The Lesson of Spring Soil



Soil slides aside allowing an emergence.

Flower seed breaks, becoming resurrected

over the reasons and chances that it might not


make it or shouldn’t come.

Alive it rises, a new life, a new

colorful character in the neighborhood.


Sustained by the power of the sun, earth knows

how to welcome the stranger:

food provided, room is made—


a warm loving home to the foreigner.

Yes to new life. Yes to self-sharing.

Praise for earth knowing and role-modeling:


It’s actually quite natural to boldly give

radical hospitality.


-Julia Walsh (original post found here)

Julia Walsh FSPA is a high school religion teacher and blogger found online at


Photo Credit: Flickr

Three Gs


Giving Thanks

Giving Time

Giving, period!

All in the Name of God

As we now move from the table, Turkey, and talk between family, friends, and loved-ones, what is it that we are most thankful for? Do we thank those who teach us, nurture us, guide us, help us, move us, shake us, challenge us, sacrifice for us, enliven us, and treat us with respect? All of these verbs describe the quintessential and archetypal humanity that should be alive in the world today. Jesus, the savior of the world, the finest emulation of God’s self is that which we thank and follow in the Liturgy, the Word, the hospital bed, the funeral home, the Thanksgiving meal. But what does all this ‘thanks’ mean, and is there a bigger picture?

I am referring here to the Three Gs (not the now outdated wireless phone signal), but those Christian values which reflect our end of the year holiday theme of “Giving.” The first G stands for Giving Thanks, to which we have alluded above. We give thanks in the Spirit of Christ; we give thanks because that is what the prophets of old have taught us: “And you will say on that day: give thanks to the Lord, acclaim [God’s] name; Among the nations make known [God’s] deeds, proclaim how exalted is [God’s] name.” And why do we give thanks? Precisely because Jesus has graced us with his presence–that is enough, as the divine has come to dwell with the humanum, the lamb has come to dwell with the goats.

The second G represents giving our time to God the Father, Mother, who births into the world a new creation of light, of love, of justice, of peace. This time of Advent dawns and spawns the nativity scene, yet it is a scene for which we must wait patiently, hoping, acclaiming, purifying ourselves for that special day when the Babe of Bethlehem will arrive. Time is such a wonderful thing, yet it can also be damaging when we turn every notion of our lives into a race against the inevitable clock of deadlines and ultimately death. The time of Advent, the waiting proclaimed is a time which marks the very beginning of an opportunity at eternal life–Jesus, the God-man who ushers in the Reign here and now, he is the symbol of time we most need and must align ourselves with.

Finally, the third G stands at long last the most difficult to accept and grow into. This type of giving is the offering action itself, stemming from the example of God’s gift to all creation. We again struggle to maintain clear direction in the sight of the Christmas holiday, with gifts abound and the spending of hundreds of dollars on such temptations that take us away from what this season is all about–God.

The art of giving is just that, an art! It must be cultivated, lived into, and appreciated for all of its worth. Giving is not about receiving recognition and status, yet as true philanthropists can attest, giving is about the difference that is made in the life of that anonymous small child without a mother or father, the difference that is made on the refugee family struggling to find sustenance and warmth, the difference that is made on the world in a variety of ways. God did just this nearly two millennia ago in a small Middle Eastern village on the outskirts of Jerusalem; God’s gift, the Babe of Bethlehem, the Prince of Peace, would go on to teach us what it means to be a true follower of God. He nurtured us as we trudged through our pains, faults, and inner demons. He sought to guide us through the darkness as he was the Light of the World. He helped us to cultivate within us an attitude of love and forgiveness. He moved and shook us at our very roots, encouraging cooperation amongst all people from all walks of life. He made it his mission to challenge us in our discernment and our vocations, to become people of the Spirit. He would go on to sacrifice his own life for us, bringing the world everlasting salvation and redemption. He moved to enliven us in our compassion and zeal for social justice. He treated the apostles, his followers, his parents, the elders, the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and even his captors with the dignity and respect that God’s creation merits.

This man, this exemplar of humanity, is a man of the Three Gs, a man whom we must emulate in our daily actions. From the moment we wake in prayer to the moment we close our eyes in gratitude, we, as labeled Christians, must work to imitate the true and ideal meaning of the gift of giving reserved in the Son of God, yet also preserved in the Holy Spirit!


-Andy Cirillo

Empty Womb, Empty Tomb



Such a harsh word

for a painful reality.


Considered one of the three

greatest sufferings

in Ancient Israel.


No consolation

able to soothe

the unending ache.


Yet, Yahweh birthed

an entire nation from

Sarah’s empty womb.


After the Messiah died, humiliated and broken,

the men scattered and hid, defeated:

sure that they had abandoned their lives in vain.


Mary’s breathless announcement

of the empty tomb

that inspired the New Way.


A conclusion

to prophetic visions

that no one could have had imagined.


In the corners of damp, dark caverns,

resurrection is lurking,

waiting for a miracle.


-Marci Madary

Photo Credit: Flickr

Learning to Trust


You did not consult me when You numbered the stars
You did not ask permission when You sprinkled the darkness with them
You did not ask me before You built the mountains and traced the sea coasts
You did not make me the conductor of the wind
Or the orchestrator of the birds
You did not ask me permission before You built hearts to need other hearts
You never asked me God and yet You did it anyway!
There is so much in my life that I don’t understand.

Yet, it only takes one walk on the beach, one starry night with someone I love, one birth;

It only takes one naked moment to realize that I am glad you did not ask me permission.
The greatest joys in my life I wouldn’t have chosen.

Dear God,
I ask not for certainty but faith
Not proof but trust
I ask not for control but for a current to guide me
And at the end of my life, just as at the end of each day, to have but one prayer:
Thank you.

-Josh VanCleef

This poem was first published here.

Photo Credit Flickr


On May 12, 2015, Witness, a social justice action group recently formed at CTU, joined with over 600 religious leaders and community members for a ‘Day of Faith’ at the Capitol, in Springfield. Organized by the Community Renewal Society (CRS), the day included prayer, face-to-face visits with legislators, and a demonstration in the Capitol building. As students of theology and ministry at CTU, we undertook this day aware that our faith calls us to work for justice, and open to what the day would teach us about how to live out this calling.

The day began at 6am for the trip to Springfield. Sporting bright orange t-shirts or religious habits and armed with information about upcoming legislation, we would be advocating laws to remove barriers for people with felony records, establish clear guidelines for police accountability, and stop the drastic budget cuts proposed by Gov. Rauner. This being my first ‘action,’ I didn’t really know what to expect, and I was surprised at how inclusive and meaningful the day’s activities were. Each church group (sometimes broken into two groups) had one state Senator and one House member to try to find to speak to about our points of interest. CRS organizers used the bus ride to train us on how to speak quickly and intelligently about the bills we were advocating and their importance in our communities. While some legislators proved more evasive than others, it was inspiring to see small groups of people in orange shirts dialoging with state lawmakers in the corridors throughout the day.

The second part of the day included a rally inside the Capitol building. Starting off with ‘This Little Light of Mine’ with lyrics tweaked to include references to the day’s key issues of employment, the budget cuts, and police accountability, any legislator who had escaped his or her group, surely came to know why this sea of orange had flocked to his/ her office that day! Testimonials from individuals directly impacted by these issues followed, echoing throughout the rotunda as narratives of truth and accounts of injustice that propel the call for change. Interwoven by hymns and even the visit of two legislators thanking the group for their passion, hard work, and prayers, the rally ended with a ‘die in’ that took over all three floors of the building. At a pre-determined time, we all died—lying down on the floor to symbolize how unjust laws, discrimination, and sinful social structures are literally killing the most vulnerable members of our society. Splattering the marble floors with orange and skin, we sang ‘We Shall Overcome,’ using our voices to sing of hope despite being bodies on the ground. The movement of it left me with a gut sense of feeling connected—connected to the hundreds of demonstrators who had come from all over Illinois, in solidarity with our fellow Illinoisans suffering from injustice, and under the same imperative to act as the legislators we were calling upon.

Throughout the rally and the day as a whole, faith was just so obviously the reason for coming to the Capitol. The event brought together a diverse crowd—Christians from different denominations and all parts of the state who had made the connection between living a Christian life and fighting for the wellbeing of their neighbor at the policy-level. As a member of Witness I felt inspired to be among so many informed participants, community organizers, and religious leaders that day. As new social justice action group at CTU, Witness roots itself in the principles of Catholic Social Thought and prayer to engage in education, theological reflection, and action around social issues. Earlier in the semester, the group had held an educational event about structural racism, particularly about housing practices in Chicago. The ‘Day of Faith’ not only allowed us to call for systemic change around important issues, it also provided an opportunity to dialogue and listen to those engaged in the struggle for justice each and every day.

Cornel West once said that “justice is what love looks like in public.” As persons, and especially as Christians, we are called into relationship with the incomprehensible mystery of Love who creates and sustains us. Our witness to that Love necessitates working for justice, endeavoring for a society in which the dignity and beauty of each person is respected. In responding to this call, we strive to open ourselves to act humbly and hopefully, singing in faith, “We shall live in peace, we shall live in peace, some day.”

-Ellen Salmi

What Is It about Silence?


Two weekends ago a friend of mine from college was in town. He is a religion teacher at a Catholic high school in Indianapolis. I have a bachelor’s degree in religious education and so naturally we talked about Catholic education. I was interested to hear what he has been working on with his own students. He talked about how much high school students have on their plates these days between school, work, and extracurricular activities. All of that on top of somehow finding time to fit in four to five hours a night getting their homework done.

He said that one of the most difficult things for them is to get away from all the distractions and to find time for silence.

We live in such a busy and noisy world, and people are becoming more and more uncomfortable with silence. As an assignment he had them spend a half hour in silence: no cellphone, no computer, no TV, or music. They then had to reflect on their experience. He found that about half the class loved it. They were able to finally clear their minds of all the concerns and distractions going on in their lives and to just be at peace for a short time. The other half found it difficult and even uncomfortable. They found themselves thinking even more about all the things they needed to get done that day, and therefore became even more distracted. This experiment of his peaked my interest.

My own ministry for the past few years has been working in campus ministry. The majority of my time spent is providing a ministry of presence. It has often been the case that I feel as if I’m not really accomplishing much. I think that sometimes when it comes to ministry I feel as if I always have to be doing something in order to really be ministering. However, for the last two years there I have been doing some preaching and I’ve noticed that without that ministry of presence and being able to see and hear what is going on in the lives of the students, I wouldn’t be able to preach effectively. The more time I spend with the students, like my friend, the more I see how busy they are. I also see how distracted they are on their cell phones or totally cut of from the world around them as they watch YouTube videos with earphones.

I was scheduled to preach that Sunday on the Gospel of Mark and the story of the healing of blind Bartimaeus. I talked about how, in the Gospel of Mark, people around Jesus just don’t get it. They don’t understand what he’s all about. I pointed to the last couple of Sunday Gospel readings. The rich man who went away sad because he had many possessions (Mk 10:17-30), James and John and their egos and presumptions getting in the way of understanding what they were really asking of Jesus (Mk 10:35-45), and the crowd trying to keep Bartimaeus back (Mk 10:46-52). I shared with them my conversation with my friend and I asked the question: “What keeps us from seeing God at work in our lives?” I offered up some possibilities and I touched on the role of social media and how we live in such a busy and noisy world. I then turned to the priest and asked that maybe we could spend a few minutes in silence reflecting on our own lives and what keeps us from growing closer to God. Before we did, I shared with them how silence can be awkward and even uncomfortable. I also shared that it is in  silence and in being uncomfortable that God speaks to our hearts and invites us to grow and to step outside our comfort zones.

Then there was silence.

For a little while it was completely silent.

Then I heard it; students starting to shuffle in their seats. The priest sitting with his eyes closed. Eventually a few people started to cough (you know the fake ones that are supposed to signal they’ve had enough). I was watching the priest. He was sitting with his eyes closed and I knew he was hearing what I was hearing because he was starting to smile. But he kept the silence going. Finally it was over and we continued on with mass.

The response was incredible. A lot of students came up and thanked me and shared how much they needed that moment of silence. I have a feeling those who were uncomfortable didn’t come up to share that with me, but to be honest, the silence went a little longer than even I was comfortable with. I too was beginning to wonder how long he was going to let it continue.

Since then I have found myself reflecting on what it is about silence that makes so many of us uncomfortable. What is it about silence? There must be something about it since our society has evolved into one that does everything it can to replace silence with noise and activity.

What is it about silence?

-Jason Salisbury

Photo Credit: Flickr

As you like it (or maybe not): Thoughts on Milton, Shakespeare, and Evil


By Dustin S. Hungerford

The seventeenth century England in which John Milton found himself, was one of intense strife, turmoil, and disappointment. Milton, whose life is well know from myriad sources, had been a strong supporter of Cromwell’s rebellion against Charles I. This is partly evidenced by several of his published works which attempt a legitimation of the Protectorate. Of note among these was his book, The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, which generally defended regicide and explicitly defended the execution of Charles I.[1] It is safe to say that Milton, upon witnessing the restoration of Charles II, found himself in a world riddled with the question of good and evil. If the state he had so diligently labored for was ordained by God, how is it that it was fallen? Could Milton’s answer have been anything less than the all-pervasive influence of a global and self-willed evil?

What we know Shakespeare, as opposed to Milton, is almost completely restricted to his works.[2] Shakespeare, working several decades before Milton, wrote in a time of a much more settled (though, we will not say peaceful) England, that is to say, the major problems for Elizabeth’s crown came from outside the realm rather than from within. This England, however, was one no less plagued by the worry and doubt stemming from the radical conduct of Henry VIII and the messy succession which followed.

If, as has been suggested, Shakespeare was a secret Catholic,[3] the questions of the rights of the Church, the legitimacy of the Tudor throne, and the heinous acts of Tudor monarchs, while intensely personal, would not have been ones the Bard could have engaged head on.[4] We are left then to discern, from his plays and poems, what precisely this great playwright thought and believed.[5] To that effect, when we examine the ways in which Shakespeare addresses the question of evil, we get a subtler, less potent, and more classically Catholic answer than what we receive from Milton. It is not that Shakespeare failed to see the problems of evil in the world, it is that he simply was not prepared to hand power and responsibility for human ills wholly over to an abstract, inhuman, power. In this way, he denies an ontological status to evil which Milton was only too happy to grant.

When one picks up John Milton’s Paradise Lost for the first time, it may not be immediately evident that the system of thought (and ethics) it advocates, contravenes (or at least challenges) a classical Catholic approach to God, humanity, and evil (not surprising as he was a Protestant). The unprepared reader, however, can be so engrossed in the powerful and flashy Satan, whose arrogance and pride make him the first “Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms,”[6] that they may well gloss over the implications of such a “puissant” antithesis (should we say anti-god?) to the “bright effluence of bright essence increate.”[7] The Satan of John Milton is a transplanted Angra Mainyu, heavily endowed with chthonic power and eternally engaged in subtle warfare against the Almighty. This is not the Satan of Dante’s Comedia, who “stands forth from mid-breast out of the ice,”[8] frozen at the lowest pit of Hell. This is a Satan ever mobile, ever active in his defiance of God, the God who dared exult the Son as the highest.[9]

At its core, Milton’s Satanic character operates as a larger gloss on the nature of evil itself. Is evil a thing? Is evil an ever moving reality which sneaks into the heart of man as he sleeps?[10] Or, does evil represent a more ancient or medieval view, a no-thingness? Is evil simply the privation of God and good?[11] While at first these questions seem innocuous, they have real implications for our view of the world. Not the least of which is the idea of God’s creative goodness and His supreme divine justice.

When one looks at the world Milton occupied, one in which, at least from Milton’s view, the bright and glorious reign of Protectorate England was dashed by the corrupt pertinacity of the Restoration, one is able to understand why it may have been an inevitability that he viewed evil as a corruptive and powerful force in its own right. Surely it was this evil that had destroyed all his hopes and dreams for the “Sceptered Isle.”

At the same time, Shakespeare’s work will represent a more classic approximation of the nature of evil and the way in which humans encounter that evil, not from without, but from within. The nature of evil in his characters highlights, not an external influencing presence (even in the evil Aaron of Titus Andronicus), but the internal failings and brokenness of the those characters. As expressed so eloquently by Mark Antony, it is the “evil that men do[12] (emphasis mine) that is the problem, rather than some formless evil that stalks the earth.[13]

For Milton, it seems very evident that evil itself has real existence. Evil is a functional outcome of the will of the human person, the subject of choice. Much as St. Thomas uses the angels in his Summa as a means of discussing human traits in a “frictionless” way, Milton uses the Satan of Paradise Lost as a means of speaking about evil in the world. In the face of the ever omnipotent and omnibenevolent God, Satan does not despair of a means of rebellion. He still has one thing with which to challenge God, the will. Turning to Beelzebub he says, “All is not lost; [this remains] the unconquerable Will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”[14] Milton reflects a certain Nominalism in constructing evil this way. As opposed to the Thomistic system, this evil does not emerge through privation, but rather through the direct choice of the will between contraries.[15] The will may directly choose to do what is evil, for the sake of evil. Thus humans, for the sake of nothing else but evil, can overthrow a righteous government (the Protectorate) and install an unrighteous government (the Monarchy). This ceases to be a function of God’s divine fiat and becomes the result of the pervasive power of evil to corrupt men in the world, enticing them to choose evil qua evil.

The seeming inability of God to respond to this evil, bound as He is by human free will, may be the reason that Milton’s depiction of God paints Him as a weakling. He is devoid of any effective potency outside the realm of Heaven, where often among “thick clouds and dark doth Heav’ns all-ruling Sire choose to reside, his Glory unobscur’d, And with the Majesty of darkness round covers his Throne; from whence deep thunders roar must’ring their rage, and Heav’n resembles Hell.”[16]

In reading Shakespeare, we discern a concept of evil that is not the presence of any “thing.” In fact, it is the absence of a “thing.” When we look at the hatred felt by Oliver against his brother Orlando in As You Like It, we are looking at the “absence” of fraternal love which should be naturally present within human families. Oliver goes as far as saying, “I hope I shall see an end of him (Orlando); for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he.”[17]

There is a Thomistic realism in what Shakespeare does here. The defect is not contained in the act of the will, for the will perceives what it believes to be good and pursues that.[18] The defect is within the activity of the intellect in discerning and selecting an appropriate good to be pursued. The human being is incapable of pursuing evil qua evil, he merely pursues what he perceives to be a good.[19] When Oliver is saved by Orlando, his feelings are wholly transformed, his perception of the good is corrected, the evil (which was a privation in Oliver) is filled up with goodness. Evil, then, exists precisely in the refusal to be human. Oliver confirms this when, reflecting upon the man he was before reconciling with Orlando, he says, “for well I know he (meaning himself) was unnatural.”[20]

Were we to imagine Satan through the lens of Shakespeare, we would see a creature who is not free to roam the earth, tempting humanity to sin. He would not be Milton’s bold and heroic rebel, so much as a fool, a fool who obstinately rejects what would make him whole. Through his own pride, Satan deprived himself of Heaven. In this way he lost all goodness, all unity with the Most High, and thus it makes sense for him (in Milton’s words no less), in the presence of the faithful angels in Eden, to have “felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely, saw, and pined his loss.”[21]

In his encyclical Salvifici Doloris, Pope St. John Paul II took up the question of evil, relating it to human suffering. He states, quite pointedly, that “man suffers on account of evil, which is a certain lack, limitation or distortion of good,”[22] reinforcing the classical Catholic approach followed by St. Thomas. Human beings do not suffer because devils range the world tempting us in all things or because we are base creatures incapable of goodness, humans suffer “because of a good in which [they do] not share.”[23]

Ultimately, this good is God, but Pope St. John Paul goes on to teach that the privation of evil also amplifies suffering when it “cuts us off” from more particular goods, specifically goods that we “ought—in the normal order of things—to have a share in.”[24] This way of approaching evil always sees it in relation to the good.[25] Evil is never given free reign, it always exists in tension with the vision of perfection in which it can never participate. This vision of humanity, sees the human person as always an inherently good creation. Evil and suffering are the outcomes of our separation from God and, to their (evil’s and suffering’s) dismay, serve as a continual means of turning humanity towards true happiness and fulfillment in the Summum Bonum, that is, God.

When one considers the ideas put forth by these great men, one cannot, regardless of intellectual leanings, but be awed by their thought. However, in final consideration we have a system, which paints the picture of humanity as inherently susceptible to evil, enticed by it, even naturally evil, and plagued by the roaming and ravaging powers of darkness. They are even unable,  to turn to God, who is impotent to come to our aid because He must respect the free-will with which He Himself endowed us. On the other hand, we have a system which sees in the human person a primarily and inherently good creature. Through the problem of sin we are “cut off” from our natural relationship with God and goodness. This does not result in the creation of some all-powerful maleficent creature who  proceeds to tempt us, but the privation of our original and natural state. The project of humanness (and redemption) then, is the restoration of what has been taken away from us through sin. By this process of transforming evil into good, we are able to come, like Falstaff in The Merry Wives of Windsor, to Herne’s Oak and declare, “I do begin to perceive that I am made into an ass.”[26] However, in Christ Jesus, I may yet become a saint.

[1] Barbara Lewalski, The Life of John Milton, (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2003), 224 & 231.

[2] Bill Bryson, Shakespeare (New York: Harper Collins, 2009), 33.

[3] See Claire Asquith, Shadowplay: The Hidden Beliefs and Coded Politics of William Shakespeare (New York: Public Affiars, 2005). See especially pages 90-104 where the nature of evil in Titus Andronicus is discussed.

[4] Bryson, Shakespeare, 48. See also pages 38-65.

[5] Bryson, Shakespeare, 48. See also pages 38-65.

[6] John Milton, Paradise Lost (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2005), I.51. Textual references are to book number and line number(s) of this edition.

[7] Milton, Paradise Lost, III.6. For what power can truly challenge the Almighty?

[8] Dante, Inferno (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), XXXIV.28-29. Textual references are to canto number and line number(s) of this edition.

[9] Milton, Paradise Lost, V.657-665.

[10] Milton, Paradise Lost, IV.799-809.

[11] St. Thomas Aquinas. Summa Theologica I, vol. 1 of The Basic Writings of St. Thomas Aquinas, ed. Anton Pegis (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997), q.5, a.4, respondeo; q. 49, a. 1, respondeo & a.3, ad. 2. See also, St. Thomas Aquinas. Summa Contra Gentiles III, vol. 2 of The Basic Writings of St. Thomas Aquinas, ed. Anton Pegis (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997), III.vii.

[12] William Shakespeare, “Julius Caesar,” vol. 2 of The Riverside Shakespeare (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997), III.ii.75. Textual references are to page number, act number, scene number, and line number(s) of this edition.

[13] We are not, here, rejecting the existence of the Devil, only that he suffers from the same condition.

[14] Milton, Paradise Lost, I.106-109.

[15] Servais Pinckaers, O.P., The Sources of Christian Ethics (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1995), 337.

[16] Milton, Paradise Lost, II.263-268.

[17] William Shakespeare, “As You Like It,” vol. 1 of The Riverside Shakespeare (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997), 405, I.i.164-166. Textual references are to page number, act number, scene number, and line number(s) of this edition.

[18] Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, iii, iv, x, & xi.

[19] Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, iii. pg. 7-9.

[20] Shakespeare, As You Like It, 428, IV.iii.124.

[21] Milton, Paradise Lost, IV.845-849.

[22] Pope St. John Paul II, Salvifici Doloris, Encyclical on Human Suffering, Vatican website, accessed September 30, 2015,, sec. 7.

[23] Pope St. John Paul II, Salvifici Doloris, sec. 7. Again, this is not to say that demons do not exist or do not tempt us, merely clarifying that what they do is tempt us away from a proper understanding of the good.

[24] Pope St. John Paul II, Salvifici Doloris, sec. 7. Perhaps food, water, land, the ability to conduct virtuous labor, etc.

[25] Pope St. John Paul II, Salvifici Doloris, sec. 7.

[26] William Shakespeare, “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” vol. 1 of The Riverside Shakespeare (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997), 95, V.v.119. Textual references are to page number, act number, scene number, and line number(s) of this edition.

Photo Credit: Flickr

Fear in the Church


I was already writing this blog post when a blog was posted by Archbishop Coleridge of Brisbane. I want to quote him here because he states from an inside perspective what I have been noticing from an outside perspective.

I’ve noticed as I’ve been paying attention to the synod that the issue of “fear” seems to keep coming up. There is a perceived fear of change and yet like Archbishop Coleridge I don’t believe fear is of God. I’ve always preferred the translation of being in awe of the Lord. I think fear limits our ability to be in awe of what God is capable of doing in our lives and in the church. No one likes change. I certainly do not. It’s terrifying at times because we don’t know what is going to happen. Human beings prefer not to be surprised. We want to be in control of what happens and it’s not as scary if we determine what happens. I certainly know I am not a huge fan of change and yet I’ve also learned that fear, in that it doesn’t allow change, keeps me from growing. It pushes God out of my life and puts me at the center. To be afraid I think is to put myself at the center because I am unable to trust in God.

Fear causes the deterioration of right and just relationships because we become consumed by a way of thinking that puts “me” first. It was this fear I believe Pope Francis spoke to while in this country. I think it would be a grave mistake if we were to so quickly forget the visit of our holy father. I have found myself reflecting deeply on his words and his actions while he was in this country. He arrived at a time when our nation and our church are becoming more and more polarized by ideological differences driven in part by fear. No one knew for sure what Francis’ message would be. Many thought he would come wagging his finger at the oppressive nature of western ideologies and the evils of unbridled capitalism. Yet in watching and listening to his speech to congress I found myself mystified by every word he was saying and which at times moved me to tears.

His speech was nothing less than prophetic. He stood in the midst of the center of power and spoke truth and love to power. Rather than scolding this nation he used our historical memory as a people to remind us of who we have been in the past, who we are today and calling us to become an even better version of ourselves in the future. He pointed out in no uncertain terms that these issues that divide us now we have overcome together in the past. He warned us of the path division will take us down and reminded us that moving forward as a nation we have to work together.

This is I think the hallmark of his papacy. It is a papacy that at its heart is driven by a spirituality of encounter. His words during his visit were powerful and thought provoking. However, his actions and his deeds were even more powerful. Taking his namesake to heart, like Saint Francis, this pope has an uncanny ability to pick people out in the crowd and to shine the light on them; people often turned away or rejected by society. He is drawn to them and in that encounter fear is driven out and love is allowed to flourish.

I think one of the major problems at the heart of our polarized nation and even our church is a fear of encountering the other. It’s a fear of being challenged in our beliefs or values. Maybe it’s even a fear of loving the other and allowing ourselves be loved and to be transformed. Something blocks our ability to meet the other where they are. Whatever it is I think one of the reasons why Pope Francis is so popular, even in the United States, is that he reminds us of who we are. He searches out the good in us and around us and reminds us of what we are capable of. In this I think the fear breaks down and we begin to stand in awe of what God is capable of in us and through us and in and through the church.

-Jason Salisbury

Quote found: (

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Excerpt from “Ministry of Pastoral Care: A Eucharistic Experience”


Pastoral care ministry involves providing patients with the sacred experience of God’s loving presence. Through the mission that was bestowed upon me in the sacrament of Baptism, I am able to carry out Jesus’ threefold ministry – priestly, prophetic, and kingly – to the patients as a loving service of God. As a prophetic minister who acts as messenger sent by and speaking for Jesus, I offer guidance to facilitate understanding and find truth through their faith in God, especially in times of their illness, suffering, and loss. As a kingly minister who comes not to be served but to serve, I serve them by giving them support to address their spiritual (prayers), religious (sacraments), and emotional needs (listening presence). As a priestly minister who mediates between the people and God, I provide patients with the opportunity to express their thoughts and feelings to God through meaningful reflection and sacred prayers.

Visiting patients and listening to their stories has led me to contemplate Jesus’ words, “Take care what you hear. The measure with which you measure will be measured out to you, and still more will be given to you (Mark 4:24).” This passage reminds me of an essential undertaking of a chaplain. When I listen to the patients telling me about their lives, I don’t merely listen but I also fulfill my pastoral responsibility by grasping and retaining what I hear from them. I don’t listen to the unique stories of patients to entertain myself; rather, I listen to how the patients try to explain themselves to me. As they unfold their stories, they are examining themselves by reflecting on their own experiences, describing their relationships, assessing the things that have gone wrong and the things that have gone right, and seeking ways to feel better. I, the listener, am invited to be their companion who will accept, comfort, understand, and pray with them, if possible, throughout their journeys.

Sadly, there were times that I felt discouraged and lured to distance myself from the people I was there to serve. There were people, for instance, who ignored or rejected my offer of service, such as praying together. Some were not open to accept from others, even from their own family and relatives, the spiritual and emotional support that they needed. It made me wonder why some people reject or ignore the support they need without knowing its possible good effects on them. In these situations, I just offered my “ministry of presence” – by being physically and attentively present beside them and spiritually and compassionately present by offering them my own prayers. Like the Eucharist that makes Jesus present, ministering is a concrete experience of God’s presence and unconditional loving work.

Marlon Bobier Vargas, SVD

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Three Truer-than-fact Francis Fables


October 4, 2015, falls on a Sunday this year, making it a Solemnity of the Lord.  Many of us remember that it also the Church’s memorial date for St. Francis of Assisi.

People are drawn to Saint Francis even though most know little about his life.  Images of the Saint preaching to the birds, kissing a leper, or receiving the stigmata during prayer, give us the essential Francis, and these images pull us to Francis just as the Crib and the Cross draw people to Christ.

As a Saint who clearly epitomizes Jesus Christ, St. Francis inspires conversations among Protestants and Catholics alike throughout the year.  And I am frequently struck by the fact that some of the “facts” most known about Francis are not facts at all.  They are fables, not history.   But, if we abandoned these fables, we would also risk losing important truths about Francis that inhere in the historic man, if not the historic record.  Here are three.

Fable One:  St. Francis was a deacon.

Deacons revere St. Francis as the ideal deacon.  Before my ordination to the permanent diaconate, my fellow ordinands and I promised to follow St. Francis as model of simplicity when we made our professions of faith and oaths of fidelity.  Even the Catholic Encyclopedia has claimed that Francis was an ordained deacon.

It never happened.  St. Francis consistently refused suggestions that he prepare for the priesthood, and he lived some five hundred years or more after the Church had last ordained any men as deacons except those preparing for the priesthood. As a friar, Francis was only “tonsured.” To be tonsured was to enter the first of five clerical states a religious or seminarian would go through before ordination to the diaconate, and it did not signify any plan for further advancement.

But this is one of those situations where “if it was not so, it should have been so.”  A deacon is ordained to serve the Word, Liturgy and Charity as an icon of “Christ the Servant.”  Unlike the orders of bishop and priest, the deacon is only ordered to a life of humble service.  Just as significant, all Christians are baptized into diaconia, charitable service to their sisters and brothers.  St. Francis who gave all his property to the poor, who kissed the leper, and who inspired others to follow him in the apostolic counsels, fulfilled his diaconia so completely that he can only be compared to Christ himself.   

The Office of Readings for the memorial of St. Francis quotes his letter to all the faithful which contains one of the Church’s greatest descriptions of our call to service:

“We must not be wise and prudent according to the flesh. Rather, we must be simple, humble, pure. We should never desire to be over others. Instead, we ought to be servants who are submissive to every human being for God’s sake. The Spirit of the Lord will rest on all who live in this way and persevere in it to the end. He will permanently dwell in them. They will be the Father’s children who do his work. They are the spouses, brothers and mothers of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

In deed and action, St. Francis teaches us all how to be deacons, that is, servants.

Fable two: St. Francis said, “Preach always and use words if you must.”

This quotation first appeared in the last few decades of the twentieth century, and it is confidently repeated in about ten different ways.  There is no earlier evidence that he ever said it.  Indeed, his life and his writings make it extremely unlikely that he did.   Also, if this fable about Francis is misinterpreted, it can work great mischief he would never have intended.

St. Francis was profoundly committed to preaching, and he preached with words.  All biographers agree that Francis preached constantly and converted many.  Francis converted no one, it seems from the record, merely by his deeds; only through deeds and words.  

Francis never avoided an opportunity to preach.  When he looked for a way to end the Crusades, he crossed enemy lines so that he could preach to Saladin.  Francis was in love with God, and a lover uses words.  According to Thomas of Celano, a Franciscan who knew Francis and wrote the Saint’s first biography, Francis would habitually greet the birds.  Once when a flock did not fly away from him, Francis was moved to preach to them, verbally admonishing them to obey the creator!

Francis was always using words.  His words convinced because they were rooted in the deeds of a committed heart.

The quotation “Preach always and use words if you must” begs the question, “When must we use words?”  Francis’ example pretty much says “always.”  The problem with this quotation for modern Americans, in my view, is that it gives false comfort to those of us who do good works.  We may feel that we are relieved from the responsibility of proclaiming.  Today, here in Chicago, some thirty percent of the population is routinely getting help from Catholic Charities.  How many of those people ever hear that we do-gooders are doing this with Christ?  That we are on mission from the Eucharist?  That we bring good news with our soup and shelter?  

If we are only doing good works, we are only preaching that we are good people.  No one objects to having help from good people, and no one is converted to Christ simply because they have met some good people.  They need to hear the good news.  Otherwise, Francis would tell us, “You are never preaching!”

The admonition to “preach always and use words if you must,” reminds us that our preaching begins with deeds, but it does not allow us to avoid words altogether.  

Fable three: St. Francis wrote the prayer “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.”  

There is no evidence for this prayer before the twentieth century.  Its first publication may have been a 1943 sermon by Reinhold Niebuhr.

St. Francis surely would have loved this prayer.  It expressly asks God for the grace to be used by God as God used Francis himself.

G.K. Chesterton’s classic St. Francis Assisi stresses that Francis was a romantic, a troubadour  who could not restrain himself from reckless acts and expressions of his love for God.   The “Peace Prayer,” I believe, is more of a preparatory prayer for one who would want to fall in love with God as Francis did.  After his conversion, Francis was beyond that point.  He was a man who was in love.

For this reason I think that the “Peace Prayer,” like the other two “fables” here, is truly

“Franciscan” because it provides a valid point of access to a profoundly holy life, a life whose historical facts might confound us if we limited ourselves to their extraordinary content.  

-Gerald E. Nora

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