Category: Reception

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Reflections on Zechariah

Advent is a wonderful time to read the writings of the prophets. Those chosen men, frail human instruments of God, kept their hearts stretched out in expectation, even amidst woes, tears, and lament. Their provocative imagery opens up a vast horizon of Hope. Led by the Holy Spirit, they allowed the depths of their human imagination and emotion to be tapped as they plied their pen to describe God’s desire to come and save us. Many times they offer promises of his salvation that will somehow simultaneously bring a fiery intensity AND a tender gentleness. Justice and Mercy. Love and Truth.

This Advent my heart has been captivated by the final four chapters of Zechariah, which are apocalyptic in nature. Unfortunately, “apocalyptic” tends to mean “easily hijacked.” The final book of the Bible, the Apocalypse (a.k.a. “Revelation”) is the most frequently butchered book, plundered by misguided Christians as they sound alarm bells about the end of the world and claim to have all the answers. Never mind that Jesus told us clearly that no one except the Father knows when the end will actually come (Matthew 24:36), and that we ought not chase after these messianic alarmists (Mark 13:21).

Those who read apocalyptic writings in a way that is unduly fascinated with foretelling the future are largely missing the point. Whether the Book of Revelation or certain passages in Daniel or Zechariah, the apocalyptic writings in Scripture have genuine meaning and relevance for all who read the text – including the original audience; including the many millions of men and women who never saw the second coming of Jesus; including you and me.

“Apocalypse” literally means “unveiling.” The prophetic promises point to an ultimate unveiling that is “already but not yet.” We are meant to enjoy a true taste of them here and now, yet always with a sense that more is yet to come, and we are not yet ready for the fullness.

The coming realities, sharing as they do in God’s infinity, necessarily elude the full comprehension of our present finite experience. It reminds me of a famous episode of The Twilight Zone in which a little girl in her bed somehow stumbles through the wall into a fourth dimension, and her family frantically seeks to rescue her. Her limited human mind cannot process the newness of a fourth dimension. It is overwhelming and disorienting.

As great as human logic is, it can only bring us so far. Every wise theologian has understood this point. Thomas Aquinas described doctrinal propositions as tending towards the Truth, and reminded us that our Faith is not directed towards the propositions of our creed, but rather towards the Truth itself that is pointed to in those statements. God’s Truth radically transcends our expressions of it. Towards the end of Thomas’ earthly life, he had a deep mystical experience of God, after which he expressed that all the allegedly wise words he had written now seemed to him “like so much straw” in comparison to the glory he had glimpsed.

With that “already but not yet” perspective in mind, we can allow the powerful imagery of the prophet Zechariah to captivate our hearts and minds, to speak to our experience and pour blessings upon us here and now, while opening our hearts in Hope, reaching out receptively to the greater realities yet to come.

Zechariah paints a picture of lament and loss. He describes the trees grieving over the felling of many mighty and beautiful cedars, cypresses, and oaks. He describes the weeping of the shepherds over the loss of their glory, the betrayal wrought by shepherds forsaking their flock, and the confusion and woes of a flock that goes unshepherded. As a result, Zechariah foretells that two thirds of the people will fall away. The one third that remains will pass through fire like silver and gold that is tested.

Got your attention yet? To me, it is as though he is describing our present-day experience in the Church. But the point is not to be alarmist about the end of the world. Instead, we can allow the imagery to disrupt us in a way that opens up space for Hope, which is by far the deeper message of these chapters. Hope is also the reason why we read from the prophets every Advent. Again, let us remember that these words of Scripture speak to believers in all centuries, not merely our own. The point is to let them speak to us!

Zechariah proceeds to describe all the nations of the world rising up against God’s people and fighting Jerusalem. Even Judah will rise up against Jerusalem. But they will only injure themselves, like those who try to move an immovable rock. God will fight those who fight her.

Amidst these scenes of strife and loss, Zechariah offers vivid images of Hope, ones that connect closely with Jesus in John’s Gospel and with John’s promises in the Book of Revelation. Zechariah promises a fountain welling up within the house of David. Fresh water will flow from Jerusalem, during both summer and winter, to the East and the West. There will be no more darkness or cold, but only the Day. He promises the restoration of Jerusalem and the inclusion of all the survivors of these great trials – both the Jews and the Gentiles who had rebelled against Jerusalem but now repent. Cleansed by the fountain, they will gather year after year to celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles, bowing down to the King, the Lord of Hosts. On that day, each household in their own tent will find their cooking pot to be sacred to the Lord. No longer shall the Temple be a marketplace, in which people attempt to purchase holiness. Each and every vessel will receive and be filled as from the altar itself; each household will be truly holy to the Lord of Hosts.

A marketplace no more. Intellectually we understand that God’s holiness cannot be bought, and that no amount of magic or manipulation can bend Him to our will. Yet we still try. One way or another, our prayers tend to be varied attempts at praying, “My will be done!” – or more subtly, “This is what you have to do for me, God.” Much more elusive to us is the experience of freely receiving, gently abiding, and humbly depending. We have a tendency to keep grasping at a God we can control and bend to our will. Idolatry dies hard.

Jesus breaks into our brokenness with a newness that flips our paradigms upside down. John’s writings illustrate this point powerfully with the image of “tabernacles” (tents). John begins his Gospel telling us that Jesus, the Eternal Word of God, became flesh and made his dwelling among us. Literally, he pitched his tent in our midst. In the Old Testament, autumn after autumn, God’s people celebrated the Feast of Tabernacles by bringing their harvest fruits to the Temple and constructing their tents around the Temple.

In John 7 and Revelation 7, this imagery is flipped around, in a way that evokes Zechariah’s promises. Jesus goes up to Jerusalem during the Feast of Tabernacles and proclaims, “Whoever believes in me, as Scripture says: ‘Rivers of living water will flow from within him.’ He said this in reference to the Spirit that those who came to believe in him were to receive.” Revelation 7 describes a living fountain issuing forth from the Lamb once slain, and an endless Day shining forth from the Temple. The white-robed army that has endured the time of trial will be sheltered (“tented”) by God himself, day and night. Revelation 21 re-echoes that God will dwell (“tent”) with his people day and night, and will wipe every tear away.

Our tendency from the Fall until now is one of pride and self-protection. Adam and Eve tried to hide from God and cover their nakedness. We, their descendants, spend much of our lives constructing our own versions of holiness and try to become good enough so that God has to give us what we want.

Mercifully, God allows our false props to be stripped away – yes, even by means of harsh trials. They are of our own making – not his – but he turns all things to the good for his beloved children. To those not yet ready to receive and abide and depend, it feels terrifying and seems like punishment – much like the imagery at the end of Zechariah. It is then we can take great assurance in the Hope he promises: “The city will be inhabited; never again will it be doomed. Jerusalem will dwell securely” (Zechariah 14:11). When we remember that the living fountain of the Holy Spirit is always there within our hearts, that the light of the Risen Christ shines brightly, and that the Father himself will extend his shelter over us, then we can begin to take him up on his invitation to abide in his presence in Hope.

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Kind to Self / Kind to Others

Kindness seems scarcer than ever during these days of pandemic and a pending (impending?) general election here in the United States. A little kindness goes a long way at a time in which divisions and contempt are palpable, and almost all of us feel emotionally and spiritually exhausted.

These past few weeks, I have been astounded and grateful at how frequently a simple kind and empathetic gaze into someone’s eyes elicits tears and a deeper sense of peace.

I wish I could say that it’s always easy to practice empathy and kindness. It is often challenging because I am not being kind to myself – or (to put it more precisely) I am not allowing myself to receive the kindness that I need.

God is eternally kind. That is one way to translate the oft-repeated scriptural refrain “his mercy endures forever.” The Hebrew word hesed can be translated as mercy, love, covenantal love, grace, or kindness.

God’s covenantal love abides. He always gazes upon us with kindness, even when we are at our worst. He loves us “even if…” and “even when…” He does not cease his kindness towards us just because we have ceased our faithfulness to him. “If we are unfaithful, he abides in faithfulness, for he cannot deny himself” (2 Timothy 2:13).

That is what covenantal love (hesed) does. It is an unshakable gaze of kindness that truly “sees” into our brokenness and woundedness, receiving us with blessing and delight. Think of the woman caught in adultery. My friend, Fr. Sean Kilcawley, suggests that Jesus stooped down to write on the ground because that is very likely where she was staring. At last, he catches her eye. She receives a gaze that knows her truthfully and communicates the kindness that her heart so deeply desires.

Matthew the tax collector was transformed by a similar gaze of kindness. This is the origin of Jorge Mario Bergoglio’s motto, first as a bishop and then as Pope Francis: Miserando atque Eligendo.

As a 17-year-old, Jorge had a transformational moment in Buenos Aires, on the Feast day of Saint Matthew (Sept 21, 1962). The youth unwittingly stumbled into a church, felt drawn to go to Confession, and deeply experienced the healing power of God’s mercy. He felt “seen” and he felt God’s kindness in the depths of his heart.

In his adult years, Bergoglio fell in love with the Caravaggio painting of the call of Matthew, housed in the church of Saint Louis King of France in Rome. As only art can do, the painting utilizes light and shadows to depict Jesus’ gaze, and Matthew’s shock at being truly seen AND received with kindness. His face shows a battle between hope and fear, leading to a moment of decision that he will begin to follow Jesus.

The motto itself is taken from a homily by St. Bede the Venerable, an early medieval monk in England, and one of my very favorite authors. His commentary on Matthew’s Gospel says in 3 words (miserando atque eligendo) what it takes me 12 words in English to translate (see the bold-faced words below):

“Jesus saw a man named Matthew sitting at the tax office, and he said to him: Follow me.  Jesus ‘saw’ Matthew, not merely in the usual sense, but more significantly with his merciful understanding of men.  He saw a tax collector, but by looking upon him with a gaze of mercy, by choosing him, He said to him: Follow me.”

And Matthew followed. His life was never the same after receiving a gaze of kindness from Jesus.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus turns and gazes at Peter with kindness right at the moment of Peter’s deepest betrayal (Luke 22:61). In other stories, this eternal kindness of God is depicted in a more visceral way. Luke describes the Good Samaritan or the Merciful Father (of the prodigal son) being “moved with kindness” at the sight – literally, moved in their guts. Both saw a deeply wounded man; both only wanted to show kindness and care – indeed, even feasting and celebration.

Kindness is a gift. We cannot save ourselves. We cannot earn God’s kindness, mercy, or love. He freely bestows it upon us, choosing and delighting in us, and  calling us into heavenly festal celebration. Unlike the devil and fallen humans, God has no interest whatsoever in condemning us. He desires all human beings to be saved (1 Timothy 2:4). But he will not force us.

My fallen human heart deeply desire this kindness – and is often terrified. One would think that receiving kindness would be one of the easiest things to do – and yet my experience tells us that it can be incredibly hard. In my pride and self-protection, I often resist! I am guessing that you do as well.

In recent years, a deep human truth has dawned upon me. Being hard on myself leads me to be hard on others. Being kind to myself frees me to be kind to others. At times I notice myself taking up old and familiar roles – peevishness, fault-finding, blaming, criticizing, or resenting. In those moments, if I let myself be truly present, if I allow myself to receive the gaze of Jesus, if I welcome the comforting presence of the Holy Spirit, I often break down and cry. I see the pride and self-reliance that is there, a shame and a relentless cruelty towards myself – thankfully less and less over the years – but still there.

I have begun to probe this hypothesis in the experiences of others, when they have come to me for spiritual counsel. It has proven true every time! If they are struggling with unkindness towards others, it turns out that their heart is itself desperately craving kindness – and often blocking it out.

I think Vincent de Paul discovered the same truth many years ago. He put it this way: “To pardon an injustice received is to heal the wound in your own heart.” As fallen human beings, we bear woundedness in our heart. The devil is a liar and a murderer from the beginning. He led Adam and Eve to disobey God, but what is worse, he convinced them that God would no longer be interested in showing kindness to them. So they ran and hid – as though God were a petty tyrant.

The story of salvation throughout the Bible and throughout human history has been one of God eagerly pursuing us with his kindness and love, and our playing hard-to-get with our hardness of heart.

When we stop fighting, lay down our arms, and allow the eternally kind God to tend to our hearts (often by opening ourselves in trust to other human beings who are his chosen instruments!), we will notice a change. We suddenly have a reservoir of kindness within us. The fruits of the Holy Spirit start showing up.

We cannot give what we don’t have. We cannot love our neighbor or show kindness to our neighbor if we do not allow ourselves to receive love and kindness. To try to do otherwise is the detestable heresy of Pelagianism. It’s time to stop being Pelagians and start being kind.

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Ice to be Melted

Concluding insights from the sermons of Saint Sharbel (1828-1898).

Love is the ultimate purpose of our human existence. Our truest and deepest desires, planted by God, find their fulfillment as we become like Jesus and make a free and total gift of ourselves in a way that brings new life to many.

Sharbel offers a powerful image to reflect on our ultimate calling, and the ways we tend to fight and resist:

“Every human being … is like a piece of ice that someone tries to keep far from the fire so that it does not melt. What good is this piece of ice if it wants to preserve its form and its existence at all costs? If the ice does not melt, it will not be able to soak into the earth to water the land and to quench the thirst of human beings.”

I love this image so much, because I feel like parts of my heart are still thawing out after a deep freeze. Sometimes I fight and resist, but when I yield, the warmth of the Holy Spirit does amazing things. I begin to see how this divine thawing brings new life to others. The places in my heart that feel the most lost or broken are precisely the ones that God blesses and works through to bring his love to others. Whenever that happens, my soul is filled with gratitude and praise for God’s amazing plans, and I realize that it’s all been worth it.

Then, of course, some new difficulty arises, and I start the cycle of resistance and fighting all over again – at least it feels that way sometimes! Lately, the Lord has been giving me repeated invitations to draw near to the warmth of the Holy Spirit and stop fearing the fire of his love. I am meant to be melted so that I can be poured out and given.

Every year at Pentecost, we Christians pray for docility and surrender as we call upon the Holy Spirit in the Sequence:

Heal our wounds, our strength renew;
On our dryness pour your dew;
Wash the stains of guilt away:
Bend the stubborn heart and will;
Melt the frozen, warm the chill;
Guide the steps that go astray.

Truly, our hearts are wounded and need the anointing of the Holy Spirit. We are dry soil that aches for the moisture he brings. We long to be washed by him. We are rigid and inflexible, and often prefer to stay frozen – yet deep down we long to be melted by him. We fight the notion of being told what steps to take, yet find that our own willfulness only enslaves us.

The great paradox of Christian discipleship is that we only find freedom in the Cross of Jesus. His dying and rising are at the center of every liturgical year and of every week of our lives. As Sharbel puts it, “The whole universe moves around the mystery of the Cross … He who does not live the mystery of the Cross cannot understand the mystery of the universe.”

We center our liturgical year around the Paschal Mystery of Jesus in Holy Week and Easter. We center every week around Sunday. But do we center our hearts around this core truth? I know for myself that I sometimes do and sometimes don’t.

Without the Cross, “love” ceases to be Love. There are many counterfeits. Sharbel offers a tribute to Love that reminds me very much of Paul’s famous words in 1 Corinthians. It is worth quoting at length:

Love is not an attachment, because it is freedom, whereas an attachment enslaves. God is freedom.

Love must not be taken solely as a human affection; it is a divine force of creation, a force of heavenly resurrection…

God is neither a feeling nor a habit nor an attachment nor an idea. He is Reality and Life, and a Creator who gives life.

Love is gratuitous, and to be given it demands nothing in return … The love that comes from a human being returns to him. When the love springs from the human being himself, he loves himself, regardless of how strong the love is. However, if a human being draws his Love from God, he is naturally oriented towards others …The human being whose love emanates from himself loves himself through others, while thinking that he loves others.

Never confuse Love and desire, Love and affection, Love and habit, Love and attachment.

There is so much to ponder in Sharbel’s words, but two points leap off the page at me: the freedom involved and the divine origins.

Love is freely received and freely given. No one takes my life from me; I lay it down freely. Until we learn to be truly receptive, like Jesus and Mary, we will struggle with making a free gift of ourselves. But as we receive the warmth of the Holy Spirit, we find a growing willingness to give freely and wholeheartedly.

Love is from on high. It becomes truly human, and we cannot become fully human without it. Yet we cannot create it for ourselves. It is a gift. Only by God’s grace can we receive it and give it. And even then, only if we are willing to die and rise with Jesus will we find the freedom to receive it and give it.

There is so much joy in our ultimate destiny – being melted like that piece of ice, poured out to bring life and fruitfulness. It is understandable that we resist, for fear of losing ourselves. May each of us learn to receive the divine gift of Love. May we allow the Holy Spirit to draw near with his fire. May he indeed bend our stubborn wills and melt our frozen hearts. May we become the gift of Love we were always destined to be.

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Do Not Idolize the Means

Happy Feast of Saint Sharbel! Every July 24th we remember this wise monk and shepherd who lived in Lebanon from 1828-1898.

Holiness is the true goal of our life, the entire purpose of our human existence. As we all aim for that ultimate goal, Sharbel identifies one of the subtlest and most common pitfalls – making an idol of the means. Even incredibly good and beautiful things like prayer, fasting, and almsgiving can become hindrances if we idolize them: “Prayer sanctifies you; do not sanctify it. Fasting strengthens you; do not make it a god. Mortifications purify you; do not adore them. Your singing is designed to praise God, but do not glorify it.”

God himself gave us these means. He commanded penance and fasting; he inspired the psalms that King David sang; he invites us to gather and worship him. These means serve us well when we receive them in gratitude, and give them back freely to the Lord, the true object of our desire. But if we make an idol of the means, we fall into the trap of the Pharisees.

Echoing Jesus’ words in Matthew 23, Sharbel warns us not to confuse the temple with the living God who dwells in it: “The safe can never be more important than the treasure it contains, nor the glass more important than the wine it contains, nor the bakery more important than the bread, nor the tabernacle more important than the Blessed Sacrament.”

Even with something as wonderful as Scripture, Sharbel warns not to idolize the means: “Christianity is neither the religion of the temple nor the religion of the book. Christianity is the person of Jesus himself.” An important distinction! We call Scripture “the word of God” – and so it is, but only because by means of it we encounter Jesus Christ, God’s eternal Word. All Scripture points to him. Sharbel compares Scripture to a mirror that reflects God’s light. As wonderful as the mirror is, our true destiny is the light itself. It is quite possible to cling to verses of Scripture while keeping Jesus at a safe distance from the depths of our heart.

It is also very possible to turn to God or to religious practices as an attempt to escape the pain of our problems. Sharbel cautions, “Do not seek refuge in God in order to flee from yourself … Do not let the world push you toward God. Allow God to attract you.”

Allowing our fear to give way to love – this is what distinguishes the disciple from the Pharisee. The disciple of Jesus discovers God in the deep yearnings of his heart, and refuses to numb those desires, no matter how painful the waiting can be.

It is in the desire of our heart that the Father attracts us, drawing us more and more deeply into Jesus (John 6:44). As we encounter Jesus, the Holy Spirit transforms us, casting out the spirit of fear that binds us up in slavery, and maturing us in the glorious freedom of the sons and daughters of God (Romans 8).

Without desire, our conversion will hit a wall. We will either get stuck in the land of religious idols, or (when they fail to satisfy) we will revert to our old idolatry of sin. I know, because it’s been my story! For too many years, I was more often motivated by fear than by desire. I toggled back and forth between firm and resolute observance of all the rules and then numbing myself out with addictive behaviors. In both cases I was motivated by fear rather than by love. I was avoiding authentic vulnerability, trust, surrender, intimacy, and the deepest desires of my heart. God has been inviting me to leave the ways of fear behind and to discover him in the depths of my heart, where he has always been present.

Granted, fear can be a great motivator – especially in the very first motion of turning away from evil. But it will never fuel a full conversion in Christ. Only desire can propel me away from the orbit of my past life of sin. If I do not open up in vulnerability and trust, if I do not allow myself to feel the depths of desire (which can be painful!) I will not grow in love.

Sometimes it feels so much safer to cling rigidly to the means – especially those that God made so good and beautiful. Clinging to them, I can avoid vulnerability, resist surrender, and bury my unfulfilled desire. When I idolize the means, I feel in control. Unfortunately, without vulnerability there is no love. Without surrender, there is no faith. Without desire, there is no hope.

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31). Not because he is a God of fear, but because all our illusions melt away in his presence. Our pretending and protecting hold no sway. He tolerates them with great patience. He respects our resistance – because he always respects our dignity and freedom, which he gave to us. He patiently waits. He entices and attracts, turning even our stumbling into wonderful opportunity. But only we can say “yes” and allow his love to be awakened deeply within in our heart.

Often, when the real growth begins, it is in ways we never expected. We spend so much of our time trying to force a path of holiness that is not for us. We grasp at means that may work well for others, but do not match with our own story. Sharbel invites us to discover our truest and deepest identity, and embrace the means of holiness most suitable to the situation God has placed us in. “The cedars and the oaks do not grow in the sand of the seashore, nor banana and orange groves among the rocks on the mountain. Do your work with the available tools, and flourish and bear fruit where God has planted you.”

Our deepest desires have always been there. The Father put them there in the first place. We just need to get reconnected with them, allow ourselves to feel them, to grow in them, and (propelled by them) to return to the Father. As this process unfolds for each of us I think we will find that we are experiencing what the poet T.S. Eliot once described in these words:

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

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Spiritual Communion Prayer

This pandemic has certainly given us pause to step back and look at many things we had been taking for granted, including Holy Communion. Many of us began praying one or another version of a “Spiritual Communion” prayer – asking Jesus to enter spiritually in the absence of the opportunity to go through the Communion line.

I find that our view of this sacrament can be rather one-dimensional. Receiving Communion is not just a matter of Jesus entering into us. The reverse is even more true – we are received into Jesus. In the words of Saint Augustine of Hippo, “You will not change me into yourself like bodily food; but you will be changed into me.” We become the Body of Christ every time we receive the Body of Christ. That also means we are united in love as the one Body of Christ, re-committed and aided in our desire to love our neighbor. Saint Augustine and Saint John Chrysostom reflect on the importance of loving our neighbor – including our enemy – if we are to claim that we love Jesus. Augustine suggests that claiming to love Jesus while hating our brother is like giving Jesus the kiss of peace while stomping on his feet with spiked boots (ouch!).

During this time in which we are so sorely tempted by divisiveness and tension, let us draw from the wisdom of Augustine, John Chrysostom, and several other early Church Fathers, not to mention Sacred Scripture itself. Inspired by them and my prayerful reading of them, I offer you this prayer of Spiritual Communion:

Lord Jesus, I believe that you are truly present in the Blessed Sacrament. I profess that Holy Communion feeds me with your flesh and blood, heals me of my spiritual sickness, and gives me ever deeper life as a member of your Body, united with the men and women of every time and place who share in this great Communion.

Even if I cannot at this time receive you sacramentally, I desire deeply to receive you into my heart and to be received into your Sacred Heart. I long to be fully alive as a member of your Body, intimately close to you and to all the other members, with whom I am called to share eternal life.

Jesus, I confess that my heart sometimes resists this great Communion of Love. I recognize that your Love, Jesus, is infinitely greater than my own, and I beg you for the freedom and courage to be plunged into the great ocean of your Love. Lead me ever more deeply into the union that you have with your Father, and which you so deeply desire to share with each and all of us. Help me to set aside my self-reliance and self-protection and allow my heart to be transformed by your Love today.

Jesus, I also confess and recognize that my heart sometimes resists Communion with the other members of your Body, especially those who have harmed me, those who do not understand me, those whom I do not understand, those who disagree with me, or those who are different from me. I renew my commitment to be one with each and all of them in your great Love.

Jesus, Divine Physician, heal whatever in my heart blocks out this great Communion.

Jesus, Shepherd of Souls, lead me to good pastures, and nourish me with the strength I need today. Lead me to living waters and help me to drink deeply from this saving stream that brings such great gladness. May my soul never stop hungering and thirsting for union with you until the day when we are all perfectly united in your Love, and you become All in All.

Amen.

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The Tree that Holds the Nest

Ongoing insights from the sermons of Saint Sharbel (1828-1898).

For birds, nest building is a matter of security, survival, and nurturing. They instinctively seek out a safe location and then diligently gather materials to prepare a home in which they can hatch, nourish, and protect their young.

We humans have a similar instinct, both for ourselves and for those in our care. We are hardwired for survival, and we have a deep need to feel safe and secure. Ideally, those needs are met in our early and vulnerable stages in life. Through healthy relationships, intimate and consistent nurturing, and appropriate protecting, we learn to trust God vulnerably and be secure in his protection and love. Unfortunately, many of us have a different story, and continue to struggle with insecurity well into our adult lives.

Saint Sharbel reminds us not to get so intensely focused on our frenzied nest building that we forget all about the tree that holds the nest.

One mistake is to pick the wrong tree! Animals sometimes build their nests in funny places – especially when baffled by the shape and texture of human structures. A year ago my mother kept sending us photos of the duck that had decided to build its nest beneath her water meter, right outside the living room and just two feet from the driveway. In this case, she, my sister, and my nephews were all quite interested in helping protect the eggs that held the ducklings. In other cases, picking the wrong nesting place is fatal for all concerned.

We humans easily build our nest in artificial places – food or drink, status, wealth, luxury, entertainment, sexual fantasies, social media (or the image we project on social media), addictions, and so forth. These surrogate trees feel safe to us in the moment, but they are artificial substitutes for the only thing that can bring true human security and nurture – healthy relationships, beginning with God the Father.

Even as disciples of Jesus, we can get so unduly focused on our nest that forget all about the tree that holds the nest. Sharbel exhorts us, “Care for the tree with the same care that you devote to the nest. Just as you take charge of your nests, take charge of your trees also. Care for the roots, the trunk, the branches, and the leaves.”

This is another way of inviting us to put God’s Kingdom first in every aspect of our life. If the branches of the tree are healthy and full, our nest will have plenty of protection. We do not need to exert so much energy and wear ourselves out building high walls around our nest.

Parents worry a great deal about the safety and security of their children – especially in this age of “helicopter parenting” or (my personal favorite) Zamboni parenting. Such hopes for a life devoid of risk or messiness are unrealistic and serve only to steal away our peace as we chase the impossible. I say “we” because these parents are typiclly my age and because I have done more than my share of freaking out in my role as a spiritual father in parish life. Saint Sharbel gently lifts our gaze to remind us of the true security that we can confer on our children:

“You must give life to your children. Now, there is no life except in Christ. So offer them Christ! But if he is not in you, it will be difficult for you to give him to them. If you do not sanctify yourselves, how do you think you will sanctify your children?”

There are parallel truths at the level of a parish family. How many of the feverish activities in a typical American parish are actually about connecting us with Jesus and helping our children fall in love with Jesus? How many of our parishes are dying because individuals and groups are so concerned with guarding their nests that they fail to notice how rotten or dead the tree has become?

I take the same challenges to heart as a priest, as I celebrate my 17th anniversary this weekend. Looking back over the years, I can think of many moments in which I was far more concerned with “nest building” than with abiding in the love of Jesus. In the early years, I plunged into all sorts of pastoral busyness, often finding that I had – yet again – missed my allotted meditation time or was praying the entire Divine Office at 11pm (or at a later time I will not admit!). The Lord gently and persistently invited me to depend on him and to put prayer first. Without prayer, I wither and die.

I have vastly improved my prayer habits, but I still struggle often with ungodly self-reliance or self-protection. God has revealed to me the deeper truth: he has placed me and my nest in a mighty tree by flowing waters. If I allow that tree to abide by the waters and grow, not only will my nest find protection in those strong branches, so will thousands of others. It is sometimes hard to believe in the depths of my heart that God will provide and protect. It takes so much surrender and humility to trust his branches; it feels so much easier to return to my own frenzied nest building or (at more selfish moments) simply to bury myself in my nest and ignore everyone and everything.

God wills for us to tend to the tree that holds our nest. If the branches are rotting, we may need to ask for help from wise people in our life. We may need to seek spiritual remedies such as prayer, sacraments, fasting, or penance.

Often, we need to go to the roots of the tree. If the soil and the roots are unsound, the whole tree is in danger. Getting to the roots takes determination and courage. As Sharbel explains, “the work of taking root is hidden, it will not appear, and it requires effort and asceticism.” We have to be willing to die to ourselves. It often means a great simplification of our cushy nest – something we tend to resist!

Nest building is a natural part of life, but the Lord invites us to turn our attention to the tree that holds our nest. May each of us have the humility and courage to tend to that tree, and to trust in the protection and care God will provide us there.