"I am reckoned as one in the tomb."

"It is finished."

In the days when Christ was in the flesh,

he offered prayers and supplications with loud cries and tears 

to the one who was able to save him from death, 

and he was heard because of his reverence.

Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered; 

and when he was made perfect,

he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him.

Hebrews 5:7-9

The immensity of small

God’s love for humanity is so big, so immense, and so high, that he makes himself small, insignificant, and low to lift us up. In John’s Gospel (13:1-15), we are told that Jesus, the Word made Flesh, at supper before the feast of Passover, “got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself,” and then began washing the disciples’ feet.

God stoops down, literally taking the form of a slave, to cleanse those enjoying the banquet with him. In doing this, he strips himself of divine privilege and wraps himself in the towel of humanity.

However, Jesus does much more than simply wash the disciples’ feet. This action symbolically illustrates what he will do in reality on Good Friday, when he will be stripped of his garments and nailed to a cross to cleanse and free humanity—just as the slaughtered lamb at Passover saved the children of Israel in Egypt. In doing so, he offers all a seat at the heavenly banquet (cf. Exodus 12:1-8, 11-14; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26).

All this, of course, echoes the famous Christian hymn in St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians (2:7-8):

     He emptied himself,

     taking the form of a slave,

     being born in human likeness.

     And being found in human form,

     he humbled himself

     and became obedient to the point of death—

     even death on a cross.

With this posture in mind, during the celebration of the Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Holy Thursday, we recall in a special way God’s self-sacrificing love for us as we commemorate his Passion, Death, and Resurrection. God stoops down to us, allows himself to be broken and shared among us, so that we who are so broken may, together, become the whole Christ, blessed and shared with all.

Like Peter, who at first won’t allow Jesus to wash his feet, we who are small want a God bigger than us—perhaps because that would “let us off the hook” in so many respects (because if God is not human, then we humans certainly cannot be expected to model the divine!). Though God is bigger, he becomes small enough to be placed in our hands and on our tongues in the Eucharist. Kneeling before his disciples at the Last Supper, stripped of all dignity on the cross, and in the form of bread and wine in the Eucharist, the Son of God gives us his very self so that we may live in him, and he may live in us.

Then, Jesus asks us, as he did the apostles:

“Do you know what I have done to you?”

Our honest answer must be: “No, not really.”

However, our honest prayer can be: “Not yet. Wash me.”

Sometimes growing in spiritual maturity means merely recognizing our capacity for it—and being small enough to ask for it. Stooped down, broken and shared in love for the life of the world, we are raised as the Body of Christ higher than we ever imagined.

Excerpted from Grace in the Wilderness:

Reflections on God's Sustaining Word Along Life's Journey

by Br. Francis Wagner, O.S.B., Abbey Press, 2013

The Wounded Healer

He has borne our infirmities

   and carried our diseases;

yet we accounted him stricken,

   struck down by God, and afflicted. 

But he was wounded for our transgressions,

   crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the punishment that made us whole,

   and by his bruises we are healed.

Isaiah 53:4-5

The Truth of the Cross

A young man whose wisdom belied his age once said to me: “Don’t worry about being original. Just be true.” That is sound advice for anyone entrusted with spreading the Good News of Jesus Christ—which includes all baptized Christians. We do not—indeed, dare not—invent anything or pretend to be someone we’re not. We simply must speak the truth—be the truth. And what is truth as far as Christians are concerned? Allow me to reply by stringing together (not inventing!) a few key passages of Scripture:

God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. If any wish to become his followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow him. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. Go therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that he commanded. Remember, he is with you always, to the end of the age. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever” (cf. John 3:16-17; Luke 9:23; Romans 6:5; Matthew 28:19-20; Hebrews 13:8).

This compendium of the Gospel, so to speak, contains some hard certainties upon which we are likely to stub our toes occasionally. It speaks of the unbounded mercy of God, of redemption, and of eternal life (not like this life, but with a “resurrection like his”). It speaks of the ubiquitous and unchanging qualities of God. Those are good; we like all that. However, it also speaks of self-denial, toil, and obedience. Moreover, it offers no escape clause from what we fear most—suffering and death. It presents us with the cross. We don’t like all that quite as much. How can God permit it?

Of course, I cannot offer an original response to that question. All anyone can do is retell or re-articulate the truth, because it’s already been said or written; it already is. And yet the question continues to linger. No matter how hard we try, we can neither answer nor dismiss it. It not only refuses to go away, but somehow manages to impel us to keep poking and prodding in search of a clue—any clue. Such is the power of truth. We know it’s there; we can try to deny or ignore it; we can try to explain it away or offer alternatives. We can try to denounce it outright. And yet, it has an unspeakable hold on us. Resistance is futile, it seems. If there is no truth in the question, then why do we persist in asking it, like Pontius Pilate examining Jesus: “What is truth?” (John 18:38) We want answers, of course, but the truth is that they’re all around us, woven into the fabric of our lives. That is a pretty important clue in itself.

For instance, in our sports-obsessed culture (in the spirit of truth, I must disclose that I am an avid baseball fan), we value offensive linemen in football who sacrifice their bodies in a mass of flying flesh to clear the way for a running back toting a ball. If he scores a touchdown, everyone notices him, not the linemen. In baseball, we cheer a batter who sacrifices himself as a potential hitter and base runner by laying down a perfect bunt that advances others on the base paths. The latter will move on to potential scoring position. The batter, however, is out (usually). Hence the term: “take one for the team.” The self is surrendered in pursuit of a greater good for many. On a more individual athletic level, a marathon runner maintains a punishing training regimen in preparation for an upcoming race. She gives up personal comfort, desires, and other pursuits to focus on winning a contest that may be months away—and which only one person out of perhaps thousands will prove victorious. Her eyes are fixed solely on the prize.

Of course, there are more worthwhile analogies from the non-sports world of daily life: a firefighter who endangers self to rescue another’s being or property; a family bread-winner who works more than one job to help make ends meet; anyone who, in various ways, escapes notice and quite possibly endures personal deprivation or disgrace while quietly contributing in some life-giving way to another’s welfare.

The value underlying such actions is something we recognize as being good, even if we are not particularly adept at practicing it ourselves. While it may be argued that “taking one for the team” or delaying gratification to keep one’s eyes on a greater prize is becoming less common in today’s world, we admire it when we see it, and are perhaps inspired to do likewise. It seems to be a truth at the core of our being no matter how strenuously our nature objects—like the will that struggles to rouse us from sleep to confront the day and its challenges when all we truly desire is to burrow back underneath the bedcovers. Our nature resists, but grace needs to discover the truth, to tell the truth, to be the truth. It wants to involve us in the story that is our lives—in humanity’s story.

“Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice,” Jesus told Pontius Pilate. “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” (John 18:37; 14:6).  That grace rousing us from sleep, so to speak, is the voice of Christ from the cross. How can God permit it? Because he loves us too much not to permit it. While this is hardly the place for a theological discourse on free will and the effects of original sin, the Cross offers us a way out—the only way out. And to be effective, it requires our cooperation—the loving gift of self in response to God’s love for us. Remarkably, God desires to involve us in his merciful act of redemption.

At the risk of carrying the sports analogies above too far, the offensive linemen may block and the batter may bunt, but the running back and base runners must do their part. We are the runners for whom God makes the ultimate sacrifice (cf. Philippians 2:5-11), taking on our load, sacrificing himself, and clearing the way for us to race toward the prize of eternal life. While football and baseball were not around in St. Paul’s day, he was nonetheless familiar with the principle: “Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable garland, but we an imperishable one” (1Corinthians 9:25).

While the notion of self-sacrifice for the good of others is acceptable (if not always observed), the cross is a scandal for many—even among Christians. It always has been. The disciples of Jesus struggled with the notion themselves. Their expectations were not met. They envisioned an all-powerful Messiah asserting political might in establishing an earthbound kingdom. Salvation was supposed to be about wealth and health and influence. Jesus stood all that on its head. He pointed to what prophets like Isaiah had foretold about a Suffering Servant, that the Christ would be pierced for human faults, crushed for our sins (cf. Isaiah 53:5).  Blessed are the poor, he said, and those who mourn, the meek, the merciful (cf. Matthew 5:3-11). God came to save all by being the servant of all, and those who wish “to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23).

This was incomprehensible and unacceptable. No matter how much he taught or how many miracles Jesus performed, the disciples didn’t get it. It was only in view of his later Resurrection and the insight gained by the subsequent descent of the Holy Spirit that things began to come together. Then, those first Christians began to go out into the world to tell the truth, to be the truth, by proclaiming Christ crucified. By his wounds, we have been healed—an unimaginable but far superior outcome compared with what they first had in mind (cf. 1Peter 2:24).

Centuries later, the Cross still disturbs us. Suffering and sin are realities we’d rather not think about.  Do we also subscribe to a gospel of wealth, health, and influence? While it certainly isn’t beneficial to focus solely on our sorrows, it’s also harmful to push the Cross aside as if it doesn’t exist. When we push the Cross aside, we push aside freely offered grace. The Cross, Jesus tells us repeatedly throughout the gospels, is the gateway to eternal life. Christ crucified gives meaning to what otherwise is pure madness, decay, and death. As the French poet Paul Claudel said, “Jesus did not come to remove suffering, or to explain it, but to fill it with his presence.” He became part of our suffering, part of humanity’s story, in order to redeem it from within, and thereby involving us in his divine work of redemption. “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself,” Jesus said (John 12:32).

Here we confront the importance of the Incarnation of Christ in our daily lives—today. The Cross of Christ is not something we merely recall occasionally or fear that we carry all alone. It is our story, too, and his story is ours. It’s why “the Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:14).  As his disciples, we are called to make Christ present in the world through Word, Sacrament, and the example of a holy life; first, however, we must discern how Christ is present and working in our own lives, and deep within our very souls. This is Good News intended to give us hope along the way to eternal life. And so (to borrow a few phrases from Dom Hubert van Zeller in Approach to Calvary), when we are tempted to push the Cross aside, to neglect the Christian reality of necessary atonement, to disconnect our suffering from the Fall and from the Redemption and Resurrection that reverses the curse of Adam, we must recall Jesus’ words to us: “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” (Luke 7:23).

Viewed through the eyes of faith, the Cross offers us not an escape from our troubles, but a means by which the unholy is sanctified and death is transformed into sure and certain life. “There are times,” St. Jerome wrote, “when evils become the occasion of blessings and when God causes good results to follow from the sinful designs of men. A manifest example of this is the case of Joseph [Genesis 37, 45], whom his brothers, moved by jealousy, sold to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver. As things turned out, this crime against Joseph marked the beginning of all manner of benefits for the father and brothers of Joseph and for the whole land of Egypt, so that Joseph could later say to his brothers: ‘Even though you meant harm to me, God meant it for good.’”

In my own life, I have slowly come to recognize that our crosses are not obstacles as much as they are opportunities for transformation and healing in ways that go beyond our present difficulties (though I make no claim of having capitalized on all those opportunities!). Pain, toil, sorrow, disease, and death are realities for each of us—part of the human experience. However, through the Cross, the Incarnation of Christ bridges the gap between humanity and divinity, between time and eternity. We don’t merely attempt to imitate the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. We are the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. We are the Church—the Body of Christ—in the world, and through it he not only suffers for us, but with us, and we with him. As St. Paul wrote: “If we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his” (Romans 6:5).

Living this mystery of faith through our trials leads to the startling yet comforting truth: We are not merely bystanders in God’s saving plan, and not only benefactors. By the grace of God, through Christ, and with the aid of the Holy Spirit, we are partners. Working in tandem with Christ, we shoulder the yoke of the Cross for one another and for all others. Self-giving then clears the way for self-fulfillment in the resurrected Body of Christ. In the end, the paradox of the Cross reveals humanity’s brightest hope within its darkest moment. God comes to us precisely where we don’t look for him. Our weakness is turned into his strength. Our hurt is healed in unexpected ways. “Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more” (Romans 5:20).

This is the truth for all those baptized in Christ—“buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4). The newness of life for which we strive, as St. Paul said, is transformation by the renewal of our minds, so that we may discern the will of God (Romans 12:2). The way to Eternal Life is through the Cross. It’s not original, but it’s the truth.

So, we move forward on this earthly journey to eternal life, embracing the Cross with our eyes fixed on the prize to which God calls us upwards to receive in Christ (cf. Philippians 3:10-14). Impelled by love, we race for the finish, progressing from the foot of the cross to its head, from the human to divine, from the surface to the depths, from the exterior to the interior, from the particular to the universal, from the momentary to the timeless. As we do, we may not have all the answers, but we can faithfully live the questions, believing this truth: The Cross will always be a sign of contradiction for some, but it is meant to be a sign of love for all.

--Excerpted from The Way to Eternal Life:

Contemporary Reflections on the Traditional Stations of the Cross

By Br. Francis de Sales Wagner, O.S.B.

© Abbey Press, 2012

Prayer for an abbot

Eucharistic Adoration is being held from 3 to 4 p.m. in the Archabbey Church during the first four Wednesdays of March—times specifically set aside for private prayer as we prepare to elect a new archabbot on June 2. During the first such period this afternoon, I was struck by the window shown here, which is above the main doors of the Archabbey Church, as an image of the ideal abbot—modeled, of course, on Christ the Good Shepherd.

So, with this image in mind, and in the presence of the Real Presence, I read and prayed with the two chapters of St. Benedict’s Rule (2 and 64) which deal with the qualities or election of an abbot.

While all are welcome to join us in the Archabbey Church on these afternoons as we silently pray for our monastic community and its next abbot, not all are able, of course. However, you can still pray for and with us, wherever you are. Please do. Below is a simple prayer I’ve put together based on my reading of Chapters 2 and 64 of the Rule, which may help. Better yet, get a copy of the Rule and pray with Chapters 2 and 64 on your own! In any event, please keep us in prayer.

+ + +

Lord God,

as we prepare to elect a new abbot,

who holds the place of Christ in the monastery,

guide us by your Holy Spirit to select someone

who never teaches or decrees or commands

apart from your will.

Help him to be a good and faithful shepherd

of this flock, and help us to follow.

Help him to teach and lead

more by example than by words.

Help him to be fair, equitable, and just,

showing equal love to everyone.

Let him be discerning, prudent, and flexible

while leading his flock—being either stern or tender,

as the circumstance may warrant.

Always remembering what he is called,

and aware that more is expected

of one to whom more has been entrusted,

may he direct souls as appropriate.

May he accommodate and adapt himself

to each one’s character and intelligence,

so that he will not only keep the flock

from dwindling, but may also rejoice in its increase.

May he always seek first the Kingdom of God,

not showing too great a concern

for the fleeting and temporal things of this world,

while keeping in mind that he has undertaken

the care of souls for whom he must give an account.

Let him also be mindful of his own faults.

Help us to use sound judgment

in selecting a new abbot,

considering above all goodness of life

and wisdom in teaching.

May our new abbot keep in mind

the nature of the burden

he will have received,

and to whom he will have to give

an account of his stewardship.

Let him always seek what is best

for his monks, and not for himself.

May we choose an abbot who:

-- Is learned in divine law, and who is chaste, temperate, and merciful.

-- Hates faults but loves the brothers.

-- Uses prudence and avoids extremes.

-- Distrusts his own frailty and remembers “not to crush the bruised reed.”

-- Strives to be loved rather than feared.

May we choose an abbot who is not:

-- Excitable, anxious, extreme, obstinate, jealous, or over suspicious.

But, rather, one who:

-- Displays foresight, consideration, discernment, moderation, and discretion.

-- Arranges everything so that the strong have something to yearn for and the weak nothing to run from.

-- Above all, keeps the Holy Rule in every particular after the pattern of Christ, our Good Shepherd.

Amen.

Our unpredictable God

Have you ever seen a burning bush? Think about it.

NOTE: The following is the homily delivered by Fr. Harry Hagan, O.S.B., in the Archabbey Church for the Third Sunday of Lent.

***

The first reading [Exodus 3:1-8a, 13-15] contains one of the most well-known scenes in the Old Testament. It sticks in people’s minds, and though they may not know the Bible very well, still they know this scene: Moses and the burning bush.

Pasturing his sheep, Moses sees a strange phenomenon—a bush that burns, but is not consumed. He turns aside to this strange thing, but almost immediately he hears God say:
                        Remove the sandals from your feet, 

                        for the place where you stand is holy ground.

The Hebrew word “holy”—qadosh—means separated out and belonging only to God.

The scene captures the classic marks of an experience of God described by Rudolf Otto in his famous book The Idea of the Holy. Otto says that these experiences are marked by mysterium, tremendum et fascinans. Mysterium is, of course, mysterious, beyond the ordinary and predictable. It includes the completely good, but it points to more that lies beyond the conceptual and explainable.

As for the word tremendum, the English can be a bit misleading. The Latin word comes from the verb tremo—to tremble, to shake, and therefore to be afraid. So, the gerundive tremendum means fearful, terrible, dreadful. There is something frightening about the Holy because it is beyond our control and reminds us that we are creatures. The Holy brings an overwhelming sense of awe.

Finally, the Holy is fascinans—fascinating, enchanting, attractive. Though the Holy may be tremendum, we are still drawn to it; it is fascinans.

In the reading from Exodus, the Lord appears to Moses “in fire flaming out of a bush.”

Fire may well be the quintessential image of the Holy, for it is itself truly mysterium, tremendum et fascinans. Even if you understand the chemistry of combustion, the experience of the flames points you beyond what we can know. The fire is dangerous and can easily get out of control, and yet we love to stare into a fire. It is fascinating.

This year we are not in our monastery, and we have no fireplace for a fire. Other years, you would come through the calefactory early in the morning and see people sitting in the darkness looking at the fire. Mysterium, tremendum et fascinans.

After getting Moses’ attention, the Lord calls and commissions him to go to Pharaoh, but Moses, even though he has had this theophany, objects. In the biblical text, Moses says: “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” Moses does not think much of himself.

However God answers: “I will be with you.”

Moses objects that he does not know the name of God, and so God reveals the divine name: אֶֽהְיֶ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֣ר אֶֽהְיֶ֑ה         -- “I am who am.”

The early Church, with its understanding of Greek philosophy, saw in this name a statement about God’s fullness of being. God is the source of all being.

I do not want to undermine that; still, the Hebrew offers more possibilities. Unlike Greek, which is very precise, Hebrew suggests. You could translate אֶֽהְיֶ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֣ר אֶֽהְיֶ֑ה:

            I am whoever I am.     (And so don’t worry about it.)

or         I am whoever I will be.            (And so you may not see me coming.)

or         I will be who I will be.       (Do not put me into a box.)

Moses' objections do not end here. They extend into the next chapter. He is afraid the Israelites will not believe him, and so the Lord gives him miracles to work. Then, he says he cannot talk, but by then the divine patience is at an end. God gives him Aaron to speak, but also tells him to get on with it.

In my prophets class, we have been reading about hermeneutics, which is the Greek word for interpretation. We have finally worked our way up to Hans Georg Gadamer. He argues that texts invite us into a dialogue, and in that give-and-take, we find ourselves asking questions, and also find the text posing questions to us. Most importantly, Gadamer insists that we remain open to the challenge posed by the text, for in this give-and-take, according to Gadamer, the text will offer us a door into the truth if we have the courage to open it.

So what questions does the story of Moses and the burning bush raise? Perhaps one of the first might be: “Where have we seen the burning bush for ourselves?” or “Where could we see the burning bush again?”

Maybe you would object that you have never seen a burning bush, never had a theophany. But is that true?

Are theophanies just for people in the Bible or should we—you and me—look for them? If God can be whoever he will be, then we should not expect to see a burning bush, exactly. Still, is it possible for you or me to have an experience of the mysterium, tremendum et fascinans?

Surely, the Bible and the tradition say, “Yes!”—we can have that experience. So, what might be a burning bush for us? Where do I find anything that is mysterium, tremendum et fascinans?

For many people, this basic experience of the Holy comes in relationships. If you ever talk to people who are falling in love—really falling in love—they can tell you about mysterium, tremendum et fascinans.

If that is true, then we might ask whether marriage is a burning bush? I have talked to enough married people to say the answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no. Still, sometimes “Yes!” and the marriage, the spouse, become a burning bush.

If you talk to a seminarian or a young monk or a graduate theology student, they will tell you about becoming more and more convinced that they had to go to the seminary or monastery or this school. Like Moses, they may have come kicking and screaming, and they may not be sure just yet how it is going to end, but still they had to come, because somehow they had experienced the mysterium, tremendum et fascinans.

The experience of God does not dispel all of our problems; as with Moses, the theophany may bring infinite complications.

Is monastic life a burning bush? Sometimes there is more heat than light. Still, according to Saint Benedict, the monastic life is a search for God, a search for the burning bush. This is true for monastic life because it is true for the Christian life. As Christians, we are searching for God, searching for the burning bush. Interestingly, St. Benedict does not say that the goal is finding God. The ongoing search—Gadamer’s dialogue, the constant looking—becomes in its own way a burning bush, an experience of the mysterium, tremendum et fascinans.

It is Lent. It is the time for seeing visions. The first Sunday of Lent, we heard of Jesus in the desert, and last week was the Transfiguration. It is the time for theophany. Moreover, we are moving toward the passion, death and resurrection of Christ, and his Cross is itself surely a burning bush—for, to those who believe in Christ, death brings a vision of the mysterium, tremendum et fascinans. During this past week, the monastery experienced again this burning bush as we celebrated the passing of Abbot Alan, who, as Fr. John so poignantly said, was a man taken with the severe love of God.

Look for a vision of God this Lent—a vision of the One who said: “I am who am,” “I am who I will be,” “I will be whoever I will be.” Who knows what this burning bush may look like? Who knows how this unpredictable God may appear? Still, be ready to recognize this God made manifest in Christ, for indeed, this unpredictable God shall appear mysterium, tremendum et fascinans.

--Fr. Harry Hagan, O.S.B.