He is Risen!

It was very early on the first day of the week and still dark, when Mary of Magdala came to the tomb.  She saw that the stone had been moved away from the tomb and came running to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one Jesus loved.  "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb," she said, "and we don't know where they have put him."

So Peter set out with the other disciple to go to the tomb.  They ran together, but the other disciple, running faster than Peter, reached the tomb first; he bent down and saw the linen cloths lying on the ground, but did not go in.  Simon Peter who was following now came up, went right into the tomb, saw the linen cloths on the ground, and also the cloth that had been over his head; this was not with the linen cloths but rolled up in a place by itself.  Then the other disciple who had reached the tomb first also went in; he saw and he believed.  Till this moment they had failed to understand the teaching of scripture, that he must rise from the dead.

                                                                The Gospel according to St. John, 20:1-9

 

When this perishable nature has put on imperishability, and when this mortal nature has put on immortality, then the words of scripture will come true:

'Death is swallowed up in victory.  Death, where is your victory?  Death, where is your sting?'

                                        St. Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians 15:54-55

Easter
by Caryll Houselander

On Good Friday he lays hold of the cross with the hands of a lover, takes to his heart all that dire misery, ugliness, brutality, that is the result of sin; even that he transforms.  Suddenly, the age-long sorrow, death, becomes potent with life.  The seed has fallen into the earth, the great emptiness of the world's heart is filled with the potency of immortal love.

Easter is Christ risen in us; our life is the risen Christ.  Christ will flower in us, will bear fruit in us, will come to harvest in us.

Had he not risen in the flesh, but remained in the tomb, he would have been the prerogative of the devout few.  In every age the Magdalenes and the Johns of the world would have come with their precious ointment of love, but the Christian world would have been a world of weeping.  Because Christ is risen it is a world of joy, an unassailable kingdom of heaven in the midst of surrounding sorrow.

It is for the ordinary man, the creature of flesh and blood, that Christ has risen; for those who cannot look upon folded hands and still feet and listen to the silence of a heart no longer beating.

                                                     excerpt from This War is the Passion



"Do not be men and women of sadness: a Christian can never be sad!  Never give way to discouragement!"

                                                     from Pope Francis' Palm Sunday homily


"We are an Easter people and hallelujah is our song."

                                                                   St. Augustine

The glory of Easter, of the risen Christ, is too great to be contained in one single day.  Therefore, the Catholic Church celebrates a 50-day Easter season, ending on Pentecost Sunday, May 19th.

There is a customary greeting among Orthodox Christians during the Easter season: Christ is risen! with the second person responding, Truly, he is risen!

So, I wish each of you a happy and blessed Easter and this greeting, CHRIST IS RISEN!

A Terrible Week

My Webster's Dictionary, published in 1995, gives the following definitions for terrible: 1. exciting extreme alarm or intense fear: terrifying; formidable in nature: awewome; difficult. 2. extreme, great. 3. extremely bad.

It's interesting to me that Webster's lists third the sense we tend to use in everyday speech.  However, I'm thinking of the first and second definitions in my following description of Holy Week.

Holy Week is the name given to the week from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday.  I will describe Holy Week as it's experienced by most Catholics.  The minor details may differ from parish to parish, but Holy Week is essentially the same everywhere.

 

Palm Sunday

Before mass the congregation gathers outside the church.  We hold palm branches (in America) or colored bunches of dried grasses and flowers (in Poland).  After a series of prayers the priest blesses the palms. 

This year the priest (or a deacon in America) reads from Luke 19:28-40, which describes Jesus entering Jerusalem on a colt.  This event happened just days before Jesus was crucified.  It was at this time that the crowds shouted, "Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!  Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"

At our parish here in Poland we then walk in procession around the church once, singing hymns, before entering the church.  As I write this, the forecast for Sunday is for sub-freezing temperatures.  I guess it's going to be a chilly procession!

A Palm Sunday procession in Poland

During mass on Palm Sunday, the Gospel reading is the Passion of our Lord.  This year it is from Luke 22:14-23:56.  Typically in American parishes this text is read by three readers.  Most of it is read by a narrator, often a deacon.  All of the parts spoken by Jesus are read by the priest.  The third "reader" is the congregation.  We, the congregation, read the parts of the crowd at Jesus' trial and crucifixion.  Specifically, it is the congregation that speaks the parts shouted out by the crowd, "Away with him!  Give us Barabas!" and "Crucify him!  Crucify him!" 

During every mass, the congregation stands during the reading of the Gospel.  This is to show reverence for the very words of Jesus Christ that are read from the Gospel.  Therefore, we are all standing during this reading of the Passion.  But then, at the point where Jesus dies on the cross and the narrator reads, "With these words he breathed his last," everybody kneels and there is a short silent pause in the reading.  At this moment you could hear a pin drop.  On occasion I've heard quiet sobbing. 

Then we all stand again until the end of the Gospel reading.

Like most Catholics, I'm unable to attend mass daily due to my work schedule, but the week progresses with these readings at mass: Monday, John 12:1-11, where Mary (sister of Martha, not Jesus' mother) annoints Jesus' feet with nard, a costly ointment, and wipes his feet with her hair.  This signifies preparation for Jesus' burial.  Tuesday, John 13:21-33, 36-38, where at the Last Supper Jesus foretells his betrayal.  Wednesday, Matthew 26:14-25, where Judas agrees to betray Jesus to the chief priests for thirty pieces of silver while the other disciples make preparations for the passover meal.

Holy Thursday

And then begins the Easter Triduum, the three days from the evening of Holy Thursday to Easter Sunday.  Holy Thursday is also known as Maundy Thursday. The word maundy comes from Old French mandé, meaning something commanded; from Latin mandatum, meaning commandment; from the words of Jesus, "Mandātum novum dō vōbīs: A new commandment give I unto you, love one another as I have loved you." (John 13:34). 

Holy Thursday commemorates the Last Supper when, before eating, Jesus washed the feet of the apostles (John 13:1-15).  At mass on Holy Thursday evening it is customary for the priest(s) to wash the feet of 12 of the parishoners, who have signed up for this beforehand.

The most moving part of the Holy Thursday mass for me is at the end.  Here I need to explain that when the bread and wine are consecrated by a priest, the bread and wine become the actual body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ (John chapter 6, Matthew 26:26-28, Mark 14:22,24, Luke 22:19-20, 1 Corinthians 11:24-25, 27-30).  At the end of the mass on this evening the priest places the consecrated hosts, the Blessed Sacrament - Jesus' very body - in something called a ciborium.  The priest puts on a white humeral veil, picks up the ciburium and, flanked by two alter servers holding candles, follows a deacon or lay minister holding a cross in a procession through the church.  The ancient Latin hymn Pange, lingua (Sing, my tongue) is typically sung. 

As the Blessed Sacrament passes by, those in the congregation kneel in reverence.  The congregation then follows the procession out of the church.  The Blessed Sacrament is kept in a place of repose outside of the sanctuary all night.  In our parish in Keller people were asked to sign up to spend at least one hour during this night praying and reflecting in this place with the Blessed Sacrament.  This is done in memory of when Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane after the Last Supper, the night before he was crucified.  "So you could not keep watch with me for one hour?" (Matthew 26:40)

After this mass the altar is stripped bare and the crosses are either removed from the church or veiled.

Good Friday

Technically speaking, mass is not celebrated on Good Friday.  There is a Celebration of the Passion of the Lord.  All masses begin with a hymn, but this Good Friday service begins in silence.  The altar is bare without a cross and without candles.  As on Palm Sunday, the Gospel reading this day is the Passion of the Lord.  This year the reading will be John 18:1-19:42.  Again, the congregation reads out the parts of the crowd which include, "Crucify him!  Crucify him!"  After the words, "Jesus . . . said 'It is accomplished'; and bowing his head he gave up the spirit," everybody kneels in silence for a short time.

Again the heavy ache in my chest.  He died for our sins.  The nails driven into his precious body were our sins.  All our lying and selfishness and hatred and envy and abuse and pride pierced the flesh of Him who is perfect Love.

Later comes the Adoration of the Holy Cross.  A large wooden cross is carried up the center aisle to the front of the church and all individuals in the congregation approach it, genuflect and/or kiss the cross.  After Holy Communion is distributed and the priest's blessing given, everybody leaves the church in silence.

The churches remain empty and silent from now until Easter Vigil.

Holy Saturday

God is dead.  So proclaimed the philospher Friedrich Nietzsche.  I once heard somebody make the case that the modern developed world today is living a virtual Holy Saturday.  For all practical purposes, God is dead as far we are concerned.  Though a majority of us will report to pollsters that we believe in God, we live as atheists.  We don't live our lives as though God actually exists for us.  He doesn't guide our actions.  He's not in our day to day thoughts.  Maybe if a family member is stricken with cancer, we might remember and turn to Him.

Easter Vigil

As Jews have traditionally marked the beginning and end of days, sunset is the beginning of the following day.  The Catholic Church has retained this custom in her liturgy. 

After sunset on Saturday we celebrate the Easter Vigil.  A blazing fire is prepared outside the church.  The people gather with candles and from this fire their candles are lit.  Then we process into the church.

During the Easter Vigil there are nine scripture readings - 7 from the Old Testament and 2 from the New (an Epistle and the Gospel).  Some parishes reduce the number of Old Testament readings, but at least 3 of these must be read.  The Old Testament readings outline salvation history up to the time of the Incarnation, the appearance of God among men as Jesus. 

The readings this year are: Genesis 1:1-2:2, the creation account; Genesis 22:1-18, Abraham is tested by being commanded to sacrifice his only son Isaac.  Isaac is spared, but later God will not spare is own Son, Jesus; Exodus 14:15-15:1, Moses leads the Israelites through the Red Sea; Isaiah 54:5-14, God promises to take his wayward people back; Isaiah 55:1-11, God pleads for his people to return to him; Baruch 3:9-15, 32-4:4, God again pleads to his people to return to him; Ezekial 36:16-28, God promises to gather his scattered people back together and cleanse them; Romans 6:3-11, concerning our dying with Christ in our baptism and Luke 24:1-12, the Resurrection of Jesus.

Up until the reading of the Epistle from the New Testament, the candles at the altar remain unlit.  Then the candles are lit and we sing the Gloria (Glory to God in the highest . . .).  I remember in one parish in Texas the lights were kept dim all during the Old Testament readings.  Then, just before the reading of the Epistle from the New Testament, along with the lighting of the candles the lights were turned up to full brightness.  This is to show that before the Incarnation people understood God more dimly, but Christ brought full light with his arrival.

It's a long mass, especially in America when new converts to Catholicism are received into the Church.  But it's utterly beautiful and one of the highlights of my year.  7 years ago this Easter Vigil, I was received into the Catholic Church. 

Easter Sunday

Gifts Overflowing

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.
                                                      St. Paul's Letter to the Philippians 4:8

The Riches and the Spoils, Janet Hill

I'm puzzled by people who are easily bored.  They must be blind and deaf to the blessings that surround them.  Over the past week I have taken stock of all of the wonderful and fascinating gifts that fill my life.

First of all (literally) there is God who loves me and is the source of all blessings.

Following from that is my Christian faith.  I was blessed with a Christian upbringing.  Yet, I wandered far afield at times in my life.  I can't say that I was ever an outright atheist, but I seriously doubted for a time.  What's even worse, I think, is the period in my life when I was simply indifferent to God.  But thanks to the grace of God I returned to the Faith - in fact I returned all the way home to the Catholic Church.  The Church has answered all of the spiritual longings and questions that I had. 

In this age of the lovelorn constantly searching for Mr. or Mrs. Right, I found a fabulous wife.  She's a woman who loves me for who I am, is more patient than I deserve, is a wonderful mother to our two children and someone with whom I can grow old with.

I just mentioned our two children.  They are so full of energy and enthusiasm.  They have quick and curious minds.  They love to play and create and sing and not a day goes by that they don't make me smile and laugh.  Children are the source of eternal youth.

My job as an 'English as a Foreign Language' teacher is a rewarding challenge.  Being an American teaching in Poland puts me in the unique position as an outsider being granted glimpses inside another culture.  Most of my students are children and teenagers, but among my adult students there have been doctors, teachers, business people, bankers, engineers, etc.  They have told me firsthand accounts of life inside their professions that I otherwise might never have heard.

Young Fishermen, Vladimir Gusev

Then there are all my many interests.  I guess I'm blessed with a kind hyper curiosity and I'm grateful for the many things that interest me.  I enjoy the change of seasons.  I like plants and gardens.  I like to observe the trees, birds and other wildlife in all the various places I've lived.  I wish I had more time to develop my interest in fishing.  Sports thrill me - especially baseball and football.  Over the years I've accumulated CDs from across the music genres.  My bookshelves hold books from at least a dozen genres.  I love beautiful paintings and other art. 

And the internet!  What a wonderful source of riches that is!  In just the last couple months alone I've discovered the following: Fr. Robert Barron's wordonfire.org (check out his video commentaries on movies, pop culture, books and theology as well as his insightful weekly sermons), NFL Films' America's Game series on youtube.com which are 45-minute documentaries on NFL teams' championship seasons (the ups and downs and personal dramas that occur during a football season - extremely well made and fascinating), over 11,000 free ebook titles on bookdepository.co.uk, and numerous interviews on youtube with the likes of Jimmy Stewart, Sister Wendy Beckett and William F. Buckley that had me glued to my chair, and on and on.

So unless you're locked up in solitary confinement, how on earth can you be bored?

* * * * *

 

To the Cynic

 

The miracle of being that makes the hills to sing

And stones to laugh in sparkling brooks and bells to ring;

The dignity inherent in each God-kissed thing:

The speckled trout, the maple leaf, the finch's wing

Lie in your dark and frozen heart ignored, unsung.

Stick your nose in dung heaps and all you'll smell is dung.

 

 

The Library, Felix Vallotton

 



 

 

A story

A rich man had two sons, Robert and John.  They lived in a large house on a large property.  The house was far from the road, surrounded by fields and woods.  They had servants but the two sons were also expected to work on the property.  There was a stable of fine horses to be taken care of, cattle to tend, fences to be maintained, brush to be cleared, etc. 

On the other hand, there was plenty of land to ride the horses, there was a small lake stocked with trout, bass and pike.  There was a swimming pool and a beautiful and peaceful garden tended by the boys' mother.  Some would say they lived in paradise.

But the younger son, John, was unsatisfied.  He had friends who told him of life in the big city; a life of parties, movies, concerts, sporting events and pretty girls.  Life in the city made life at home seem dull.

John brooded about his misfortune until one day his father asked him about a portion of a fence that needed mending.  That was it for John and he made up his mind to get out.

He knew his father had set aside a large trust fund for each of his sons.  John wasn't of age yet to receive his money but he approached his father and demanded it.  When his father quietly asked him why, John shouted "I want out of this hole!  Life here stinks!  I don't want to be your little slave anymore!"

His father didn't say another word but retrieved the money from the bank.  It was a very large amount.  John immediately bought an expensive sports car and drove away.  His father stood at the front door and watched the trail of dust disappear.  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

John was foolish, but he wasn't stupid.  He put the remainder of his money in the bank in order to live off the interest.  He filled his days and nights with parties and games and riotous noise and laughter.  He had many friends and beautiful girls.  He indulged his senses with many delights.  There was good wine, delicious food and the delicate perfume of his lady friends was a constant presence.  He could even afford the luxury of cocaine.

He rented a splendid apartment high in the sky, overlooking the city.  He wrecked a few fast cars now and then but managed to walk away without serious injury each time.  Life was great.

The pleasure-filled months rolled on into years.  The interest from his money in the bank wasn't always enough to fund his escapades and he began to dip into his principle.  Just a little.  Now and again.  He would manage to save back that principle sometime later.

It sometimes happened that John woke up early in the afternoon, after partying all night, in a pool of his own vomit.  But that was something that could be laughed off with youthful bravado later.  His expensive clothes stained with sick could be replaced and the cleaning lady would clean the carpet.  Heck, that could be replaced too if necessary.

But a day arrived when John discovered that he was broke.  He was being evicted from his high-rise apartment.  His friends were nowhere to be found and his lady friends didn't return his calls.

Since he had no place to stay he slept in his sports car for a couple of nights.  He had lots of quiet time for thinking.  He finally decided to sell his car and rent a small apartment.  He looked around for a job and eventually got one at McDonalds.  Because of his upbringing, John had a touch of pride in him.  His boss detected this and so was extra hard on John.  He always got the task of cleaning out the greasy kitchen every night after closing time.  Most of the customers were of low intelligence and spoke rudely to Jack.  However, the job kept him from starving. 

Every night he trudged home to his tiny apartment, reeking of fat and grease, and slumped into bed.  Somewhere in the apartment complex doors slammed, someone cursed or screamed, or music throbbed during the night.  Roaches crawled through his kitchen sink piled with unwashed dishes.  Mice scurried behind the base boards.  John's face had broken out in acne from his fast food diet.  It was like hell.

One morning John awoke without a hope in the world.  He thought he would surely die that day.  Maybe he'd jump in front of a bus or off the roof, he wasn't really sure. 

As he sat and brooded he remembered his former home.  He hadn't spoken to his father since he left home years before and figured his father had disowned him.  But if he couldn't return as a son he could surely work as one of the servants.  He'd clean the stables, strain the pool, whatever.  It didn't matter.  He just knew he couldn't live like this anymore.

So, John bought himself a bus ticket to get home.  It was a long walk from town where the bus stopped to his father's house.  The weather was mild and sunny and he had plenty of time for thinking.  He clearly saw the foolishness of his life since leaving home and, though he could no longer be a son to his father, life as one of his father's servants would surely be tolerable.

As John walked down the long road from the entrance to his father's property toward the house he noticed a figure in the distance, running toward him.  John squinted his eyes to see who it might be.  It appeared to be an elderly man and he looked a little comical running up the road with his arms waving in the air.  He was shouting something.  As the old man got closer John could finally make out what he was shouting. 

"John!  John!" the old man was shouting.  "Oh, Johnny!  My dear son!  You're home!"

* * * * *

 



This of course is a retelling of the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32), which is the Gospel reading for mass this Sunday, March 10th.  I don't presume to have improved on our Lord's parable (I haven't even dealt with the older son, who is important in the orginal), but I think we can get so accustomed to a particular version of a story that hearing it in a different way can help us refocus on the point of the story.

Here are a couple of things to think about with this story.  First, neither Jesus nor Saint Luke gave this story a title.  It became known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son since the son's actions make up most of the story.  But I've heard it said that it really ought to be called the Parable of the Merciful Father.  The story is really about God and his infinite love and mercy. 

Secondly, I once heard somebody explain that in the Jewish culture in which Jesus lived, for a son to demand his inheritance from his still living father is the same as the son telling his father, "You're dead to me."  I can well imagine the Jewish men listening to Jesus telling this parable flinching or their faces going pale at the part where the son demands his inheritance.  That little cultural fact has added a deeper dimension to a story that was already powerful for me previously. 

So there we have a son who in effect spits in his father's face and tells him he no longer exists for him and the father who apparently was scanning the horizon for his wayward child day after day, year after year, and when he eventually spotted his child returning home he ran out to greet him with joy.  That, brothers and sisters, is God our Father.

The Return of the Prodigal Son, Giovanni Francesco

March Hares and Airs

March is a month of transition, you could say.  March was the first month of the year under the Roman calendar since it's the beginning of spring.  It was also the start of the military campaigning season and therefore it got the name March from the Roman god of war, Mars. 

Having the god of war as a namesake is rather appropriate for the month generally.  The weather is rather turbulent in March.  In north Texas the wind blows pretty much non-stop at this time of year.  We used to take the kids kite flying in the park a lot during March and April.  In grade school in Wisconsin we learned the expression, "If March comes like a lion, it'll leave like a lamb" or vice-versa.  In Poland they have this expression, "W marcu jak w garncu." (It's pronounced: v MAHR-tzu yahk v GAHRN-tzu.  It rhymes.) It means "In March as in a pot."  In other words, everything's all mixed together.

There's a British expression, "Mad as a March hare," which relates to the excitable habits of hares during spring breeding season and is used to describe anybody acting in a peculiar or unpredictable manner.  I can attest that my teenaged students act a little crazier than normal this time of year.  I put it down to a combination of the now 6 month old school year, a long winter and the little hint of spring in the air.

The Daffodil, the flower of March

Baseball spring training is well under way in Arizona and Florida in March, too.  That thrilled me as a kid and it still does.  Hope springs eternal for baseball fans - especially in spring.  Even if a World Series title is unrealistic for the upcoming season (and yet, who knows?) everybody thinks their team will at least improve over the previous year's performance.

As I write this post our snow is melting fast in Poland.  I know it'll snow again before it's all said and done, but this current thaw puts me in mind of a short poem by Edward Thomas. 

Thaw

Over the land half freckled with snow half-thawed

The speculating rooks at their nests cawed,

And saw from elm-tops, delicate as a flower of grass,

What we below could not see, Winter pass.

 

 



Edward Thomas is another of my favorites.  His poems are typically about the English countryside.  As a university undergraduate he decided to earn his living by writing and early in his writing career he reviewed as many as 15 books a week.  He wrote mainly literary criticism, biographies and essays and only turned to poetry late in his short life.  He enlisted in the British Army during World War I and was killed by a shell blast on April 9, 1917 at the age of 39.  He was survived by his wife Helen and their two daughters.