Category: Scripture

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When Hope Hurts

As followers of Jesus, we are people of Hope – especially during Holy Week and Easter.

This year we will experience a Holy Week like no other – gathering the family around our tablets and TVs to view the live stream of the holiest liturgies of the year.

I think back to the middle of March – which now feels like ancient history – and remember how I wept and sobbed over the cancellation of public Masses. The part that was the most painful for me was when it fully dawned on me that our faith communities would not be gathering together for Holy Week and Easter. Having had time to process my grief, I am now grateful that we’re doing our moral duty and serving the common good by joining in the shared effort of social distancing. I’m grateful for all the creativity and innovation that has opened up new opportunities. I’m getting accustomed to Mass on facebook live and Zoom meetings. But let’s face the facts: it’s still hard.

Since the middle of March, there have been far greater hardships for many than the temporary disruption of prayer gatherings and public Masses. Some find their entire livelihood in grave peril; others are under enormous daily stress; many others have died of COVID-19 or lost a loved one.

All of us have felt our daily lives turned upside down. Almost everyone I know seems to be experiencing a significant spike in anxiety or a resurgence of unwanted behaviors. So much is uncertain and unknown; so much can change so quickly. We trust God, but it’s incredibly hard at times to keep believing that it’s somehow all going to be blessed by God as part of his greater plan.

Hope is hard. The Christian virtue of Hope is not rosy optimism; it’s not a feel-good pretending like everything is just swell. Hope involves longing and desiring, watching and waiting. Hope stretches our human hearts far beyond what feels easy or comfortable. Indeed, keeping Hope alive in our heart can be painful. It’s so much easier to try to avoid, it, numb it, or even kill it – choosing instead a path of self-soothing or self-reliance. But we cannot save ourselves.

Holy Week is a time of Hope. The death and resurrection of Jesus, his Paschal Mystery, constitutes THE human story. Without Jesus dying and rising, our human existence becomes empty, fruitless, and meaningless. On the contrary, as we allow ourselves to be plunged into those saving events, we are brought to new and more abundant life.

In the “in between” of that transformation stands the virtue of Hope, like a brave soldier standing in the breach. It can be far more agonizing than we may realize. It’s quite possible that only a few Christians these days are truly steeped in Hope.

Hope is the virtue of Holy Saturday – a day that is easily overlooked. Many are bustling about preparing for Easter; others are pre-binging on food or Netflix or some other pleasure. The invitation of Holy Mother Church – rarely accepted – is to engage in fasting and silence and prayer as best we can, to continue keeping our vigil at the Tomb of Christ, watching and waiting in Hope.

Think of the various characters in the Gospels and imagine what their experience of Holy Saturday was like. Think of Peter and the other apostles, having suddenly lost their Lord and their friend Jesus – and under the shameful circumstances of having abandoned him or denied him. Jesus had recently given a glimpse of glory to Peter atop Mount Tabor in the Transfiguration. Maybe that remembered experience emitted some faint glimmer of Hope amidst his overwhelming feelings of grief and disillusionment, fear and doubt, guilt and shame.

Think of Mary Magdalene and the other faithful women, holding Jesus in their hearts, continuing to love him even when it hurt so much. Their instinctive and intuitive Hope drew them to the tomb on Easter morning, even if they didn’t understand what was happening in their hearts.

Think of Jesus’ own mother Mary, who had borne him in her womb, nursed him, taught him to walk, taught him to read the Scriptures, taught him to pray, and so much more. Over the course of 33 years, she was more intimately close to him and held more conversations with Him than any other human being. Scripture does not record these, but Luke does tell us more than once that Mary kept pondering these mysteries in her heart. She is perhaps the one person who was not entirely surprised at his Resurrection.

But even for Mary – nay, especially for Mary – there was that agonizing in-between moment of Hope between the first day of Good Friday and the third day of Resurrection. If the experience was anything like the previous patterns (the birth of Jesus, the Flight into Egypt, the Presentation in the Temple), she knew and believed God’s promises, but did not know how those promises would be fulfilled.

That is what is so hard about Hope. It is an invitation to plunge into the depths of Jesus’ suffering – which involved far more than physical torments. He freely chose to dive into the depths of our fallen human experience – including the isolation, the loneliness, the fear, the shame, the rejection, and the abandonment that so many of us experience. When he cries out “My God, My God, why have you abandoned me?” He is crying out with and for each of us from the depths of our hearts – places we are often not willing to go ourselves, because they hurt so much. Jesus allows himself to feel the pain of rupture from God and rupture from neighbor that is part of the story for each of us who are fallen.

Then it’s our turn. Like the Virgin Mary, like Mary Magdelene, like so many of the other disciples, we are invited to keep vigil at his Tomb. We are invited to keep believing his promises – even when it seems impossible anything will ever change. For each of those followers, Easter morning was a wonderful surprise. The risen Jesus brought them joy in a way they had never imagined possible.

During “normal” Holy Weeks, Catholics show up in large numbers for Good Friday, and are often moved to tears at the torments Jesus endured on the Cross. This year, only the priest celebrant will get to kiss the Cross.

During “normal” Holy Weeks, most Catholics give little thought to the experience of Holy Saturday. This year, we all have an extended Holy Saturday opportunity. We have been given a share in Jesus’ suffering and death. In the form of all this unrest and all these unknowns, we have an opportunity to share in the same disorienting and agonizing experience of those early disciples on that first Holy Saturday. Like most of them, we do not know how long it will last, whether it will get better, or how it will get better. We surrender in Hope; we wait in Hope, even when it hurts.

We are free to choose. We can plunge fully into the deep waters of Hope. Or we can keep popping up for air. There are any number of ways we can do that. Some turn to the false soothing of food or alcohol or pornography. Others minimize or deny, pretending like it’s not really that hard (thus distancing themselves from genuine Hope). Still others crack a joke or enter into fault-finding and peevishness – anything that will distract us from the present agony of abiding at the Tomb in Hope.

These are normal ways of avoiding – and they make sense. We all do at least some of them. The truth is that tt is terrifying to be under water for a long period of time! For many of us, it feels like it will be too much or too long. Indeed, that is the whole point of being plunged into the waters of Baptism – we actually die with Christ!

We Catholics think often of Good Friday and of suffering with Jesus. This year, I invite each of us to think especially of Holy Saturday, and give ourselves permission to experience the full depth and breadth and length of Christian Hope. It is not for the faint of heart! If we allow it, it will grow and crescendo into an earthquake that will finally break open the cave of our heart; it will roll away the stone so that we, too, can be surprised by the joy of the Risen Jesus.

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Vulnerable AND Safe

For many of us, vulnerability is one of the hardest human experiences to manage. It can be terrifying and overwhelming. It can cause us to feel exposed, naked, unprotected, or unsafe – and we can find fifty ways to run or to hide.

Fleeing from vulnerability is a story as old as the human race itself. Following the fall, the whispers of shame urged Adam and Eve to run and hide themselves, and to try to cover their nakedness.

Unfortunately, I cannot be in an intimate relationship with God if I am hiding and protecting myself from Him. I cannot experience close connection with other human beings if I am hiding and protecting myself from them. You are perhaps familiar with the famous quote from C.S. Lewis:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

In the Incarnation, Jesus chose to be vulnerable. The eternal Son of God who was immortal willingly took on our human flesh. One motive was to be able to offer himself on the Cross, to pay the price of our redemption. As God, he could not die. As man, he could. But becoming flesh was not simply about paying a ransom on the Cross. The deeper motive was to love us, to show us how to love, and to make us all capable of loving in that way. From start to finish, vulnerable love was the motive of Jesus becoming flesh and of everything he said and did in the flesh.

“And the Word became vulnerable and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). That would be another way of putting it. To be human is to be vulnerable. This is the profound insight of Curt Thompson in The Soul of Shame: “So much of what we do in life is designed, among other things, to protect us from the fact that we are vulnerable at all times. To be human is to be vulnerable.”

At all times we humans are vulnerable – able to be wounded, abandoned, rejected, excluded, betrayed, injured, or killed. Sometimes we barely notice our vulnerability, and other times we feel it intensely. But it’s always there.

Jesus shows us how our human condition of vulnerability need not be an experience of shame and isolation, but can be transformed into an experience of healing and salvation. When we listen to the Gospels closely, we hear one story after another of Jesus modeling vulnerability for us. His heart remains wide open in love, even when others are misunderstanding, accusing, rejecting, or abandoning him. He does not break off to hide himself. Yes, he spends forty days in the desert, but that was actually an even deeper experience of vulnerability, enduring temptation as well as allowing himself to be comforted by the angels God sends.

Many of us resist and avoid vulnerability because we tend to associate being vulnerable with feeling shame – and shame is perhaps the most painful human emotion. When we feel shame as Adam and Eve felt it, we feel unlovable and devoid of dignity. We do not want to be seen or known. So we hide and isolate. Shame thrives in isolation. What begins as one traumatic experience – genuinely painful – becomes a perpetual cycle that we do not know how to break. Jesus, the New Adam, breaks our cycle of shame and opens for us a vulnerable path to salvation.

This path includes connecting with God and others. Again, Jesus is our model of what it means to be truly human. He does not go it alone. He consistently reaches out to his Father and to his friends – even when they choose to abandon him. He establishes the Church as a community of believers, calling each by name, but always into a community of faith. When we hear the story of the early Church in the Acts of the Apostles it is a story of community and communion, not of isolation. Salvation happens in Christian community.

The name Jesus means “Savior,” and salvation means becoming safe by becoming whole and holy. It is safety that we are seeking when we hide from our vulnerability. But we will not find wholeness or holiness in our hiding. We may need it for a time, especially when our survival truly depends on it. But our places of hiding, our panic rooms, will indeed become tombs and places of death if we refuse to let ourselves be seen and known.

The invitation to salvation is an invitation to become vulnerable AND safe. We may understand this at intellectual level, but it is important to experience it as well. That means finding a safe community in which we can truly be seen and known, heard and understood, cherished and appreciated and encouraged.

There are many in twelve step programs who have claimed that they find an experience of Jesus much more easily in the church basement (in their group meetings) than in the church itself, where they find plenty of people putting on masks, bustling about, rigidly following rules, judging and gossiping, or following familiar routines – but precious few people opening up humbly in vulnerable human connection. That is quite an indictment! Is that true of me or of my parish community?

To put it differently – when broken people walk through our doors, feeling their shame deeply, what will they encounter here? Will they find a friendly face who shows them that it is safe to be vulnerable here? Or will they find fifty new ways of hiding from their vulnerability?

Those are questions that we can all take to prayer this Lent!

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To Wonder and be Curious

This post is an important corrective and counterbalance to the previous one. The spiritual weapon of “talking back” (antirrhēsis) is indeed powerful in the moment of temptation. Like Jesus in the desert, we can willfully claim and assert our glorious human dignity and freedom. We can swiftly and decisively fight back against evil before the temptation has a chance to grow.

But what about all the calmer moments that precede? Jesus’ victory in the moment of temptation flowed forth from all that came before: being claimed as God’s beloved Son in his baptism and then spending forty days receiving spiritual strength through prayer and self-denial. It was his childlike dependence on his Father that won the deeper and more decisive victory. He came to the battle as one fully awake and aware, fully alive in his humanity. We who are members of his Body are invited to share in the same childlike trust, including the amazing human capacity for curiosity and wonder.

Jesus encourages us to become like little children. Every healthy human child discovers the power of “No!!” and “Mine!!” and “You can’t make me!!” Those words, properly learned and properly harnessed, can become wonderful weapons in the moment of temptation. Every healthy human child goes on to discover an even more powerful word: “Why?” What a precious gift it is to have curiosity and wonder at why things are the way they are. From philosophers to poets to scientists, all our greatest human achievements, all of our most shining successes emerge as fruits of childlike curiosity and wonder.

It is so easy to lose that curiosity and wonder. For one thing, it is exhausting to parents to hear the word “Why?” a hundred times a day. It is tempting to stifle children in their pursuit of wisdom. For another thing, it is incredibly hard to have wonder and awe in moments of trial or trauma. Whether war or abuse or addiction or mental illness, when our daily living environment becomes a fight for survival, we do not tend to take time to smell the roses or to marvel at why things are the way they are. We need to feel safe and secure to be able to do that. Jesus faced Satan with an incredible sense of safety and security in the Father’s love and in his own human dignity.

I have written before about the importance of getting down to the roots. Sure, we can lop off the dandelion heads time and again – they will keep growing back until we uproot the plants. This is especially our human experience if we are struggling with habitual patterns of sin or addictive behaviors. In those cases, we may find ourselves fighting temptation again and again. We may win 99 out of 100 battles, only to fall hard once again into the same sin or struggle. Certainly we can celebrate those 99 victories and not wallow in shame over the one defeat. But even more importantly, we can give ourselves permission to step back calmly, to remember that we are a beloved child of God (even in our moments of sin). Basking in empathy and kindness and grace, we can look upon our situation and begin asking questions, engaging that gift of childlike curiosity and wonder. We can begin to asking   “Isn’t that interesting…?”  “I wonder why that would happen just now…?” And so forth.

Far too often, we engage in self-loathing and self-shaming. I can think of things I used to say often to myself: Why do I have to be this way?” “There I go again.” “What’s wrong with me?” I’m sure that most of you have your own inner critic in those moments as well. It doesn’t have to be that way. We can shift gears, choosing empathy and kindness, and can begin asking questions with curiosity and wonder.

For myself, one of my most frequent struggles is to feel the urge to eat something even when I am not at all hungry. I have learned (sometimes anyway) to “just notice that” and wonder at it. Isn’t it interesting that I would feel the urge to eat something just now? I know I’m not hungry…

Actually, my curiosity and self-reflection (and talking to others about it) has led me to identify forty-two different behaviors that spring up in me during times of unrest. Some are more sinful; others are benign. All of them are ways of surviving and protecting me from feeling vulnerable and exposed. I am learning that it is not really those behaviors that I am wanting, but instead I am reacting to feelings of insecurity, shame, fear, loneliness, or sadness. These are learned behaviors that have helped me survive in the past. I don’t need them anymore.

I have begun looking at them as a cast of characters, as a members of the family in the drama of my interior life. When ten or twenty of them start showing up at once, it’s a sign to me that I really need to pay attention. Rather than running away, rather than becoming disgusted with myself, I need to reach out and connect with someone who cares – God, certainly, but also others in the flesh who can be a listening ear and an empathizing heart. These different parts of myself are not actually evil – they are trying to help me, but need to be integrated, re-organized, and directed. As the prophet Isaiah promises, a little child will guide them all – first and foremost with his wonder and awe in God’s presence.

This process is so counter-intuitive for many of us. Our tendency in the face of temptations is to run and to flee, and to see our habitual temptation as bad. Instead, we could look at it much more like an indicator light on the dashboard of our car. It’s there to get us to pay attention and look under the hood – calling on experts if need be. In cases like mine, that may mean reaching out to a trained therapist or a support group, in addition to a spiritual mentor and good friends. Whatever helps us feel safe and secure and rediscover the power of childlike wonder.

Our hearts are made in God’s own image and likeness and are very good. That means that even our most twisted fantasies or darkest thoughts, at their roots, begin as legitimate human needs and good desires. That means that fighting temptation is not our only tactic. We need connection and safety in healthy human relationships; we need to reactivate our capacity for curiosity and wonder, becoming like little children and in so doing becoming whole and holy.

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“Talking Back” to evil

Many of us were raised to view back talk as bad talk. From a young age we were schooled to curb our tongue. Our 3-year-old willfulness was broken down as we learned to be “nice” and compliant. But there is a time and a place to use our will and our words to talk back. This is true in confronting situations of grave injustice, and is especially true in facing the subtle snares of the devil.

Imitating Jesus, the Desert Fathers were masters of spiritual back talk. Whether Anthony of Egypt, Evagrius of Pontus, or Dorotheus of Gaza, they didn’t take any $@#^! from the devil. They used their will and their words as weapons, quoting the Scriptures as a means of fighting back. As trained athletes of Christ, they did so calmly and patiently – but with a decisive swiftness and forcefulness. They let their “yes” mean “yes” and their “no” mean “no.” By the power of God, they sent the devil to the Cross for judgment and reclaimed their human freedom and dignity.

The unique vocation of the Desert Fathers was to go into the wilderness and devote their entire life to sharing in Jesus’ conquest over the devil. As the New Adam, Jesus reclaims and redeems our human freedom, restoring our capacity to overcome evil with good. He freely and firmly renounces the age-old traps of the flesh, the world, and the devil. The early monks made their vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience as a direct means of fighting the same fight. And they weren’t afraid to talk back when needed.

During his forty days in the wilderness, Jesus talked back to the devil. The moment he was tempted, he called upon Scripture to rebuff the evil one. When it comes to fighting temptation, sooner is always better. As with Eve in Genesis, the tempter wants to “dialogue” with us. She could have ended the conversation at his first deception (“Did God really say to you…?”). It would have been a different story. Whatever the forbidden fruit is for us, the longer we linger in debating back and forth whether to do it, the more likely we are to do it!  The devil’s deceptions and lies are so much easier to uproot as seedlings or saplings in the very early moments of temptation than they are when they become tangled trees clutching at our heart.

Saint Benedict, the model of monasticism in the West, appealed to Psalm 137:9 – a deeply troubling verse about seizing babies and smashing them on the rocks. But when applied spiritually to the experience of temptation, it suddenly makes sense. Early on, while any thoughts of temptation are yet in their infancy, while they are still small and not-yet-powerful, we can take them and dash them on the Rock that is Christ.

The Desert Fathers advocated “talking back” (antirrhēsis) as the best way to engage in that fight. Evagrius actually compiled an entire book on the subject, offering suggested Scriptures to use as weapons in confronting over 500 circumstances of temptation! Full disclosure here – I tried reading his book and gave up on it, finding his particular situations to be dated and not as relevant to my own life. But I love the concept, and have often used it in my personal life. When the alarm clock goes off and my body and spirit protest, I can quote Psalm 57, “My heart is ready, O God, my heart is ready … awake my soul … with praise let us awake the dawn.” When I am tempted to distract myself with fleshly or worldly pleasures, I can pray Psalm 62, “O God, you are my God, for you I long; for you my soul is thirsting…”

In addition to the Scriptures, the Desert Fathers used the simplest of prayers – uttering the name of Jesus. I have found it to be an incredible spiritual weapon. Saint Paul tells us that every knee must bow at the name of Jesus – even those under the earth (i.e., the evil spirits). In the very first moment of temptation, simply whispering his holy name deepens our freedom and increases our strength. We can add bodily prayers such as making the Sign of the Cross or prostrating ourselves in surrender to God’s will. Whatever works – it’s hard to argue with good results.

Notice that this spiritual “talking back” is not a dialogue with the devil. By contrast, it is much more like a willful three-year old firmly declaring “No!!” and “Mine!!” and “You can’t make me!!” We tend to look with scorn on the “terrible twos” – which actually have their peak around age three. But learning a healthy sense of “mine” versus “yours” is critically important in our human development – as is learning to let our “yes” mean “yes” and our “no” mean “no.” Jesus calls us to become like little children again. Not childish but childlike. Calling upon his power, uttering his name, or quoting his Scriptures allows our will and our words to become mighty weapons against evil – especially in the moment of temptation.

Many saints have testified to the truth that evil spirits have no power whatsoever over human freedom. We are truly God’s stewards and have a God-given authority. We can abuse that authority (indeed, that is the devil’s goal). But in the end all Satan can do is deceive or threaten; he cannot ever make us do anything. Aided by the name of Jesus and by His written Word, our freedom will triumph.

As we start another Lent, we go forth with Jesus into the desert, ready to reclaim our full human freedom.

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The Gift of Tears

Most of us dread the shedding of tears – particularly in front of other people. There are many reasons why we hold back. We don’t want to feel weak or vulnerable. We fear rejection. We fear losing control, perhaps even fear that if we start sobbing, we will never stop. Whether we realize it or not, we probably learned these lessons from word or example in family life. Whether spoken or unspoken, it was against the rules. The shedding of tears comes so spontaneously and naturally to little children. Then, rather than being guided and directed and nurtured, it comes to be seen as a threat.

I have come to learn that tears can be a precious gift from God.

I am by no means the first to make this observation. Many authors in contemporary charismatic circles talk about “the gift of tears” as a charism (a “spiritual gift” of the Holy Spirit along the lines of tongues, interpretation, prophecy, healing, etc.). True, there are individuals who experience weeping as an outward manifestation of the presence and activity of the Holy Spirit. This was all the rage in sixteenth-century Spain – to the point that authentic mystics like John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, or Ignatius of Loyola had to warn against the faking of tears as a false expression of piety, even showing off. That risk is still there for some today, but I much more frequently find a false toughness that holds back tears.

More commonly over the centuries, tears are an expression of repentance and conversion, opening us up to love God and neighbor with fuller freedom. Examples abound in Scripture. King David weeps over his sins (Psalm 51). The prophet Jeremiah allows his eyes to stream day and night over the great ruination which overwhelms God’s people (Jeremiah 14). Nehemiah’s tears over the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem move the heart of the Persian King Artaxerxes. This pagan ruler is so touched with empathy that he sends Nehemiah with full funding and an armed force to go to Jerusalem to fight and rebuild (Nehemiah 1-2).

In the New Testament there is the marvelous story of Saint Peter. The very moment he denies Jesus a third time, Peter experiences a gaze of mercy from him (Luke 22). The Lord turns to look upon him with full knowledge AND full love. Peter knows that he is known and knows that he is loved. He goes out and weeps bitterly. According to many Christian legends and stories, it was by no means the last time Peter would weep. His tears went on to captivate the imagination and heart of Christian mystics and artists for centuries.

What a journey of lifelong conversion Peter undergoes! From the beginning he is drawn to follow the Lord Jesus. He leaves his nets behind. He believes from day one, and never falters in his faith, even when he repeatedly falters in loving Jesus. He denies Jesus; his actions show us time and again that his understanding is only partial. The growth is prolonged and slow. Even after the Resurrection, when Peter joins Jesus on the seashore, there is still much conversion needed. Jesus asks Peter three times if he loves him – offering three renewals of love to the man who three times denied him. But there is more in the Greek. Jesus asks Peter if he loves him with agape – that self-emptying, sacrificial love that Jesus showed on the Cross. Peter answers that he loves Jesus with philia – brotherly love.  Jesus is inviting Peter to confess the full truth of his present condition. There is almost a sense of playfulness about it, certainly gentleness. Jesus is not disappointed in Peter; rather, he is encouraging him, inviting him farther and farther along the path of conversion. He doesn’t expect Peter to get there all at once, yet he speaks the truth to him with love. He encourages Peter that he will one day be strong enough to lay down his life with a full agape love. For now, Peter is not yet ready, and that is okay. Jesus just invites him “Follow me.” The rest will come in due time.

I am guessing Peter had tears in his eyes at that moment as well. It is easy to imagine him shedding tears at all the key moments of his conversion. The mercy of God unleashes our tears, and our tears unleash his mercy. It’s a wonderful, virtuous cycle.

The Desert Fathers, those mighty monks of the early centuries, often discussed tears as a marvelous gift of God. They saw tears as a powerful remedy against the evil spirit of acedia – one of the subtlest and most formidable foes we will ever face.

[If you are unfamiliar with the sin of acedia I highly recommend reading Fr. Jean-Charles Nault’s book The Noonday Devil: Acedia, the Unnamed Evil of our Times]

The deadly sin of acedia is difficult to translate. Calling it “sloth” or “laziness” can be misleading. That is just one of many possible manifestations. Indeed, in today’s world this sin is more likely to manifest itself in boredom or busyness or burnout. Our restless hearts resist staying present in the moment, seeking any alternative than abiding in God’s presence. How sad indeed to be repulsed by divine goodness and prefer our self-created madhouse of busyness and comforts, even when that madhouse becomes an unbearable hell for us. Yet how common to our human experience!

Literally, acedia is from the Greek a + kēdos – “not caring” or “not feeling.” John Climacus describes its first steps: a numbness in our soul, a forgetfulness of heavenly promises, and an aversion to the present moment as to a great burden. How many today, I wonder, are in the throes this spiritual sickness?

The Desert Fathers fought it. Their era was very much like our own. They saw the decline and fall of a once great civilization. The Greeks and Romans, plunged into pleasures, had worn themselves out. The early monks discovered that tears are a saving remedy for acedia.

First of all, our tears allow us –  like King David and like Saint Peter – to be truly humble and recognize our need for a savior. In our tears, we confess that we cannot save ourselves. Like a child in the presence of its parents, we are crying out in our need. The Lord hears the cry of the poor, and delights in those who are willing to become like little children.

Secondly, tears unthaw our frozen hearts and allow us to feel again. They lead us out of our numbness and free us to be vulnerable and dependent. Fr. Nault, in his book, offers the image of our falling tears carving out a notch in our stony hearts – a notch through which God’s mercy can pour into our sin-sick soul.

Evagrius was one of the wisest of those desert monks. We can close with his words about the gift of tears aiding us in our spiritual struggles: “Sadness is hard to bear and acedia is hard to resist – but tears shed in God’s presence are stronger than both.”

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The Church as Mother

Jesus reminds us that the fields of the world are ripe for the harvest. Like the woman at the well, so many human hearts today are hungering and thirsting for meaningful accompaniment. They come to our churches seeking and searching. They often leave again, still feeling empty, undernourished, unseen, misunderstood, unaccepted, out of place, or unloved. It is so important for us to learn how to be communities that provide ample opportunities for meaningful accompaniment.

What does this look like? We have already considered many metaphors (mentoring, coaching, walking with, sharing bread, etc.). But none compares to that of motherhood. For each of us, motherhood is THE way in which we experienced the most accompaniment in our life – or didn’t, in which case we may still feel the painful effects of that void.

Motherhood is so very important, and the Church is called “mother” both in Scripture (Galatians 4:26) and throughout our history. It is not just the females, but all members of the Church who participate in that motherly role. Jesus teaches us that anyone who does the will of his Father becomes brother and sister and mother to him. How do we become a mother of Christ? According to Augustine of Hippo, by mothering new members in that one Body of Christ that is the Church – both in bringing them to birth and in the ongoing nurturing that is needed after birth.

Each Christian is born again in baptism, birthed from the womb of the baptismal font. Within our new family, the Church, we are meant to receive the slow and steady mothering we need as we grow in our newfound faith. This need was obvious in the early Church. There were droves of adult converts, and the process of accompanying them took several years by design. Once again we live in an age when a large number of our families (children and adults alike) are proceeding on their faith journey with virtually no knowledge or experience of Christianity or discipleship. There are people in our pews who do not know the basic story of Jesus dying and rising, not to mention the messiness of their personal lives. The need for a motherly presence in their spiritual and emotional life is enormous.

I can think of several things that earthly mothers provide that also apply in Church life: nurturing, caring, encouraging, attuning, calming, soothing, celebrating, empathizing, teaching, guiding, and correcting. We all need these things as children; we continue to need them as adults. In an age in which many mothers didn’t or couldn’t provide these things to their children, the need is felt all the more acutely.

Mothers nurture. They provide steady care and encouragement, reliably present to us as we grow. The growth is gradual and slow, and takes an enormous commitment on the part of a mother. Even in the largest of families, a mother is only actively nurturing a dozen children at most – but usually no more than a few at any given time. And even then it drains all that she has to give.

I find that in many Catholic parishes, the priest and maybe one or two others are looked to instinctively any time serious accompaniment is needed. If there are only 10 or 20 people in the parish in serious need of accompaniment, that works well; it’s exhausting but rewarding. But what if there are several hundred in serious need of accompaniment – and many fewer priests? Let’s not forget also that five or six decades ago there might have been a community of nuns living on site to fill in more of that motherly role. That presence of religious sisters is indeed a rarity today. But one need not be a nun to be a spiritual mother, much less be an ordained priest or a paid staff member. In our parishes, much more motherly presence is needed, and every member has a role to play. It’s a totally different model of parish life than many are used to. But if we don’t learn it, our parishes will be quite small in membership and devoid of new life. Several already are.

Mothers attune. They notice what is happening in the hearts of their children. When their child is upset, they know how to calm and soothe him. They know when to draw near, and when to back off and give space. When their child is overwhelmed or frustrated or confused, they help him make sense of the situation and grow in confidence that he has what it takes to figure out a solution.

Do we notice things in parish life? Do we attune to the people around us? Do we notice those who feel confused or anxious because they have never been to one of our liturgies before? Do we notice those who are obviously looking for something and not finding it? Do we notice those who are feeling alone and unloved, anxious or confused, burnt out or overwhelmed? Or are we so caught up in our usual routine and usual clique of friends that we walk right past them? If we do not attune and offer that attention, who will?

Mothers celebrate. They cheer on their children again and again. Under the loving gaze of a mother, children grow in confidence. Baby takes his first steps – mom cheers him on. Baby says a complete sentence – mom cheers him on. Modern brain science has helped us understand how important these celebrations are. Each time we celebrate a small step, our brains release a healthy amount of dopamine. That euphoric feeling of a successful step keeps us motivated so that we keep on trying and keep on growing.

In parish life, who does the steady cheering on for someone who is slowly coming back to faith? Who is there to notice and celebrate every little baby step that is being taken? So many people are starting out with the very basics in their faith life. Virtually every part of the experience is new to them. When someone actually notices and celebrates their growth, it is so encouraging and so motivating.

Just imagine what parish life could look like if every member was doing this kind of noticing and celebrating and encouraging – even for just one or two other people. The growth would really start to multiply!

The Church needs to be motherly, or new life and new growth will cease. Motherly presence is time-consuming. It is best done with a few people at a time. Even Jesus only tried to accompany twelve in this way! We simply cannot assume that “someone else” (our priest, our staff, our volunteers) are taking care of it. They can take care of 10 or 20 at most. Taking care of the multitude of souls that Jesus is calling is the task of each and all of us!  I encourage each of you to ask God in your heart – who are two are three individuals the Lord has placed in your heart that He especially wants you to accompany at this time? Are you willing to make a steady commitment to those individuals and go out of your way to attune, to nurture, to encourage, to cheer on, to guide, to chide, and to bring to fuller growth? As this motherly accompaniment becomes a normal part of parish life for every member, we will see amazing growth and fruitfulness. By doing God’s will, we will become brothers and sisters and mothers of Christ.