“Always give good heed to the Word of God, whether you hear or read it in private, or hearken to it when publicly preached: listen with attention and reverence; seek to profit by it, and do not let the precious words fall unheeded; receive them into your heart as a costly balsam; imitate the Blessed Virgin who ‘kept all the sayings’ concerning her Son, ‘in her heart.’ And remember that according as we hearken to and receive God’s words, so will He hearken and receive our supplications.”— St. Francis de Sales
From ancient times the Easter octave, culminating on the 8th day, has been centered on the theme of God’s mercy and forgiveness. The final day of the octave celebration of Easter is meant to be a day of thanksgiving to God for his goodness to mankind through the Paschal mystery, that is, the Passion, death, and Resurrection of our Savior Jesus Christ. The Second Sunday of Easter was named Divine Mercy Sunday by Pope St. John Paul II following a request from Our Lord in his private revelations to St. Faustina Kowalska. On this day Jesus promised to open the floodgates of his inexhaustible mercy and shower abundant graces on those who participate in this feast day. A plenary indulgence is granted (under the usual conditions of sacramental confession, Eucharistic communion, and prayer for the intentions of the Holy Father) to the faithful who, in any church or chapel, in a spirit that is completely detached from the affection for a sin, even a venial sin, take part in the prayers and devotions held in honor of Divine Mercy, or who, in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament exposed or reserved in the tabernacle, recite the Our Father and the Creed, adding a devout prayer to the merciful Lord Jesus.
Blessed Juliana of Mont Cornillon, also known as Juliana of Liege (1193-1258) was born near Liege, Belgium. She was orphaned at the age of five and placed in the convent of Mt. Cornillon near Liege. She made rapid progress in virtue and grew in love for the Passion of Christ, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and the Blessed Sacrament. At the age of thirteen she became a nun and devoted herself to caring for the sick in the convent hospital. She eventually became the superioress of her community.
Taught in repeated visions that Our Lord wanted a liturgical feast in honor of the Holy Eucharist to be established, Juliana worked diligently to have the feast of Corpus Christi instituted for the Universal Church, a task for which she endured much opposition. She was forced to flee her convent after its general superior excited the populace against her and her visions. She was later vindicated by the bishop and returned to her rightful place, only to be forced to flee a final time, ending her life in seclusion.
The feast of Corpus Christi was finally instituted six years after her death by Pope Urban IV, who also commissioned Saint Thomas Aquinas to prepare the magnificent texts for the feast’s Office and Mass. Her feast day is April 6.
Bl. Anacleto Gonzalez Flores (1888–1927) was the second of twelve children born to a poor family in Jalisco, Mexico. He was baptized the day after his birth. As he grew, a priest recognized his intelligence and recommended that he enter the seminary. Anacleto studied there for a time before discerning that he was not called to the priesthood. Instead he became an attorney, husband, and father, as well as an activist for his Catholic faith. He was a prolific writer and dedicated catechism teacher, and attended daily Mass. He joined the Catholic Association of Young Mexicans (ACJM) in addition to starting another Catholic lay organization committed to resisting the fierce persecution of the Catholic Church under the infamous Mexican dictator, Calles. Initially he participated only in the non-violent resistance against Calles, until four members of the ACJM were murdered in 1926. Their deaths spurred Anacleto to lend support to the armed resistance movement. Anacleto did not take up arms but instead gave speeches to encourage Catholics to support the Cristeros, the Catholic army fighting against Calles.
Anacleto was captured during the Cristero War on April 1, 1927, and was brutally tortured before being martyred by firing squad. His feast day is April 1st.
On Thursday of Holy Week (Maundy Thursday) the Church celebrates the three pillars of the Catholic Church instituted by Jesus Christ at the Last Supper: the priesthood, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and the Holy Eucharist. This is the traditional day for priests to gather with their bishop at the Chrism Mass, to receive oils blessed by the bishop and to publicly renew their priestly promises. In the evening the Church celebrates the Mass of the Lord’s Supper. After this Mass the altar is stripped bare and the Blessed Sacrament is removed from the Tabernacle and processed to a separate altar of repose. Here the Blessed Sacrament is adored until late in the night to commemorate the time Jesus spent in Garden of Gethsemane in agonizing prayer, the start of his Passion. The Blessed Sacrament is then taken away and hidden until the Easter Vigil in memory of Our Lord’s death and burial.
“We have close to us as much as Joseph had at Nazareth; we have our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, but our poor eyes fail to see Him. Let us once become interior souls and we shall immediately see. In no better way can we enter into the Heart of our Lord than through Saint Joseph. Jesus and Mary are eager to pay the debts which they owe him for his devoted care of them, and their greatest pleasure is to fulfill his least desire. Let him, then, lead you by hand into the interior sanctuary of Jesus Eucharistic.”— St. Peter Julian Eymard
Blessed Charles the Good (1083–1127), also known as Charles I and the Count of Flanders, was born in Denmark, the only son of King Canute IV (St. Canute) and Adela of Flanders. He was five years old when his father was assassinated in the Odense Cathedral, after which he and his mother fled for their lives to Flanders. He grew up in the royal court in that country and accompanied his maternal grandfather, a Count, on a crusade to the Holy Land.
After his grandfather’s death, Blessed Charles became an advisor to the next Count, his uncle; after his uncle’s death, Charles became Count. He was highly regarded by the people for his holiness and virtue. He was outspoken against the common practice of hoarding grain and selling it at inflated prices, and opposed the prominent Erembald family who gained their financial prosperity through this unjust practice.
On March 2, 1127, while Charles was in church praying, he was slain by soldiers loyal to the Erembald family, in the same manner his father was killed. His death sparked a public outcry and uprising against the Erembald family, while Charles was immediately looked upon as a martyr and saint. His feast day is March 2nd.
Ash Wednesday tends to get a bad rap. At first glance, the beginning of Lent each year doesn’t seem to have a very uplifting message. When we receive ashes on our foreheads, we are reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return. But “returning to dust” doesn’t sound all that positive, does it? Death isn’t something we like to think about, much less celebrate, in our liturgy and prayer.
If we take a closer look, though, we find that the message of Ash Wednesday has far more to do with life than with death. It’s much more about what it means to be human—on this side of death’s door, not only beyond. Being human means being both blessed and broken, and Ash Wednesday is a special invitation to look at our own brokenness in a way that can bring healing, strength, and courage.
Of course, brokenness is never the goal, even if we can encounter God through the process. We don’t set out to come up short, make mistakes, or feel “less than.” But we often do, a reality that is one mysterious thread within the intricate tapestry of human life. We have another word for this kind of brokenness, one that captures our essence as incomplete all on our own. That word is vulnerable.
Embracing Vulnerability
Vulnerability has become something of a buzzword in recent years. A simple online search of the word turns up countless videos, articles, and book titles. But what does it really mean?
To be vulnerable is to be exposed, to be open. Being vulnerable means that the parts of ourselves that are not strong and beautiful are visible to others. Brene Brown, research professor at the University of Houston and best-selling author, has become something of a cultural icon as a “vulnerability guru.” In her words, vulnerability is “having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome.”
Have you ever tried something new without being sure it would turn out OK? Then you have been vulnerable because you allowed failure to be a real possibility. Have you ever forgiven someone who betrayed you? Then you have been vulnerable because you opened yourself to being hurt again.
Have you ever asked for help? You have been vulnerable because you risked having your weaknesses exposed. Have you ever loved another person? You have been vulnerable because you took a chance on the other person not returning that love.
Life affords us many opportunities to choose to accept vulnerability. We can choose to share our feelings in a relationship without knowing how the other person will respond. We can choose to take a chance on a new career path, knowing that we may not succeed. But we aren’t always able to choose the kinds of vulnerability we experience. Life also forces us into brokenness entirely against our will.
We are thrown into a terrible, frightening vulnerability when our closest friend moves far away, when our kid drops out of school, when we learn about the affair, when the biopsy results come back positive. Never in a million years would we choose these or many other challenges thrust upon us.
Jesus had a lot to say about this kind of vulnerability. In fact, the beatitudes are the blueprint he laid out to help us honor our broken parts as a means of growth and transformation. He taught that being vulnerable—in other words, being poor or meek, feeling sorrowful or persecuted—is an opportunity to encounter the divine.
Suffering has a way of stripping us of our ego and false notions of self-sufficiency, which makes room for an experience of the divine. In accepting our faults, challenges, and pain, we create a space for God’s grace to work its inscrutable magic in our lives. Being vulnerable is the door through which we must travel to become the best, most authentic versions of ourselves.
Allowing ourselves to be vulnerable is how we accept our brokenness. The dust of Ash Wednesday is a powerful reminder of the vulnerability that is part of our spiritual DNA as human beings.
Rethinking Repentance
If Ash Wednesday today can remind us less about death and more about the mystery of vulnerability in life, then does the traditional focus on repentance still make sense? Absolutely! But it may call us to rethink its purpose.
John the Baptist preached repentance, saying, “The kingdom of heaven is near.” It’s easy to see his prophecy as an apocalyptic warning of imminent damnation if we don’t get our collective act together. But an interpretation of repentance that’s more consistent with the God of love and mercy is less about warning and more about promise. John’s message doesn’t have to be his way of threatening us into good behavior, a New Testament version of “Wait till your father gets home!” Instead, it can be an invitation to make room in our hearts and lives for a God who wants to fill up our empty spaces and doesn’t take no for an answer.
Repentance isn’t all about feeling guilt and shame for our shortcomings. The word’s Latin root, paenitentia, has several nuanced shades of meaning, but they all boil down to one thing—a sense of “lacking.” Repentance, then, is an acceptance of the fact that we do not hold all the cards, that we are not “enough” all on our own. Put another way, it’s a way of embracing our vulnerability and brokenness. The dust of Ash Wednesday reminds us that life is larger than our individual experiences of it. We are not in control.
A Focus on GivingImage
Being broken means that healing is needed, so the age-old Lenten practices of fasting, almsgiving, and prayer are not only relevant today but also perhaps more needed than ever. It’s in giving up our reliance on those things we don’t absolutely need, giving to those in greater need than ourselves, and giving in to God’s presence in our lives that we are able to look our own “lacking” straight in the eye. It’s how we become aware of both the blessing and the brokenness of our human condition.
Giving up: Fasting, a spiritual practice that has declined in popularity over the years, has made a comeback in a less-than-spiritual way. “Intermittent fasting” is all the rage lately on nutrition websites and in best-selling books. But when fasting is understood not as a weight-loss technique but as a way of letting go of our reliance on things we don’t actually need, it can be a powerful form of prayer. It’s fine to give up desserts for Lent if that helps us reflect on the things we can do without. Perhaps it can be more powerful, though, to “fast” from gossip or unnecessary spending or an insistence on having the last word. Fasting is a way to experience our own “lacking” in a transformative way.
Giving to: Almsgiving, which means the giving of money or food to those in need, is another traditional Lenten practice. This, too, is relevant for us today during Lent—and all year long—because it is how we recognize that we aren’t the only ones who are vulnerable. The world is full of others just like us in our lacking. They may be vulnerable in different ways than we are, but by reaching out to them in their need, we bear witness to their pain. By standing in solidarity with their brokenness, we take steps toward being healed of our own.
Giving in: Prayer as a spiritual practice never goes out of style. Not only during Lent but throughout the entire year, prayer is a powerful way of participating in divine community. By lifting our own broken pieces and those of others in prayer, we attest to—rather than run from—the vulnerable parts of our lives. Prayer connects us with each other and with God. This sacred unity connects our individual broken pieces with those of others, creating a beautiful new kind of wholeness.
Our Lenten Invitation
Too often, we approach Ash Wednesday with liturgical gloom and doom. It’s the “black sheep” of the family of dark solemnities in the liturgical calendar, failing even to garner status as a holy day of obligation. But when painted in this light, it’s easy to miss its beautiful invitation to claim our brokenness, embrace our vulnerability, and stand in solidarity with all those who do the same.
God is ready to heal our woundedness, to make us more whole than ever before. Ash Wednesday is our call to make room for the divine dance to work its sacred magic within us.
//St. Anthony Messenger, Mary Ann Steutermann, Feb 2021 Issue//
