McNamara on Pexels.com

Today I want to offer two points as words of hope. First, this article. Words matter, and the way the Pew questions were written, many of us would hesitate, caught between our faith and the way certain words are used in the modern secular world. I mentioned this at choir practice shortly after the survey came out, when people were expressing their dismay about the survey, and a recent convert, who had to navigate those waters on the way into the Church, nodded vigorously in agreement. The authors of this analysis suggest a more hopeful picture, and their argument resonates with me.

Which brings me to the second point: part of the reason for that resonance is an experience I had when I was working as a full-time liturgy director. I was jaded even then about the view and understanding of the Eucharist among the average Catholic Mass-goer. Convinced that most people really didn’t “get” it.

Then one day, when we had a no-show, I substituted as an extraordinary Eucharistic minister.

It was an amazing experience. One after another, people raised their eyes and their hands. The looks on their faces remain with me to this day: raw, naked, vulnerable, longing, hopeful, reverent, transfigured. Those people knew they were receiving Jesus. Knew it at a visceral level that tells a truth far deeper than any survey can illuminate. By the end of Communion, I was nearly in tears.

So when the division in the Church seem ready to rip us apart at the seams—when despair tries to get a hold on my heart—I choose to hope. To believe that what I was taught as a child remains true now: the Spirit is in control, that we are led at this point in time by the person the Spirit knows we need, and that nothing can destroy the Church. Not even us.

Joy = Freedom?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Until I started reading Evangelii Gaudium last fall, I had never thought much about the relationship between joy and faith. The very beginning of this apostolic exhortation consists of a list of very familiar Scripture quotes that I never before thought of in terms of joy.

Simple, childlike joy: if we want to evangelize, Pope Francis said, we do it by showing that our faith in Jesus Christ gives us joy.

I have to admit, “joy” is not the vibe I get off most of the people who make a big Thing out their Christian faith. Some…yes. But a precious few.

More to the point, it’s definitely not been the vibe I sensed from myself. I want to see the world as God sees it—yes, there’s beauty, but there is also so much that is not as it should be. How can I help being grieved by what grieves the heart of God?

For years, faith has reminded me of Jacob wrestling with God/the angel. What is the point of faith, after all? Isn’t it to challenge us to become better than we would be without it? If the point of faith is to pat us on the head and tell us how we’re saved and forgiven and we’re blessed in temporal terms because we’re saved—well, I would submit that what we’re actually worshiping isn’t God at all, but our own comfort.

But where does that leave “joy”?

Yesterday morning, singing James Moore’s “Taste & See,” a line leaped off the page:
“From all my troubles I was set free.”

The psalms encompass the breadth of human emotional experience. I know this. But this is Psalm 34. There are more than a hundred more psalms after this one. There is no way that David never had more troubles after writing this song.

Which means…what?

Maybe being set free from troubles just means those troubles don’t rule you. You still have to walk through the dark valleys, but you don’t have to let them define you. They don’t have to define your identity.

So maybe it’s okay to be angry with the things I see happening in the world. But I don’t have to internalize it, dwell on it, and lie awake fretting about it. (Or what people think of me for calling it out, for that matter.)

And maybe it means that I can advocate for the will of God in the world, as best I can discern it, but I don’t have to be crushed when the inevitable setbacks come. I can default to joy, even though things aren’t as they should be.

That would be freedom, indeed.

Photo by fall maple on Pexels.com

Divine Creativity

Background Image by David Mark from Pixabay

There’s no doubt the Church is going through a period of darkness and ecclesial weakness right now. Many have left the Church and plenty of the rest of us have been shaken. This is such a beautiful reminder for this time and place. Come, Lord Jesus! Come, Holy Spirit!

Breaking Through

Resurrection WindowIn my parish, this window is one of three forming the back wall of the music area, where I have “lived” for the past nineteen years. Every once in a while, the setting sun illuminates the resurrection beam. It’s a glorious moment.

Holy Thursday was cloudy and chilly all day. But in the middle of Mass, the sinking sun broke through the clouds and sent this beam of light coursing down the image of Heavenly power breaking through into the humdrum, workaday world. Juxtaposed against the anxieties I have been contemplating in recent weeks (and months, and years), as well as against the Triduum whose celebration we were just opening, it felt particularly meaningful, and particularly pregnant with hope.

This is my wish for a blessed and hope-filled Easter for all those who love the Lord.