This is my body

Why this tumult among nations,
among peoples this useless murmuring?

— Psalm 2:1

Why do you suppose, when we speak of the Church, so often we end up speaking of it merely in human terms?

We all do it. Human nature, we might say. It is our nature to view the Church as we do other “institutions.” It is something to influence, or be influenced by. It is something to exert authority, or something by which authority can be acquired.

How often do we attempt to define the great unknown only by what we are capable of perceiving? Too often, it seems, we view the spiritual through the lens of the political. We see division rather than union.

Right versus wrong.

Us versus them.

Man versus woman.

Rich versus poor.

Black versus white.

Democrat versus Republican.

Conservative versus liberal.

Traditional versus progressive.

Catholic versus Protestant.

The list goes on.

If this is what the Church is—to borrow a phrase from Flannery O’Connor—then to hell with it.

But this is not all it is. We know that what Isaiah the prophet tells us is true: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord” (Is 55:8).

However, like Martha in the Gospel of Luke, we become distracted, perturbed, and adamant. “You are worried and distracted by many things,” Jesus tells us. “There is need of only one thing.”

This one thing necessary captured the undivided attention of Martha’s sister Mary, who sat at the feet of Christ. The Church, after all, is not a mere human institution or political organization. It is none other than a Person—Christ Himself, who invites us to share in His divinity through the Eucharist. With Him, in Him, and through Him, we comprise the Body of Christ. This is the Church.

“He assumed our nature in order that by becoming man he might make us divine,” St. Thomas Aquinas tells us. “When he took our flesh he dedicated the whole of its substance to our salvation.”

“Take it,” Jesus says to his disciples after blessing, breaking, and giving them bread. “This is my body.”

The Eucharist, then, is our binding force with God and one another. It is our truest identity. Fed with Christ, what is human becomes transformed into His Body, which the Church not only celebrates but bears to the world. It is the Church’s mission to transform the world by transforming you and me into Christ, who both transforms and transcends all human institutions.

“The Real Presence of Christ,” Pope Benedict XVI says, “makes each one of us his ‘house’ and all together we form his Church, the spiritual building of which Saint Peter speaks, ‘Come to him, to that living stone, rejected by men but in God’s sight chosen and precious, and like living stones be yourselves built into a spiritual house’ ” (1 Pt 2:4-5).

As baptized Christians, corporately and individually, we are made one with the Body of Christ, who mystically works through us all as the Church—human warts and all.

As St. Paul says, “There is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Is not the bread we break a sharing in the body of Christ? Because the loaf of bread is one, we, many though we are, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf” (Gal 3:38, 1Cor 10:16-17).

If, like Mary, we fix our attention on Christ, the one thing necessary that unites all, then the kingdom of God is among us as the Church. Viewed through this lens, we see union rather than division, and the Church defines us rather than vice-versa.

In this way we see Christ as He is—the divine instrument of human salvation in which we all share.

Then, like shoots of the olive, we gather around His table as God’s children.

“Take it. This is my body.”

We will never fully appreciate
the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist
until we see the intimate connection
that exists between the mystery
of the Holy Eucharist
and the mystery of the Church,
the Body of Christ.

— Thomas Merton

What Is A Monk?

“What is a monk?" I am often asked. Sometimes, what is meant, or even asked explicitly, is, “What does a monk do?”

It’s not an easy question to answer because being a monk is not a job, but a state of life. Monks are among the busiest, most talented people I know, but that is not what makes them monks.

Perhaps some comparisons would be helpful. Being a husband, a wife, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, or a friend—these are not “jobs” in the same sense that being an electrician or a lawyer are jobs. Rather, they signify relationships to another—relationships that are deeper than any description or definition. Ask 10 mothers what a mother is, and you will likely get many different answers. They would likely all be right, but none would fully answer the question.

In my mind (ask 10 monks and you’ll likely get many different answers), the question is, in a very mysterious sense, the answer. The fact that it can’t be fully grasped or pinned down is what points us to something beyond ourselves and what we do.

Monks are people devoted to seeking God, and because that definition is elusive and unsatisfactory, it points to God Himself, in whom all real relationships are held.

Primarily, a monk is someone who wants to be real.

He wants to be committed to a lifetime of seeking who God really is, who he himself really is in God, and how God really manifests Himself in all of creation. He strives for this through a daily rhythm of prayer and work with a community of very different individuals committed to the same way of life.

A monk is not some mysterious, other-worldly, and perfectly pious being, although some may think him to be. If he thinks himself to be these things, then he is not being real, and therefore has not yet learned what it truly means to be a monk. A monk seeks God in the ordinary, the routine, and the mundane. That is all that truly sets him apart.

So, a monk, then, is someone who is attentive to all the ways in which God makes Himself present, so that he can be fully present to God.

He seeks God in the butterfly wafting through the meadow, praising its Creator by simply being one tiny butterfly in a vast world that will remain largely unknown to it.

He seeks God in the striking echo of one word of the Psalms recited in choir, a word heard a thousand times before but which suddenly takes on a deeper meaning for a reason he can’t fully explain.

He seeks God in the pre-dawn silence that penetrates his soul like a hand does a glove so that the two become one without anything between them.

He seeks God by suddenly recognizing and appreciating the goodness of a quality in a confrere he hadn’t noticed before, and without discussing it, is inspired to strive for that quality himself.

However, a monk also seeks God by trudging to church morning after morning, sometimes drowsy from a fitful night of sleep plagued by a thousand nagging worries.

He seeks God by praying for the ability to forgive a confrere who deeply wounded him with a sharp remark, knowing that the two must continue working on a long-term project together.

He seeks God by saying yes to a favor asked of him; one he doesn’t wish for but knows is needed.

He seeks God in the bottom of a toilet bowl he’s scrubbed more times than he cares to remember. While he’s doing that, he seeks God by thinking of all the ways the age-worn monk in the bed five feet away has done of all this through the years—remaining faithful to God’s call and encouraging others to remain faithful to theirs through his own prayer and work.

The mystery of being a monk, then, lies deep within the reality of being human while delighting in the divine. The monk strives to see, believe, and be transformed by the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Christ present all around him at each moment of every day.

Through his prayer, work, and life with the monks of his community, he may marvel or be confounded. Yet through it all, he is committed to integrating all these aspects of his journey to achieve what is necessary for his salvation—a real relationship with God, a real relationship with himself, and a real relationship with everyone and everything around him.

This is a monk.

Nothing Will Be Wasted

When they had had their fill, Jesus said to his disciples,
"Gather the fragments left over, so that nothing will be wasted."

John 6:12

We waste an awful lot. Food, time, energy, water, money. The list goes on. Ours is a disposable society.

Everything is important, but nothing matters much.

We waste words. Many speak. Few say anything. No wonder so few listen.

We waste opportunities. They fly by every second of our lives. Every once in a while, we grab one and make the most of it. Most pass by unnoticed, never to return.

We waste knowledge, emotions, actions.

We waste joy, sadness, courage, fear, conviction, uncertainty, pleasure, pain.

We waste people. If we're honest, we'll admit we often pay attention only to those whom we like, and who like us.

We waste death. Life is cheap.

We waste the grandeur of mystery, the glorious gifts that drench us from above each and every moment we spend on this earth. The Kingdom of Heaven is budding all around us, but we see dimly.

More than anything, we waste love. God's love. Love of ourselves. The love of others.

But all is not lost. Not even close.

In John 6, Jesus feeds 5,000 people. All they had were five barley loaves (the food of the poor) and two fish. It wasn't much. In fact, in wasn't anything at all. They needed food, but had too little. Jesus fed them all. They had their fill.

Often overlooked, though, is this passage: "When they had had their fill, Jesus said to his disciples, 'Gather the fragments left over, so that nothing will be wasted.' " It's an important sentence. Why do you think Jesus cared about all the leftovers? Why did the writer of the gospel feel it necessary to report this? As the end of John says, Jesus did many other things that were never recorded. This one was.

Much more than a meal is going on here. Jesus is providing more than food for the hungry. These acts--this mystery--signifies something else, something much greater.

For those who need, who have nothing (which is all of us in one respect or another), God provides. He gives us Himself. Jesus gathers us, feeds us, fills us with bread from heaven. The Body of Christ becomes what it receives. We are what we eat, as the saying goes.

Then, when we're finished, Jesus tells US: "Gather the fragments left over, so that nothing will be wasted." Fragments, scraps, crumbs, crusts, tidbits, particles.

Garbage, waste, trash is what we call them.

But nothing will be wasted, Jesus says. Nothing.

After everyone has received Communion at Mass, the priest and/or Eucharistic ministers consume whatever remains. They don't throw it out. Nothing is wasted.

"I am the living bread that came down from heaven. ... The one who feeds on me will have life because of me," Jesus says (John 6:51, 57). We are fed by His life, and our lives as Christ are commissioned to feed the lives of others, to gather all the fragments.

Nothing will be wasted. No matter our need, nor how little we have.

Not food, time, energy, water, nor money.

Not words.

Not opportunities.

Not knowledge, emotions, nor actions.

Not joy, sadness, courage, fear, conviction, uncertainty, pleasure, nor pain.

Not people. Those we like nor don't like. Those who like us and those who don't.

Not even death. The Resurrected Christ in us gathers all the barley loaves of the poor, all the fragments and crumbs, whatever seems small and useless, and makes us One.

Nothing we have, do, or are is wasted. Everything belongs. It all matters--this grandeur of mystery, this glorious gift that drenches us from above each and every moment. We may still see dimly, but the Kingdom of Heaven buds all around us. Especially in all the leftovers.

God's love is not wasted. Not one crumb, no matter how crusty. Taste and see.

Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.

From Christ's fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.

Matthew 10:8; John 1:16

If It Dies, It Bears Much Fruit

To everyone who conquers,
I will give permission
to eat from the tree of life
that is in the paradise of God.

-- Rev. 2:7

A lifeless body in a tomb.

Alone.

Defeated.

Wrapped in burial cloths of misery, fear, and failure.

A decaying grain concealed in darkest land.

Mystery awaits the morn.

Thin light spreads over a horizon unaware of what the earth cannot contain.

The soil is soaked with divinity’s dew.

The seed of humanity sheds its rotten garments.

The wound within opens.

A tender shoot appears.

It emerges above the soil.

Pulled toward the rising sun, it is green, full of sap.

Roots crack through and discard the seed’s hard but fragile casing…

… surge through and clutch the earth…

… drink from the brimming river.

The stalk grows thicker, taller.

Stems become branches.

Buds blossom and leaves unfurl.

Within them the birds of heaven sing their song.

Hanging there is ripened fruit.

Good for food.

Pleasing to the eye.

Desirable for gaining wisdom.

Fruit better than gold.

A woman enters the land.

She seeks a burial plot, and finds the tree.

She is amazed at what has arisen there.

Taking some of the fruit, she eats.

Urged by an angel, she shares it.

Naked again, eyes are opened.

Wrapped in the light of faith, hope, love.

Triumphant.

Together.

A vibrant body in a garden.

Planted in the house of the Lord.

Still bearing fruit when they are old.

Surrounding the Tree of Life.

Singing Alleluia!

Christ's Descent into Death

You have laid me in the depths of the tomb,
in places that are dark, in the depths.

Psalm 87:7

This morning, for vigils of Holy Saturday here at Saint Meinrad Archabbey, we heard the following reading. It is a wonderful meditation for this day of silence, waiting, and preparation for Holy Easter. Indeed, it is a wonderful reflection for each day of our lives united to the Resurrected Christ. — Br. Francis

THE PASSION is simply the record of Christ’s descent into the realm of death. This is a matter which is seldom explained, and for that reason we may fail to understand the cosmic magnitude of Christ’s passion.

Death is an evil force which, along with sin, dominates the human race. Sin and death are two names for what is really the same thing—the death of the soul and its consequence, the death of the body.

What exactly did Jesus do during his passion? He descended into death. He went down into death’s domain; he fell into its power. The depths of the earth do not mean the grave alone; they include the nether regions. Orthodox theology understands the resurrection not simply as Christ leaving the tomb, but as Christ rising up from the underworld.

The two ideas are not the same; the theological implications of the second are far more profound. Christ went down into the realm of death in that manhood of his which was under death’s dominion, and there was an actual moment when death was able to gloat: “I have won!”

But in answer to that boast we have Saint Paul’s splendid retort: “O death, where is your victory?” Death, whose name is Satan, believed that on the evening of Good Friday he had gained an everlasting victory, since Christ himself was now his prisoner.

Then all at once on Easter morning the gates of death burst apart and its strongholds were laid bare. O death, where is your victory now?

Christ was only able to conquer death by first becoming its prisoner. His purpose in submitting to death was to free the human race from its power. This fact gives a realism and incomparable grandeur to the death of Christ; this is the meaning of the word “redemption.”

Redemption does not mean some kind of ransom or settling of accounts between Christ and Satan. It means Christ’s conflict with the powers of evil, his victory over them all and his conquest of the kingdom of death.

This throws light on the rites of baptism as practiced in the early years of the Church. The descent into the baptismal font which Saint Paul likens to the entombment of Christ was a ritual representation of this descent into death. The newly baptized Christian was incorporated into Christ’s death before emerging victorious with him.

Christ’s victory is a victory for the whole of humanity. We all have to reproduce in ourselves the entire mystery of Christ—his passion, resurrection, and ascension—and baptism is a symbol of that conformity with the mystery of Christ which must continue during our whole lifetime.

Through our daily death to self, Christ’s victory over the power of evil continues to work in us until we are totally free.

— Cardinal Jean Daniélou, S.J.
(Le mystère de l’Avent, 162-164)

This Cross

Straining under the weight, too weary to even stumble.

Staggering, unable to press forward.

Tears and sweat sap strength.

Anguish deeper than pain and fear.

There is simply nothing left.

Nothing.

Welling up, despair cries out.

Yet, its very sound is one of hope -- faint but fearless.

Why, O Lord?
What?
Where?
How?

Ears open to the voice of sincerity, humility, faith.

I can hear my nothingness.

See my dignity.

Touch my identity.

Something sterner than death arises.

Beating in harmony with a force other than being.

There is light, and it sings.

This cross I have, I must need.
Why is beyond the mind's eye,
guarded by Truth and Love.

The reply rises softly, lingers, prods.

Unmistakable.

Always present.

Rarely heard.

Help me with this cross.
It belongs to me.
Help me with it.
Together, we carry it.
With one another, and for all others.

Yes!

This cross only makes sense if it is borne for another's sake.

Mystery enlightens.

Weakness is made strong.

Back straightens. Feet steady.

This cross is still here.

But now it embraces all.

Through,
with,
in
One.

A Sign for All Generations

No sign will be given
except the sign of Jonah. ...
And there is something
greater than Jonah here.
-- Luke 11:29,32

Limitless God limited Himself to human form. While human beings die through no choice of their own because of choosing sin, Christ became sin and chose to die through no sin of his own.

Then he emerged from the tomb, as Jonah did from the belly of the fish.

This is our sign, and nothing is greater.

And this is why we pray for our enemies out of love for Christ, who loved us while we were still enemies.

A clean heart
create for me, O God;
and renew within me
a steadfast spirit.
-- Psalm 51:12

PAX