Artists can be good interpreters of scripture. Rembrandt is one of the best. We’re in the second day of a Parish Mission–Revive, at St. Thomas of Canterbury Parish, Cornwall on Hudson, NY. I’ll be reflecting on some of the teachings of Jesus as he makes his way to Jerusalem from Galilee.
Rembrandt does that in his Hundred Guilder Print, a reflection on the 19th Chapter of Matthew’s Gospel. It’s an inspiring portrait of Jesus calling poor humanity to himself. He is our Savior.
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We should always strive to be fully united with The Body of Christ, in both thought and prayer. To think prayerfully, and to prayerfully think.
Let us then prayerfully embrace this particular moment:
Lord God, Father Almighty, let us use the talents, the gifts, and the abilities—that come from You, that will return to You, but that You have lent us for the time being—with maximum effectiveness, maximum efficiency, and bold humility—all for Your glory.
In the name of Jesus—in the person of Christ—as the Messiah Himself would offer.
Amen.
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Now, let us think, prayerfully.
What is “bold humility”?
Let’s explore an answer, slow and steady.
First, like all manifestations of God’s glory, “bold humility” is a matter of transcendence.
Second, transcendence is not merely a type of balance. Balance is something else entirely. It is something less than divine. Balance is a man-made religious concept. It is practical human philosophy at work in the world, depending on and functioning within human limitation. Unlike transcendence, balance does not stem from the theological posture of divine providence, and more so, it does not rely on the acknowledged power and faithful acceptance of divine grace.
For example, with regard to the matter at hand, “bold humility” is not merely the balancing of boldness and humility—it is not a matter of being equally bold and equally humble—as if on a scale of 1-10, a score of 5 for boldness and a score 5 for humility is achieved simultaneously—adding up to 10 and at the same time keeping the “seesaw” of virtue straight and parallel to the earth lying below.
No, “bold humility”, like all Christian (and therefore preternatural) virtue is not a matter of equally limiting each natural characteristic in order to fit them all within the confines of human potential and logical limitations.
In plain language then, “bold humility” is not simply a healthy combination of two virtues, namely “boldness” and “humility”.
And most directly to the point: Christ didn’t balance. He transcended.
Then what does transcendence mean in this supernatural sense?
Well, let us rule out a few more false understandings before positing a possible positive understanding.
It will prove helpful to also establish this negation: To transcend is not merely to eliminate. Nor is it merely to deny. By transcending one does not destroy the categories it transcends. So in this particular case we can say that “bold humility” does not “eliminate” or “deny” the category of “boldness” or the category of “humility”.
Now let us begin to state positively what Jesus accomplished—for Jesus most certainly transcended.
To transcend is to rise above and beyond. It is to journey through. It is to transform.
Transcendence fulfills the “categories” it leaves below—it completely and utterly fulfills each and every virtue that man could ever conceive—and not only at the same time or simultaneously, but eternally and to a maximum degree. Transcendence is perpetual fulfillment of all “goodness” to an infinite “degree”.
Transcendence is then what we might call: Active Shalom.
It is living, breathing “Fullness”. It is “True Peace”. It is “Oneness” and the “Unity of God”—alive and constantly in motion. For to transcend is also to enter and live within the Internal Consistency of The Eternal Creator Himself.
Transcendence is the ultimate simplicity of “I AM.”
It is Ipse Christus—Christ Himself—God made man, the Word made flesh, the magnificence of God brought into visible light.
And it is human redemption at work.
For the person of Jesus is just that: He is the glory of God woven into and through the very fabric of humanity—taking humanity above and beyond itself—transforming it on earth and simultaneously bringing it back with Him to the Father in heaven—as a new, glorified, and righteous form.
Jesus both lifts humanity into heaven and manifests fully God’s glory on earth.
“Bold Humility” is Jesus Himself.
He alone fulfills completely both “boldness” and “humility” without ceasing.
And by doing so He straddles two worlds—making them one. But yet He is much more than a bridge, much more than a mere mystical ladder. Jesus, if you will, is Jacob’s Ladder but built of human flesh—upon Whom not only holy angels ascend and descend between heaven and earth—but through Whom the very helix of humanity is redeemed and glorified.
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But enough words.
For they can never capture.
Jesus is profoundly free.
The best we can hope for is a glimpse—a fleeting image of the living, breathing manifestation of “Bold Humility” in ultimate action.
It takes silence.
It involves leaving the senses and faculties behind.
It requires “spirit and truth”:
We must stare at The Cross.
We must experience—firsthand—The Crucified Christ.
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Let us then pray once more:
Lord God, Father Almighty, let us use the talents, the gifts, and the abilities—that come from You, that will return to You, but that You have lent us for the time being—with maximum effectiveness, maximum efficiency, and bold humility—all for Your glory.
In the name of Jesus—in the person of Christ—as the Messiah Himself would offer.
Amen.
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To all men it may concern (definitely including me):
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Complaining is not strength.
It is actually quite unbecoming, to say the least.
In fact, it can easily become extremely boring.
And when it spills forth from the mouths of men who are appointed to lead, it manages to take on a whole new level of tediousness.
It becomes outright pathetic.
Of course, I am not talking about having private conversations with friends or colleagues, the kind of back and forth that can often strengthen and give great consolation. No, that falls under fellowship, under spiritual friendship. In those situations, practicing vulnerability and allowing oneself to be seen as truly struggling is actually a sign of strength.
What I am referring to are those too-often times when “leaders” openly and repeatedly complain in front of the very people they are chosen to lead and inspire—in front of the very people they are chosen to protect, guide, and encourage. Or to put it in more spiritual and pastoral terms—in terms of the “Good Shepherd” if you will—instead of feeding their sheep a sense of hope, a sense of security, and a sense of peace, the shepherds themselves cultivate and offer their flocks an atmosphere of worldly concern, a stream of ongoing despair, and a diet of downright near hysteria.
It is so embarrassing.
And the scope is broad, for appointed “leadership” comes in many forms: public officials, all kinds of employers, managers, politicians, coaches, pastors, administrators, teachers, and most certainly, and perhaps most significantly, every married man and father in the world.
God have mercy on us.
Forgive us our many failures.
Especially for us Catholic Christians, called to imitate in a special manner the Crucified Christ.
And this isn’t simply a matter of ever-changing public opinion. No, it’s a matter of being inherent in the very idea of leadership itself.
Shepherds lead, sheep follow.
Think about it, when was the last time you saw an artwork depicting a small group of little lambs carrying a full-grown living breathing Jesus?
Needless to say, never.
And in terms of practical and applied philosophy, let us then keep this significant and relative reality in mind: When it comes to real and everyday concerns, chances are that the most grueling day for most of us modern men is only as difficult as the normal, run-of-the-mill, daily employment of a mother of three—not to mention if that mother is also working full-time, single, in an abusive relationship, and/or barely speaks English—then it’s no contest—and in our current “ever-progressive” society, these conditions unfortunately too often apply.
So, if this not-so-gentle “correction” applies to you (as it most certainly applies to me) know that many are praying for us, many feel for us, many love us, many even need us, but we need to do our part:
Act like a man.
For sake of Christ.
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Let us pray:
Lord God, Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, we give you praise. Help us Father, help all men, all those called by You to lead. Help us to follow the only True Man, Your Only Begotten Son, Christ Jesus—our Lord and our God, and living Innocence itself. May we follow Him and Him alone, so we may be properly equipped—emotionally, physically, and spiritually—to lead those You have entrusted to our care. Make us strong and patient, courageous and persevering. Let us learn through the example of Saint Joseph the true meaning of humility, obedience, and selfless sacrificial service. Teach us to cherish silence and value greatly the grace of a truly developed interior life. Inspire us to love our wives and children with sincerity and integrity and profound gratitude. And when need be, Heavenly Father, show us how to be truly decisive, how to act with boldness in defending Your truth, and how to be utterly fearless in helping rescue those crushed by injustice and hypocrisy.
In all matters may we always do Your will and act on Your behalf—with minds made spotless, hearts made pure, and bodies kept chaste.
We ask this in the name of Jesus, in the perfect unity of the Holy Spirit, for Your endless glory.
Amen.
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Botticelli, “The Last Communion of Saint Jerome”, early 1490s, (detail), The Met
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Heal us.
In the form of bread.
Our tongues like cribs.
You come to rest.
A sacred place.
A mother watches.
A father can hardly believe.
Greatness simply conceived.
Silent.
Yes let us be.
Help us not to speak.
No words can be.
No thoughts except those that flee.
Yes.
Hold our tongues.
Into quiet place.
Stillness.
Let us wait.
Till hear You cry.
A hungry child.
Tucked in for night.
A drop of milk.
In reality blood.
In the form of wine.
The angels sing.
Holiness explodes.
Heaven down to earth.
Saints to and fro.
Blessings forth.
Grace abounds.
The sick are healed.
The blind can see.
The lonely find friends.
Children unwanted?
They finally reach home.
We look.
We see.
We wonder.
How could it be?
It’s Him!
It’s Him.
Right there.
The One nailed to the tree.
Alive again.
Within my mouth.
And at my right hand.
And to the left.
And straight ahead.
And there!
Yes, there too!
In that hopeless situation.
We thought all was lost.
But, no, it’s Him.
He really does care.
And He calls us over.
To Himself.
And yes.
Silence changes forms.
It’s again time to speak.
What else can we do?
The Eternal One.
The Son of Man.
The Conqueror of Strife.
Let us smile at one another.
Let us speak life.
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http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/435728
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Francisco Goya, “The Third of May, 1808 in Madrid”, 1814-15 (detail)
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I hear, ironically mostly among clergy, that the spiritual classic “The Imitation of Christ” is no longer really relevant—that it is too hard, too negative, too oppressive—written for a time when plagues and famines and wars were rampant, when men hardly lived to what we now call “middle age.” But most of all, perhaps, I am told through cute smirks and smug expressions that it is a book not for our “age”, that it no longer applies to our advanced “civilization”, that it no longer rings true in the triumphant “West”.
I ask: Are we free of plagues, free of war, free of famine?
Are not our priests and religious sisters dying off rapidly? Are not babies systematically massacred inside their mothers’ womb? Are not children starving for their fathers to marry their mothers, for there to be a man who actually lives in the same home?
Do we no longer thirst?
Or have we “moved passed” Christ’s inconvenient cry from the Cross?
It seems to me that Christ Himself put little value on living past “middle age”.
Perhaps imitating Him would not be such a barbaric idea.
Lord, have mercy on us.
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Francisco Goya, “The Third of May, 1808 in Madrid”, 1814-15, oil on canvas, (Museo del Prado, Madrid)
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This evening at our mission at St. Theresa’s Parish in Staten Island, NY, I spoke about Jesus, the Teacher. I like Rembrandt’s drawing of Jesus preaching to a crowd. For one thing, the crowd around him seems to represent all ages, shapes and sizes of ordinary humanity. Jesus’ disciples, like Peter, James and John may be there, but they don’t seem to stand out. Maybe some of his enemies are there, but they don’t stand out either. They’re all there listening, except maybe the little child on the ground playing with something he’s found. And Jesus teaches them.
Did Rembrandt find these faces in the people of his neighborhood, ordinary people? If that’s so, this crowd could be us.
Luke’s gospel seems a lot like this painting to me. In much of Luke’s gospel Jesus makes his way from Galilee to Jerusalem, and as he goes his way he calls everybody to follow him. Some women from Galilee follow him. He calls Zachaeus, the tax collector, down from a tree to join him. Follow me, he says to a blind man begging in the same place for years. He called people in every shape and form, sinners, tax-collectors, everyone.
It was not just to see him die that he calls them to follow him, but to go with him onto glory. “Come with me this day to paradise, “ Jesus says to the thief on the cross. Our creed says he descends into hell, which means he goes to those who have been waiting for centuries for the redemption he brings. He calls to all, to them and to us, to follow him.
What does following Jesus mean? I spoke of two things. Jesus said to follow him we must take up our cross each day. He also said we must become like little children. He taught us about spiritual childhood.
The Archdiocese of New York has a renewal program called Revive taking place in its parishes this year. The program comprises a reading from scripture, a sermon on the purpose of life, a witness talk, prayers and hymns.
This week, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings at 6 PM, I’m taking part in the Revive program at St. Theresa Church in Staten Island. I’m giving the sermon and will be offering some of the prayers.
Here’s the way I opened our mission this evening:
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“Oh Thou, before whom all words recoil…”
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Truth is Truth is Truth.
Find it where it’s planted. Find it where it grows. Find it where it bears fruit.
Find it in the soil. Find it in the stem. Find it in the apple.
Throw it in the air
Launch it toward the sky
Watch it turn back
See it return to earth
Up, up, and away…
When the cat’s away the mice can play…
It’s a bird…
It’s truth…
It’s not to be held by any man.
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“Holy, Holy, Holy…”
“Heaven and Earth are Full of Your Glory…”
“Hosanna in the Highest!”
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Try, try, and try again…
We adore
We praise
We acclaim
We toss up
We watch rain
Back upon us
Our own words fall
Down, down, down…
“Oh Thou, before whom all words recoil.”
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The strongest heart
The loudest cry
The hardest throw
All fall short
Thus Beauty smiles
For even in failure
Praise and Grace
Go hand in hand
With growth and motion
And a music man
For what goes up
Must come down
To leave a wake
A delightful shape
No man may make
Nor no violin display.
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A fiddlehead
A fern
A plant
A plan
A play
Upon which
All Truth
All Beauty
All Joy
On full display.
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“Oh Thou, before Whom all words recoil…”
“…hallowed is Thy name…”
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Marc Chagall, “The Sacrifice of Isaac”, (1966), detail
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When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore; but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
When they climbed out on shore, they saw a charcoal fire with fish on it and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish you just caught.”
Jesus said to them, “Come, have breakfast.” And none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they realized it was the Lord.
—John 21:4,9-10,12
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When is it that we break-fast?
Perhaps it is at morning Mass, when the long night of daily winter is slowly burned away by “the dawn from on high”.
Perhaps it is there, at the altar of our Lord, at the breakfast table of our one united body, that we come to see the Crucified Christ truly risen and waiting for us, “standing on the shore”.
We take so much for granted, so much we just assume is already prepared, without giving much thought to just how much goes into each meal. But we are in good company, Peter and the rest of the apostles, like us, come to a meal already in progress.
And just as Jesus called the apostles to a new morning meal, He calls each one of us each new day to a meal prepared ahead of time—in fact it was ordained a long, long time ago—for even upon those hot coals which the apostles approached two millennia ago, fish were already waiting.
It is to this ongoing meal that He asks all apostles to bring their fish, their most recent catch—to add to the fire—to the feast ever being prepared for those still yet to come.
The Fisher of Men, who calls others to become fishers as well, asks His disciples to contribute not only their earthly catch but the eternal offering of themselves.
But who is it that we find already lying upon the charcoal fire, upon the table of the Lord, waiting for us each morning as we approach the altar with our daily catch?
Is it not all those who have walked in faith before us? Is it not the communion of saints, the cloud of witnesses, the community of believers? Is it not those who pray in silence this very day for the conversion of sinners, the salvation of souls, the release of those in purgatory, the return to a unified Church?
Is it not those who suffer each and every day for the sake of Christ?
We will never really know exactly who, at least not while we walk within these “earthen vessels” we call bodies—not while we continue our pilgrimage through this valley of tears and wage our military-like mission against the powers of darkness.
We will never know while here on earth just how many fish are laid upon the fiery altar each new day, just how many join Jesus in His one perfect offering, just how many “share in his glory” because they “share in his suffering”.
But God does know, and he orchestrates it all. He knows exactly how many, and who. He misses not a tear, not a moan, not the slightest prick of a pin. He knows each and every one of His silent, unknown martyrs—those whose suffering “completes” what is “lacking in Christ’s afflictions”.
The Mystery. The Love. The Wisdom of the Cross. The Grandeur of God’s Salvific Plan. Praise be to God. Praise be to Christ Crucified and Risen. Praise be to the Holy Spirit: “O font of life! O fire of love!”
Let us then join the breakfast feast.
And let us not only eat but add to the meal.
Let us offer up all our “prayers, works and sufferings of this day in union with the Holy sacrifice of the Mass throughout the world…”
And let us dare to wonder with true childlike joy and adoration. Let us wonder who it is that is already laid upon those ancient coals as the apostles approach that gloriously simple meal on the shining shore of a most placid sea.
Is the fish already in place Jesus Himself? Jesus who is priest and sacrifice and altar?
Yes. Of course it is Him.
But perhaps it is someone else too.
Perhaps among that first batch of fish is also the first follower of Christ: the first to surrender all “possessions”, the first to pick up the cross daily, the first to follow Jesus through the completion of His Passion.
Yes, perhaps it is Mary, His mother, His first disciple…our mother and the queen of all apostles. And perhaps it is also that “upright” man whom Jesus Himself saw as a father, the “righteous” Joseph who suffered so much in the name of Jesus. Perhaps that first batch contains all three: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that most blessed of families—The Holy Trinity “made flesh”—The One Triune God dwelling in a humble hut in a little town named Nazareth.
In that sense, perhaps that first batch of fish is also you and me, your family and mine—and perhaps then “our” little “sacrifice” is already being offered up, right here in each of our “humble” homes and within the boundary lines of our own “Nazareths”.
Perhaps that first batch is waiting to be joined to all other offerings, to be joined together with all the other individuals and families that are called to be a “living sacrifice”.
Perhaps that first batch is within each one of us and is longing to be united to the one true sacrifice—the sacrifice of God’s crucified love, eternally offered upon the white-hot coals of God’s infinite charity.
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Another angel came and stood at the altar, holding a gold censer. He was given a great quantity of incense to offer, along with the prayers of all the holy ones, on the gold altar that was before the throne. The smoke of the incense along with the prayers of the holy ones went up before God from the hand of the angel. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with burning coals from the altar, and hurled it down to the earth…
—Revelation 8:3-5
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Jacopo Tintoretto, “The Ascent to Calvary”, 1566-67 (detail)
In spiritual matters, weight training principles often apply:
Without sufficient resistance, strength won’t increase.
Resistance is then not only something to be tolerated, it’s to be seen as necessary, as something desirable:
Without proper resistance, real growth won’t take place.
In fact, the more resistance the better, as long as we maintain good positioning and form, eat and drink properly, and get enough off-time and rest.
In spiritual terms, these conditions easily translate: 1) Stay close to the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and receive the Body and Blood of Christ with a grateful heart; 2) Remain in the Word of God and actively do the will of the Father; 3) Live a life of mental prayer—residing continually in “your inner room”—where we encounter the Divine Presence and lovingly adore the One True Source of all existence.
Let us then not be fools and seek shortcuts. Let us put aside all fads and worldly ways. Let us instead properly train, keeping in sight, and practice, the very basics:
To build strength, we need resistance.
Accept resistance then in every form—obstacles, roadblocks, annoyances, ridicule, mockery, difficulties, delays…
Accept it all as if directly delivered to you from the personal-training hand of God.
Accept it willingly, thankfully, even joyfully, as if weight added to the bar—as part of perfectly planned resistance—individually and specifically designed to increase moral strength and spiritual stature.
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The Victor's Place 