“Out of the darkness of my life, so much frustrated, I put before you the one great thing to love on earth: The Blessed Sacrament … There you will find romance, glory, honor, fidelity, and the true way of all your loves on earth, and more than that: Death. By the divine paradox, that which ends life, and demands the surrender of all, and yet by the taste (or foretaste) of which alone can what you seek in your earthly relationships (love, faithfulness, joy) be maintained, or take on that complexion of reality, of eternal endurance, which every man’s heart desires.”— J. R. R. Tolkien, p. 119
Since Christ is resurrected, we can look with new eyes and a new heart at every event of our lives, even the most negative ones. Moments of darkness, of failure and even sin can be transformed and announce the beginning of a new path. When we have reached the lowest point of our misery and our weakness, the Risen Christ gives us the strength to rise again. If we entrust ourselves to him, his grace saves us! The Lord, Crucified and Risen, is the full revelation of mercy, present and working throughout history.”—Pope Francis
The tricky thing about Easter is that while our faith and often our minds tell us that now life is all alleluias and rainbows, the reality is that sometimes we’re still caught in some dark places. We might not be quite feeling the joy of resurrection. In today’s Gospel, Peter, James, John and the other disciples are going back to their fishing boats. We get the sense that they’ve given up on this life of proclaiming the Good News. They’re discouraged, they’re confused. They’ve seen the Risen Christ in the upper room but then he vanished again. It turns out the fishing isn’t all that great either. But they listened to the stranger on the beach telling them to try the other side of the boat. And Peter remembered the very beginning of his time with Jesus, when the novice told the experienced fisherman how to catch fish. He recognized the voice, the call, the inspiration. And, once again, his life was about to change. Pope Francis reminds us that at the heart of it all—our joys, our sorrows, our trials, our challenges, our heartaches—God’s presence is as simple and profound as a fire, a simple meal, a new way of seeing reality. The death and resurrection of Jesus reminds us that God knows it’s never easy. The Risen Christ bore the wounds of the cross as a sign of that. Remember that he’s with us every step of the way, loving us, nudging us forward, showing us a new way to see.
“Love has triumphed over hatred, life has conquered death, light has dispelled the darkness! Christians, by the grace of Christ, dead and risen, are the seeds of another humanity, in which we seek to live in service to one another, not to be arrogant, but rather respectful and ready to help. This is not weakness, but true strength!… May there echo in your hearts, in your families and communities, the announcement of the Resurrection, along with the warm light of the presence of the Living Jesus: a presence which brightens, comforts, forgives, gladdens. Jesus conquered evil at the root: he is the Door of Salvation, open wide so that each person may find mercy.”—Pope Francis
One of the ironies of the liturgical year is that we often find it easier to enter into the rigorous practices of Lent than to celebrate the joy of Easter and the Risen Lord. We know with our minds this great mystery of our faith. But we don’t always experience that joy in our hearts. It goes so far beyond our human experience that we have nothing to compare to it. At the heart of the story on Easter Sunday is the empty tomb. The stories of the appearances will come later, unfolding the mystery of the resurrection. But the first message to the apostles is that the tomb is empty. Somewhere in the darkness of the Easter Vigil and the pale dawn of Easter Sunday, each of us must confront the empty tomb and discover for ourselves the Risen Christ. Pope Francis reminds us that our joy in the Risen Christ calls us to a quiet love and service, wrapped in the awareness that our life in Christ needs no trumpets or pomp and earthly glory. We have a peace in our hearts that is stronger than death itself. All our hope lies in that promise.
Today we have the third Servant Song for our First Reading, which is a memorable set of striking images: “an open ear,” “a well-trained tongue,” that “knows how to speak to the weary.” “I gave my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who plucked my beard, I did not shield my face from buffets and spitting…I have set my face like flint.” (Isaiah 50:4–7). If this is ascribed to Jesus, as we Christians always have, then it clearly portrays one who is totally subject to the human condition, all the way to the bottom. He is a good listener and speaker, but in the end, his is an act of trust that another will “vindicate” him with utter confidence “that he will not be put to shame.” The “Suffering Servant” here portrayed is a human being just like you and me. He does not know the outcome ahead of time, or his confidence would be in himself and God to pull it off, which would then largely be a matter of the willpower of belief. Faith is so much more than strong willpower. In Matthew’s Gospel text, Jesus certainly appears to know ahead of time that Judas is going to betray him, and as much as tells him so. But he also appears to be saying that it is destiny or fate and “foretold by Scripture.” Is this foreknowledge the pattern of the Suffering Servant that he is referring to? We do not know for sure, although John sees it predicted in Psalm 41:10: “Even my closest and most trusted friend, who shared my table, rebels against me,” which he quotes (13:18). If this is the psalm Jesus is referring to, then the fuller meaning is clear: “Yahweh take pity on me, and raise me up!” (41:11). His victory is a dramatic reliance upon God, a mammoth leap of faith, not a superman stunt by a man who knows the full outcome ahead of time. We have done the believing community a major disservice by so emphasizing his divinity that his humanity was all but overridden. “He did not really have to live faith or darkness as we do, he knew everything from his youngest years,” most Christians naively assume. Yet Hebrews beautifully calls Jesus the “pioneer and perfector of our faith” (12:2). We cannot believe that his was a totally different brand of faith than the rest of humanity. Many scholars believe that it was only at the Resurrection that Jesus’ human mind and divine consciousness became one. Until then, he “was like us in all ways, except sin” (Hebrews 4:15). Now I believe you are much better prepared to walk through the sacred days ahead with a Jesus who shares, suffers, and trusts God exactly as you and I must learn to do. He walked in darkness too.
Humans are the only creatures who have knowledge of their own death. Its awareness creeps up on us as we get older. All other animals, plants, and the cycles of nature themselves seem to live out and surrender to the pattern of mortality. This places humans in a state of anxiety and insecurity from our early years. We know on some level that whatever this is that we are living will not last. This changes everything, probably more than we realize consciously.
So our little bit of consciousness makes us choose to be unconscious. It hurts too much to think about it. On this last Sunday before Palm Sunday, we dare to look at the “last enemy,” death. And the only way we can dare to part the curtain and view death is to be told about our resurrection from it! Yet, I assume we all know that Lazarus did eventually die. Maybe ten years later, maybe even twenty, but it did happen, we assume. What then is the point of this last dramatic “sign” before Jesus’ own journey toward death? An important clue is given right before the action, when the disciples try to discourage Jesus from going back to Judea where he is in danger. Jesus says calmly, “Are there not twelve hours in the day? When a person can walk without stumbling? When he sees the world bathed in light.”
Jesus refuses to fear darkness and death. Quickly he adds, “Our friend Lazarus is sleeping, I am going to wake him” (John 11:9–11). Those who draw upon the twelve hours, who see the world bathed in light now, have begun to see the pattern. As is often the case with wise people, they let “nature nurture them.” Yes, the other hours of darkness will come, a metaphor for death, but now we know that it will not last. It is only a part, but not the whole of life—just as the day itself is twelve hours and night is the other twelve, two sides of the one mystery of Life.
Jesus’ job is simply to “wake” us up to this, as he did Lazarus and the onlookers. We must now “see that the world is bathed in light” and allow others to enjoy the same seeing—through our lived life. The stone to be moved is always our fear of death, the finality of death, any blindness that keeps us from seeing that death is merely a part of the Larger Mystery called Life. It does not have the final word.
“Good God, the creator of light and darkness, You who move the sun and the stars, move us into the place of light, a light so large that it will absorb all the darkness”
The Gospel reading explains the great love of God for His people. Do I love Him in return?
First reading: 2 Chronicles 36:14-17, 19-23
Psalm: 137:1-6
Second reading: Ephesians 2:4-10
Gospel: St. John 2:14-21
In today’s Gospel reading, we hear one of the most beloved verses in Sacred Scripture:
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”– St. John 3:16
Maybe we have heard these words so often that they are not surprising anymore, but if we stop to reflect on this verse, it is the very definition of the “Good News.” God Himself gave His Son for you and for me. God, who made Heaven and earth, loves us.
How do I respond to this love? Do I follow His commands? Do I pray often? God has given us a gift that we can never repay. But like a child who makes simple presents for his parents, we can love Him as much as we are able.
In this Gospel passage, Jesus goes on to say that some prefer the darkness to the light. As Christ is the Light of the World, some people did not–and some still do not–want His Light to expose them or their sins. As Christians, we must love the Light, love the Truth, and be transformed by the Light. Do I allow God to transform me with His Light?
For more information on how you can grow in your faith during the Lenten season, we encourage you to visit the EWTN Lent page here: ewtn.com/lent
What exactly is refuge? It’s vastly different than shelter. Refuge is deeper, scarier. The stakes are higher when you need refuge. Shelter is from temperatures dropping and the chance of rain. You can probably make it through without shelter. But without refuge, you’re vulnerable and truly alone. Refuge is wind blowing the cedars as far as they will bend, thunder that jolts you and an absolutely black night that has suddenly fallen. And you’re running toward home. The need for it is deeper in the body. When you find shelter, you can calmly peer out. But the need for refuge makes you look within. I could never add up the number of hours I’ve spent alone staring out the window at that void. Those are the deepest darkest loneliest hours. I feel that darkness filling me, as I am part of it. In you, Lord, I take refuge; let me never be put to shame (Ps 31:1). When I remember to say a prayer, it comes as a cluster of stars on the periphery, and I’m not quite sure I even saw any green sparkle, but I try again. A Hail Mary. A Jesus Please. I can’t even call that relief “embers” because embers stay awhile. When I cannot sleep because I am reliving some conflict I endured that day, one I feel I cannot undo, when I’m imagining some future event which I fear is going to flood me with more heartache and sink me, and God, at last, finds me in the dark, I fall asleep, and when I wake up, I don’t know at what point I finally let that refuge enclose me. The psalms are all about the contrasts in our lives. Like a riveting black-and-white photo, there’s gradations: vivid cool to dramatic warm to dramatic cool. Refuge honors the challenge of the silver tone moments turning to noir.
