Only the Gaze of Christ Can Rebuild Parishes

Msgr. Luigi Giussani, Founder of Communion and Liberation

In the days leading up to Christmas and in this period of Christmastide, I've had lots of opportunities to be with friends and to share meals together.  Recently, I visited the home of some friends who belong to the movement, Communion and Liberation. More specifically, these friends are Memores Domini.  They are lay men who work in a variety of professions and who dedicate themselves to the contemplation of Christ and to bringing the announcement of Christ to others.  

After a beautiful meal together, I left their home and had in my heart that kind of joy one experiences from being with something great.  As I walked home, I noticed a little sparrow on the ground that had died.  Not surprisingly, the scripture passage from the Gospel of Matthew jumped to mind.  "Not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care" (MT 10:29).  It is quite an 
amazing thing, is it not?  God knows this sparrow and its condition.  He looks upon the sparrow.  And the tenderness of this gaze with which God looks even upon a sparrow gives us a new hope.  It is confidence in this gaze that makes us capable of announcing the Good News.

It was when Jesus commissioned the Twelve to go and announce the Kingdom that he also informed them of the gaze upon which their Heavenly Father looked upon them.  He was strengthening them not only to fulfill the mission entrusted to them, but also to endure the persecution that was certain to follow.  It was this gaze that would sustain them.

Was it not the tenderness of Christ's gaze upon Peter when he asked him, "Do you love me?" that strengthened Peter in the rest of his ministry?  Did not Matthew remember that moment when Christ looked upon him with mercy and live the rest of his life from that moment?  How many people have come to Christ because they discovered that he is the Good Shepherd who looks for the lost sheep with tenderness?  This gaze is critical to evangelization.

Although I do not meet my friends from the Memores Domini as often as I would like, each time I do, I feel inwardly strengthened.  It is because of the way with which they look upon me and upon reality.  Their gaze reassures me of the Father's gaze.  Their life radiates a certain joy that originates in the gaze of the Divine upon them.  The mission to the world--for them and for all of us--always has to originate and be sustained by a tender gaze.  

We often skip over this "gaze" in order to implement practical 
solutions.  Several months ago, I read a book entitled, "Rebuilt."  It has to do with a parish that has experienced a lot of growth.  Although I found the book to offer a lot of "helpful hints," it did not really move me.  It sounded a lot like "How to Build a Successful Parish."  What was missing for me was a sense that the mission of evangelization begins with an irresistible gaze.  Instead, it was about building a structure.

I do not wish to criticize the pastor there nor the people who are undoubtedly doing great things.  My point is simply that the book did not appeal to me because I did not feel as though I had walked into the middle of a gaze between lovers.  The book seemed more about parish life than it did about Christian life.  It seemed too mechanical and not enough about being moved by the tender look of Another.

Jesus sent the Twelve out, but he did so after assuring them of the 
gaze of the Father.  I do not think that the principle crisis facing 
parishes and Catholic institutions is their administration, properties, or job titles.  There is certainly much that could be done to improve all of these things.  But, this cannot be the starting point.  The principle crisis is that we often present ourselves as people who are not caught up in the love of God.  The starting point has to be a gaze that fills a person with the assurance that they are loved by the Father.  This cannot be skipped.  Well, it can be skipped, but the mission will fail.  It is only the tenderness of this gaze that will sustain true evangelization.

What is needed in so many Catholic parishes, dioceses, and institutions is not simply new programs, technologies, or structures.  What's needed is a renewed encounter with the gaze of Christ.  What is needed is an education in friendship and love.  What is often missing in aspects of Catholic life is that tenderness that is at the origin of discipleship.  Trying to "rebuild" things without beginning with this gaze and a fidelity to this gaze will only result--at best--in stopgap measures.  True evangelization begins with a gaze.  When we are living this gaze, programs may certainly follow, but they are remarkably different than anything we could come up with on our own.

My friends in Memores Domini strengthened me by radiating the gaze of Christ.  This is true evangelization.  They looked upon me with a tenderness that can only be given by one who himself knows that he is looked upon tenderly by Christ.  Strong parishes and strong dioceses are places where the gaze of Christ is made visible in and through the gaze of those who know themselves "looked upon with tenderness."  It is in the gaze of bishops and priests upon their people; it is in the gaze of Christians upon the poor, the suffering, and the vulnerable; it is in the gaze of brothers and sisters in Christ upon each other that evangelization occurs. Strong parishes and strong dioceses are rebuilt through the gaze of charity. 

Feast of St. Stephen: Oh Yeah, I've Got Enemies

St. Stephen

The command to love my enemies never really seemed all that difficult to me.  That's because, I never really felt like I had enemies.  There have never been people in my life that I've wished would come to some catastrophic end.  Mostly, "enemies" always seemed to me to be some sort of ambiguous group of people who lived in some far off country and who were my "enemies" because of some sort of political situation.  So, loving them didn't seem like too much of a challenge because I never really meet these enemies.  Basically, I never had enemies.

Today is the Feast of St. Stephen and the opening collect (prayer) for the Mass suggests that I do have enemies. It almost presumes it.  "Grant, Lord, we pray, that we may imitate what we worship, and so learn to love even our enemies, for we celebrate the heavenly birthday of a man who knew how to pray even for his persecutors."  There you have it. I've got enemies.  You do too.

As I prayed before offering Mass today, I thought about who my enemies are.  They are not some far away and ambiguous collection of combatants.  My enemies are specific.  They are the people who have hurt me in my life.  They are the people who have been uncharitable towards me.  True, I don't ever wish them harm.  I don't sit around imagining what disasters I would like seen visited upon them.  But, the prayer at Mass didn't say, "Grant O Lord that we may not wish fire and brimstone to incinerate our enemies."  It said, "Grant that we may learn to love even our enemies."  

A few things strike me about the prayer.  Firstly, it presumes that we have enemies. It presumes that there are people who seek to hurt us and who have hurt us.  Secondly, it doesn't try to solve the situation by getting rid of our enemies.  Chances are, we will always have people in our lives who do not love us and who do not seek our good.  The solution that the collect offers is not one of "converting  our enemies into our friends."  The solution it offers is for us to love them even though they are our enemies.  Thirdly, I liked the words "learn" and "even."  The prayer doesn't presume that loving our enemies comes easily.  It is something we have to learn.  And it says, "even our enemies."  In other words, loving our enemies doesn't come naturally.

Today, I offered Mass for my enemies.  I prayed for them by name. (Don't worry, nobody else heard me!)  I figured that is a good step towards learning how to love them.   The person who is my enemy is not my enemy because I am against him.  The person who is my enemy is the one who is against me.  He might always be my enemy.  He might always be against me.  I don't have to convert him to be my friend before I can love him.  I have to learn how to love him "even" when he is my enemy.  

That prayer touched me today in its humanity.  It acknowledges the reality of enemies (it doesn't skip over it or try to pretend it is not real), it acknowledges the difficulty in loving "even" them, and it acknowledges that this is something we "learn" to do.  

As St. Stephen was being killed, he prayed for his enemies and thus, he loved them.  On this Feast of St. Stephen, maybe we could all think about those people who do not treat us with charity and ask God to help us to learn how to love "even" them.  By loving them--especially through praying for them--we may not ever win them over to be our friends.  But, we will prove ourselves to be true friends of the One who has loved us "even" when we have not loved Him.

Christmas brings extraordinary graces to us.  May this Christmas Season bring us the grace to love even those who are our enemies.

The Devil Whispers About Weakness, But God Enters Into Weakness

Earlier this year, I had the opportunity to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land and among the sites we visited was the Church of the Nativity.  In the Church of the Nativity there hangs a Russian icon that portrays the Birth of Christ.  At the center of the icon is the Blessed Virgin and the Christ Child.  In the bottom corner of the icon is St. Joseph.  He is speaking to what appears to be a shepherd, but it is actually the Devil. The icon attempts to show how, from the very beginning, the Devil sought to discourage Joseph. He is whispering in Joseph's ear, "You are a failure.  You aren't even the real father.  You are wasting your life."

On Christmas Day, many people find themselves like St. Joseph in that icon.  Maybe they have tried to do everything right, but still have encountered difficulty and turmoil. Or, perhaps they have failed greatly in their life.  The Blessed Virgin and the Christ Child are right there, but the Devil is luring people away.  He is convincing them that they are failures.  He attempts to discourage each person according to their fears.  "You're spouse doesn't really appreciate you. You're a failure.  Your life is meaningless."  "You've committed terrible sins.  You are a failure.  There's no hope for you." To the one who was not able to have children, he whispers "You are a failure."  To the one whose children have been a source of disappointment in one way or another, he whispers, "You are a failure."  To the old, he whispers, "You have failed." To the young, he discourages them so that they never dare to hope, "You are a failure." To those who struggle intellectually or physically, "You are a failure."  He tries to undermine priests and religious, married and single, young and old.  "You are a failure."

Each Christmas, the scriptures have us return to that encounter between the shepherds of Bethlehem and the angels of Heaven.  The shepherds were men who lived on the outskirts, not only of town, but of society.  They were outcasts and, in the eyes of the world, failures.  And yet, when the Savior was born, it was to them that God first revealed this good news.  God did not first send out a diplomatic cable to the world leaders or release a statement to the media.  He did not choose a method of communication that would eliminate all doubt and all risk for failure.  Instead, he chose to entrust this message to the shepherds, to those who were without stature.  God is not intimidated by our failures or by our weakness.  He gladly chooses it!  So much does he choose our weakness, that in the fullness of time, he became weak for our sake.

After they had received the message from the angels, the shepherds were still shepherds.  It was not like winning the Powerball where they could leave behind the shepherd's cave and buy a mansion.  They were still poor. They were still men of weakness. They were men who had failed in life and would likely fail again.  Their circumstances were largely unchanged. What then was different?  God had drawn close to them in their circumstances.  They were not alone in their circumstances.  They were not alone in their difficulties.  God is now with them.  Into their darkness, the light had entered.

Today, many who will hear the joyful message of the angels may feel as though this message is not for them.  They may feel that this message is for those who are successful, but not for those who have failed or who are weak.  This is the lie of the Devil.  God chooses the weak and those who are of no account.  God chooses them as the very first witnesses and messengers.  He does not merely include them in some superficial way with the Gospel.  He makes them the first trustees of the Gospel.

On Christmas morning, I was privileged to offer two Masses at a local jail.  It was so awesome to be there and to read the Christmas Gospel.  The announcement of Jesus' birth and of God's nearness belong especially to men like these.  Like all of us, these men must often find themselves being pulled to the side so that the Devil can whisper in their ears to remind them of their weakness and to discourage them by their circumstances.  The Devil tries to use our weakness to lure us from God.  But, in front of every circumstance, humiliation, failure, weakness, and evil, man can now stand with hope and courage.  The Devil can whisper all he wants about our weakness and our circumstances, but his whispers cannot change this fact: The Word Has become flesh and has chosen to dwell in our weakness.  Just ask Joseph and the shepherds.

Setting Out with the Shepherds to Find the Savior

Annunciation to the Shepherds

Christmas this year will be very different for me.  One of the highlights each year for me was carrying the Christ Child down the aisle of a magnificent church at Midnight Mass to the enormous sound of the pipe organ playing "Adeste Fideles."  As I would place him in the manger, I would stay for a bit and pray for my people and for a host of intentions. I entrusted so much to Jesus in those brief moments at Midnight!  In truth, I felt like I could have stayed praying there for hours.  But, eventually Mass had to begin!

This year, I don't have a Midnight Mass.  I don't have a beautiful church.  I don't have a manger.  I don't even have a congregation!  Since I am a college chaplain, my congregation is gone home for the Christmas Break.  I will definitely miss the gold vestments, the plumes of incense, greeting thousands of parishioners and wishing them a "Merry Christmas," and listening to the best choir in the Archdiocese of Boston giving the angels of Bethlehem a pretty good run for their money.

It is a strange occurrence in my life-- not having a congregation on Christmas.  As I was thinking about it, the thought occurred to me that perhaps there is somewhere that doesn't have a priest on Christmas.  So, as it turns out, I will have two Masses on Christmas morning at a local jail.  I am really grateful for this opportunity.  As a parish priest, I wouldn't have had an opportunity to do this.  In these days, parish priests are straight out exhausted with a million details and swarms of people.  Of course, I loved all of that, but I 
am so very happy that I will be able to spend Christmas offering Masses in a jail.  I hope that I will be able to write about it afterwards, but my thought in advance is this: Jesus came to illuminate those who sit in darkness and in the land of gloom.  I am really so very grateful that this year I will be a minister of that light to those who sit in the darkness of prison.  Who am I that I should have this privilege?

I'm not sure that I would have ever thought about trying to say Mass in a jail on Christmas Day were it not for Pope Francis.  He keeps me on my toes and encourages me to grow in charity.  I have to admit that I get annoyed when people talk about Pope Francis as though the way he lives as pope is a condemnation of all other popes.  Honestly, when I look at Pope Francis, I don't see him as a challenge to his predecessors.  I see him as a challenge to me.  It is I who need to grow in charity.

I am so looking forward to spending Christmas morning with these people whom Jesus loves.  I feel like the shepherds who first heard the proclamation of the angels.  Having heard the good news themselves, they made haste to the manger to find Christ. I am looking forward to making haste to the jail on Christmas Day.  I expect to find things just as the angels had said.  I expect to find Him, the Savior and Lord.

Pastoral Plans, Evangelization, and the Tenderness of Bethlehem

In a few days time, we will find ourselves placed before the Christ Child.  There is something that draws us again and again to his manger.  In the shivering cold of the night, the infant God is enfolded in the tender embrace of the Blessed Virgin.  It is the tenderness and the warmth of this moment that draws us to Bethlehem.  Pope Francis, in many ways, has been a "Christmas Pope."  He is reminding all of us that in order to draw others to the Church, we must be a Christmas Church, a Church of tenderness.

In my own Archdiocese, the past year has been marked by the implementation of a new pastoral plan.  In many ways, the success of that plan will depend not upon its logistical implementation, its codification of policies and procedures, or upon its introduction of efficiencies.  It will be successful insofar as its starting point is an encounter with the tenderness of Christ and that it remains faithful to this starting point.  When we invite others to come to church, are we simply trying to stir up business or are we carrying within ourselves the warmth of the light that we ourselves have received from an encounter with Christ?  Is our starting point a plan or is our starting point a manger?  

There is always something quite maddening about God's starting points.  An efficient plan would not have begun in a cave in Bethlehem.  But, God makes the whole thing begin in this moment.  It's crazy! In many ways, in his preaching and in his actions, I think Pope Francis is leading the Church to the manger so that we can rediscover again the tenderness of God.  The transformation of dioceses, parishes, and individuals begins in the contemplation of the manger in Bethlehem.  

People are drawn towards the manger because, in the midst of the darkness of their lives, a light shines. They are drawn towards this tenderness because in front of this tenderness their heart leaps. Many of the people who fill our churches on Christmas Day are there because they are looking to encounter that tenderness which is missing from their lives.  Many of us can sometimes feel overwhelmed by our faults, our sins, our illnesses, the cruelty of others, the sorrows of life etc.  What the Church offers to us in these moments is not always an immediate solution to our difficulty.  But, she can offer to us the embrace of Christmas, the embrace that reveals to us the nearness of God to those who are heavily burdened.

As I reflect upon this past year in my own life, I see that what most caused my own heart to leap were those moments when others were for me a witness to the tenderness of Christ.  For me, these witnesses were my evangelists.  What caused my heart the most sorrow were those moments when the tenderness of the manger was obscured or set aside. The Canticle of Zachariah says, "through the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us."  If our goal is to draw others to Christ, this can only be done by being instruments of his "tender compassion."  Without this tenderness, the Church can quickly become just another organization or corporation.  This type of model promotes clericalism and cynicism.  A plan without a manger will always lack what is needed for true evangelization.  It is only when our plans begin from the experience of the manger and are faithful to that experience do they serve the work of evangelization.

Christmas affords all of us an opportunity to go to the manger and encounter the tender compassion of our God. It also affords us the opportunity to pause and compare our life to what we see in the manger. When people encounter us, are they encountering the tender compassion of our God?  What draws people to the manger is that they discover the Divinity in such a remarkably human way.  There is nothing quite so human as a mother and her baby.  If the shepherds had arrived in Bethlehem and found  a man in a business suit, sitting at a conference table in a skyscraper instead of a mother and child in a manger, it is doubtful that we'd all have miniature skyscrapers and conference tables set up on our front lawns each year.  My point is that the first announcement of Good News led people to a mother and child--a very tender and human scene.  This is how evangelization began.  There can be no other starting place.

Is my life a witness to God's tenderness?  Is the implementation of the pastoral plan a witness to God's tenderness?  Is our presbyterate a witness to God's tenderness?  Are our parishes a witness to God's tenderness?  Is my priestly example a witness to God's tenderness?  Are my homilies a witness to God's tenderness?  Are my daily interactions with others a witness to God's tenderness?  When someone arrives at my doorstep, at the chancery doorstep, or at the parish doorstep, do they find a scene that is tender and human or is it lacking in tenderness and humanity?

Christmas finds us all going back to the manger because we know that is what is true and good.  I've experienced instances in my life when the Church has appeared cold and inhuman, and instances when she stands like a warm and glowing manger inviting cold and weary travelers into her embrace.  In my life as a Christian and as a priest, there are undoubtedly times when I have been an inviting manger and times when I have been a cold fortress.  Christmas invites us all back to the manger to begin again.  I hope that we all do.  Evangelization depends upon it.

Surrounded By the Sheep and Supported By the Sheep

Lay people. I love them.  I mean, I really love them.  Tonight, the staff and I at the Newman House at BU had a Christmas Dinner.  Among those present was our Office Manager who has worked at the Newman House for eleven years.  She drives a long way from New Hampshire to Boston two or three times a week to do her work for the students.  Also present was our music minister, four FOCUS Missionaries, and our two interns (recent graduates from BU who basically give back a year or two of service to the Catholic Center).  The two interns and four FOCUS Missionaries fundraise their salaries by asking friends, family, and sponsors to support them.  That's pretty humbling, but they do it out of love for the students, for Christ, and for the Gospel.  They make very little.  They all work incredibly hard.

I never dread going to work.  I always look forward to it.  Sometimes in the life of the Church there can be politics, ideology,  bickering, joylessness, and backbiting.  But, in my experience working with lay people, this has never been the case.  These people aren't interested in promoting an agenda.  They aren't looking for power or prestige.  They're not looking to "change the Church."  

The people I've worked with, both in the parish and in my community at Boston University, simply love the Gospel and love others.  They are grateful for their relationship with Christ and want to share the joy of that relationship with others.  They do a thousand things better than I could do them.  They are patient with my faults and support me in being a shepherd.  They help me to be a priest.

Pope Francis said a few months ago that shepherds should be so close to their people that they take on the smell of the sheep.  I LOVE smelling like the sheep.  I love being with them, love living with them, love knowing them, love being known by them, love learning from them, love teaching them, love praying with them, love listening to them, love watching them, love feeding them, love eating and drinking with them, love working with them, love witnessing their example, and love seeing the world changed by their love.  

Tonight, as I enjoyed dinner with these amazing people, I was once again grateful that Jesus has given me the privilege to spend my life in the midst of his flock.  I wouldn't want to smell any differently!

Gaudete Sunday: Rejoicing Behind Bars

John the Baptist in Prison

The Third Sunday of Advent is called "Gaudete Sunday" or "Rejoice Sunday." At the very moment that the Church's liturgy is commanding us to "rejoice," the gospel takes us to a darkened cell, located beneath the palace of King Herod.  There sits John the Baptist.  It is only a matter of time before the executioner begins sharpening his axe.  Perhaps John can hear the sounds of one of Herod's parties going on upstairs.  In the midst of all of this revelry and moral decay, John the Baptist knows that his time is coming to an end.  He is indeed decreasing.  In fact, he is decreasing to the point of soon losing his life.  

There doesn't seem too much for John to "rejoice" over at this particular moment in his life.  This is where the Church's Liturgy is always so surprisingly beautiful.  There is nothing worse than being told to "have a good time" when you feel lousy.  So often, those who are sitting in our churches--especially around Christmas--might not feel all that great.  Some are ill.  Some are unemployed.  Some are mourning the loss of loved ones or are preparing for the death of a loved one.  The memories of past joys perhaps cause sadness.  The memories of past injuries perhaps cause hurt.  

Perhaps many people sitting in our churches on "Rejoice Sunday" feel a bit like John the Baptist.  They can hear the noise of the party going on, but they are not part of it.  They are down below, imprisoned by the sorrows of life, imprisoned by the cruelties of life, imprisoned by the walls of illness or memory.

This day is really more for them than it is for those who are all too ready to be giddy.  Remember, it was the fools who were upstairs in Herod's palace.  They were there engaging in their drunken foolishness while John the Baptist sat imprisoned.  But, those upstairs were not rejoicing.  They were given over to buffoonery, but not to joy.  

Today is for those who are like John the Baptist.  All of those who are burdened can indeed rejoice because Jesus Christ is, in fact, the One who was promised.  He makes the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers clean, the deaf hear, the dead rise, and the poor have good news proclaimed to them.  The sorrowing have special cause to rejoice because they are the ones to whom Jesus comes.  

There is a beautiful three volume commentary on the Gospel of St. Matthew written by a man named Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis.  Referring to the Eleventh Chapter of the Gospel of St. Matthew (the Gospel for the Third Sunday of Advent) he writes:

"It appears that John himself is simply fulfilling in advance one of the prophecies Jesus has just made to his apostles: that they would be persecuted by the world and 'dragged before governors and kings' (10:18).  Indeed, this will be the destiny of Jesus, too, in his Passion, so that the pattern is established clearly and inexorably: the way of fidelity to God and of cooperation with God's giving of himself to the world leads through the dungeons of human injustice and cruelty.  Is this perhaps because what most needs to be redeemed is precisely this injustice and cruelty, and because the presence of a light-filled man such as John in the prison of Herod Antipas is the beginning of the bursting open of all prisons?"

To all who today don't feel much like joining the party up in Herod's palace, don't.  That's not real joy.  It is a cheap imitation.  Real joy can be discovered in the most dismal of places.  It can be found in every place where the Gospel of Christ penetrates.  Yes, Jesus and his joy comes to those who dwell in darkness.  Just ask John the Baptist.