Engage

Inigo Lopez was born to a noble family in 15th-century Spain. Inflamed by the ideals of courtly love and knighthood, he became a fiery warrior. While defending his native town of Palermo against French invaders, Inigo was severely injured by a cannonball during a battle in 1521. Gravely wounded but still full of courage, Inigo won the admiration of the French soldiers who escorted him home to recover rather than send him to prison.

Planning to pass his bedridden recovery period enjoying romance novels, Inigo was disappointed to find that the only books available were on the lives of the Saints. He reluctantly leafed through these books but soon became immersed, reading in awe about these glorious lives. Inspired by the stories, he asked himself: “If they can, why can’t I?”

This question haunted him as he recovered from his knee injury. But this holy disturbance the saints had sown in him grew stronger and eventually formed him into one of the greatest saints of the Church: Ignatius of Loyola. 

Once recovered, Ignatius left his knife and sword at the altar of Our Lady of Montserrat. He gave away his expensive clothes and set out to tread the path of the Divine Master. His courage and passion were not diminished, but henceforth his battles would be for the Heavenly army, winning souls for Christ. His writings, especially the Spiritual Exercises, have touched countless lives and directed them on the road to holiness and Christ. 

Saint Januarius (or San Gennaro, as he is known in his native Italy) was born in Naples during the second century to a wealthy aristocratic family. He was ordained a priest at the remarkable age of fifteen. By age twenty, he was bishop of Naples. During the Christian persecution begun by the emperor Diocletian, Januarius hid many Christians, including his former classmate, Sossius, who would also become a saint. Sossius was exposed as a Christian and imprisoned. When Januarius visited him in jail, he too was arrested. Stories vary as to whether he and his fellow Christians were thrown to wild animals that refused to attack them or into a furnace from which they emerged unharmed.

But all the stories agree that Januarius was eventually beheaded around the year 305 A.D. And this is where the story gets very interesting. Pious followers gathered some of his blood into glass vials and preserved it as a relic. That blood, preserved to this day, manifests remarkable qualities. On three occasions each year, as it has since this miracle first occurred in 1389, the coagulated blood liquefies.

Stored in glass ampules, the dried dark red blood that clings to one side of the vessel miraculously turns to liquid that fills the bottle from side to side. Besides his feast day, September 19, the miracle also occurs on the day his remains were moved to Naples and the anniversary of Naples being spared from the effects of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 1631.

Several scientific investigations have tried and failed to explain how solid blood can become liquefied. And any trickery or foul play has been excluded.

Joyous shouts of: “The miracle has happened!” fill the Naples Cathedral as the faithful kiss the reliquary that holds the saint’s blood. What an amazing gift God has given the Church in this remarkable saint, and in the miracle that each year reminds us of how Gennaro—and so many others—shed their blood for the sake of their Lord. As Tertullian said, ‘The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.’

Q: I disagree with some of the teachings of the Catholic Church. Am I still a good Catholic if I don’t agree with everything?

A: The Church is more than just a human institution—it is both human and divine. It does not have any authority on its own to teach anything at all. Rather, the role of the Church is to teach faithfully what Christ taught on earth: to authentically interpret the Scriptures and to hand on the Apostolic Tradition that has come down to us from the Apostles themselves. The word “Tradition” comes from the Latin word “traditio”, meaning “to hand over.”

We make the distinction, however, between Tradition (with a Big T) and traditions (with a little t). Tradition (Big T) is the unchanging, everlasting teaching of the Church, which has its roots in the Apostles and Christ. Examples of this include the fact that only wheat bread and grape wine can be used for Holy Eucharist; only men can become priests; certain moral actions are always and everywhere wrong; etc. Little-t traditions are man-made traditions that are changeable, such as abstaining from meat on Fridays (this has changed in the course of the Church’s history), receiving Communion on the hand, etc. People of goodwill are allowed to have various opinions about pastoral practices, disciplines of the Church, and other traditions that are “little-t” traditions that came from human beings.

However, when it comes to Apostolic Tradition (big-T), to be a good Catholic means that we must accept it as coming from Christ through the Apostles.

Another distinction needs to be made, though: there is a difference between doubt and difficulty. A “difficulty” means that we struggle to understand why the Church teaches a specific thing, but a difficulty means that we accept it in humility and seek to find the answer. After all, faith is not blind! The medieval theologians had a phrase: Fides Quaerens Intellectum—Faith Seeking Understanding. We ought to ask questions and seek to understand the Faith we believe in!

By contrast, a doubt says, “Because I don’t understand, I will not believe!” While difficulties stem from humility, doubt stems from pride—we think that we need to understand everything before we believe it. But let’s be honest—are any of us able to understand mysteries like the Trinity? Do we really think we are wiser than Saint Augustine, Saint Thomas Aquinas, and all of the Saints and Mystics of the Catholic Church? Do we think that the constant 2,000-year-old Tradition, which was handed down from the Apostles, is somehow in error?

If we find a teaching that we grapple with, keep grappling—but do so with humility and recognize that our minds are limited and we often need to be taught! Seek, and you will find—read the Catechism or the Church Fathers, the Encyclicals of the Popes, or other solid Catholic materials. Seek out a holy priest to ask your questions. And never forget that everything the Church teaches is for your happiness! The Church’s teachings are not meant to make us miserable but rather to show us the way to genuine freedom and joy—which can only be found in a vibrant life of holiness in Jesus Christ!

Objection: “Women who have been raped should be able to abort their fetuses.”

Answer: Rape is a horrific crime, and both pro-choice and pro-life people agree on that. Justice needs to be rendered toward the rapist. However, will an abortion help the woman?

The results of a 200-participant survey of women who have been victims of sexual assault and had children from it found that it did not help. This is documented in the book called “Victims and Victors: Speaking Out About Their Pregnancies, Abortions, and Children Resulting from Sexual Assault” by Makimaa Sobie Reardon. The study showed that, of those who got pregnant, the women were not the ones interested in getting an abortion. Rather, it was the environment of people telling them to get an abortion. The study found that those women who then went through with an abortion were in counseling more for the abortion than the rape.

Rape was an act of violence done to them, but after the abortion, they felt that they were the ones committing the act of violence. The suffering of guilt in these women is totally ignored by the media, and this is a shame. The testimonies of these women can be analyzed more in-depth through organizations such as “Rachel’s Vineyard” and “Silent No More.” After recognizing the statistical evidence, many ask this question: Why compound evil with evil by killing the child?

Women deserve compassion and help from this terrible injustice, but why not give the child compassion and help as well? We place ourselves in the shoes of the mother and have compassion for her, but we do not also place ourselves in the shoes of the child. The child is as innocent as the mother. Should that baby be killed because of the crime of the father? That baby can be loved by its mother, and the power of love can overcome anything.

Find the path that has been laid out for you even before your time on earth began, and your life will never be the same.

Perfection, or the Right Direction, is a catch cry that I have often used with my children when they have needed correction. They have frustratedly argued that I am expecting them to be perfect. I respond that “I’m not asking for perfection, I just want you to head in the right direction.”

God’s Expectation

To me, this reflects the humility of their heart. If one of my children acknowledges that they made a poor choice and that their actions went against the values that we believe to be true and right, then a simple, ‘I know I was wrong, and I’m sorry. What can I do to make things better?’ is the fastest way to forgiveness and restore unity. However, if they argue that it was somehow okay for them to disobey or do something that is outside of our home’s established rules, then the duration of relational separation and the number of consequences naturally increase.

It’s the same in our walk with Jesus. We have been given God’s expectations in the Ten Commandments, and Jesus clarified these in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7). And if that were not enough, Saint Paul, Saint Peter, and the other Apostles reiterate God’s Commands throughout their Epistles in a very tangible way.

You see, we have no way around it. The Right Direction has been made so clear for all of humanity. It is all too obvious. We either choose God’s way or fight against it in rebellion.

And so, we have begun to see a society bent on perverting the Holy Scriptures and bending God’s ways to appease the guilt of its fleshly lusts.

We are facing a time like no other, where many have fallen away from the Truth of God. They have become convinced that if they merely change the narrative, they can somehow circumvent the ordained outcome. Unfortunately, they misunderstand the ways of God and the reality of His Truth.

This friends, is why the Gospel is the most simple yet incomprehensible message to ever be revealed.

Twists and Turns

The good news is that you have been forgiven–past, present, and future. However, it requires repentance and a firm commitment each day to continue the struggle to remain on the right path. The beauty in the Gospel is that while we cannot do what Christ did through His Passion and Resurrection, we can receive the benefit of His work.

When we surrender to His way, He continues to lead us in the Right Direction.

In the New Testament, Jesus states: “Unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” In other words, most religious people on this earth still weren’t good enough through their own works to enter God’s Kingdom.

Perfection isn’t the answer, and it’s not the requirement for a relationship either; humility is.

When you read through Matthew chapters 5-7, you could view it as an impossible task that Jesus lays out before us.

Find your way back

I have failed to keep many of these precepts over the years, and yet Jesus was not laying out God’s ways to bury us under the oppression of unattainable rules.

Picture yourself with Jesus and you standing on the top of (atop) a hill that overlooks a large valley. There is a clear trail. However, it weaves through forests, rivers, and other natural features. This is what Matthew 5-7 is like. It’s the trail. But, instead of Jesus saying, ‘Well, you better be on your way,’ He introduces you to the Holy Spirit, hands you a compass (the Bible), and reminds you that He will never leave you nor forsake you. He then says, “If you are humble, and your heart stays focused on me, then you will be able to find the path no matter how it twists and turns. And if it so happens that you get lost or choose a path other than mine, all you have to do is humble your heart and call to me, and I will help you find your way back.”

This is what some have referred to as the greatest scandal of all time. The God of Heaven, who created all of what we see and even what we cannot see, made Himself low to save His creation. We have but one simple job. Continue in His direction.

I pray that today no matter where you are and no matter what you have done, you would find yourself humbly bowing before the cross and returning to the path that God has laid out for you before your time on this earth began.

“All we like sheep have gone astray; we have all turned to our own way…” (Isaiah 53:6)

My current car has a lane departure warning system. Every time I stray out of my designated lane while driving, the car gives me a warning signal.

This was annoying at first, but now I appreciate it. My old car did not have such advanced technology. I had not realized how often I drifted out of bounds while driving.

Over the past few months, I have started participating in the Sacrament of reconciliation (Confession). For decades, I had ignored this practice.

I felt like it was a waste of time. I thought to myself: Why does a person need to confess his sins to a priest when they can speak directly to God? Examining your conscience regularly is uncomfortable. Admitting your sins, out loud, is humiliating. But the alternative is even worse. It’s like refusing to look in a mirror for years. You may have all sorts of stuff stuck on your face, but you go about under the false impression that you look fine.

These days, I try to go to Confession weekly. I take time for self-reflection and the examination of my conscience. I have noticed a change within me. Now, as I go through each day, my internal warning system has been reactivated. Every time I stray off the path of goodness by aimless striving and endless pursuits, my conscience gives me a signal. This allows me to get back on course before I wander too far into the danger zone.

“For you were going astray like sheep, but now you have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.” (1 Peter 2:25)

The Sacrament of reconciliation is a gift that I disregarded for too long. I was like a sheep who had wandered away. But now I have turned to my Shepherd, the Guardian of my soul. He checks my spirit when I stray. He redirects me onto the path of goodness and safety.

I was listening in disbelief to the chastising words of my home daycare provider. Her disapproving look and tone only added to the churning in my stomach.

There are few things as common to the human experience as feeling the sting of rejection or criticism. It is hard to hear less than flattering words about our behavior or character at any time, but particularly difficult when the critique leveled is one that feels unfair or inaccurate. As my husband often said, “Perception is reality;” I have come to see the truth of that statement time and again. Thus accusations that wound the most deeply are ones that seemingly come out of nowhere when the judgment of our actions may or may not reflect the intentions of our heart. Some years ago I was the recipient of the actions of one who misunderstood my intentions.

Awaiting Miracle

At the time, I was a mother in my late 30s, who was very grateful to have two toddlers. Despite intentional, well-timed efforts to conceive, for a full year, parenthood remained merely a dream for my husband and me. Leaving the gynecologist’s office after yet another visit, I reluctantly accepted what seemed inevitable: our only option now was the use of fertility drugs. Heading toward the car, I remarked dismally, “I guess we should stop at the pharmacy on the way home to get this prescription filled.” It was then that I heard my husband say, “Let’s give God one more month.” What?? We had already given Him a year and had been married nearly two. Our courtship had been slow to bloom. The years had added up until I was now 33 and hearing the steady ticking of my “biological clock.” Now driving home, I supposed I could wait one more month to start that drug…

I peered down at the white stick’s center with the now-blue line. Excitement gripped me, and I ran out of the bathroom, shouting wildly, “We’re pregnant!!” 10 days later, I stood in front of my prayer community “family” of faith and proclaimed the good news, knowing that many of these friends had joined us in praying for this baby’s existence.

Swinging Pendulum

Now, four years later, we had both our long-awaited baby girl, Kristen, and our gregarious one-year- old son, Timmy, and I was listening in disbelief to the chastising words of my home daycare provider, “Miss Phyllis.” Phrases like “rebellion in children needing to be squelched,” Scriptures written out in longhand outlining the consequences of the apparent error of my ways. Her disapproving look and tone added to the churning in my stomach. I wanted to defend myself, to explain how I had read one parenting book after the other and that I tried to do everything the way the “experts” suggested. I stammered about how much I loved my children and was trying with all my heart to be a good mother. Holding back the tears, I left, the children in tow.

Arriving home, I put Timmy down for a nap and settled Kristen in her room with a book to thumb through, so I could have some time to process what had just happened. As was my usual response to any crisis or problem in my life, I began to pray and seek the Lord for understanding. I realized I had two choices: I could deny the words of this woman who had been a patient, loving caregiver for my children since my daughter was 13 months old. I could try to justify my actions, reassert my intentions, and begin the process of finding a new provider for my children. Or I could examine what might have caused her to react uncharacteristically and see if there was a kernel of truth in her chastisement. I chose the latter, and as I sought the Lord, I realized I had allowed the pendulum to swing too far in the direction of love and mercy toward my children. I had used their young ages to excuse their disobedience, believing that if I just loved them enough, they would eventually do what I had asked them to.

Before the Fall

I couldn’t pretend Phyllis’s words hadn’t hurt. They had, deeply. Whether her perception of my parenting was, in actuality true, didn’t matter. What did matter was if I was willing to humble myself and learn from this situation. As the “Good Book” says, “Pride goes before a fall,” and heaven knows, I had already fallen pretty far off the pedestal of perfect parenting that I had set for myself. I certainly couldn’t afford another fall by clinging to my pride and hurt. It was time to acknowledge that the “experts” who write the books may not be the ones to listen to exclusively. Sometimes it is the voiceof experience that deserves our attention.

The next morning, I helped the kids into their car seats and drove the familiar route to Kristen and Timmy’s caregiver, Phyllis. I knew I might not agree at times with advice that might be imparted from her in the future, but I did know that it took a wise and courageous woman to risk challenging me for the good of our family. After all, the word “discipline” comes from the word “disciple,” which means “to learn.” I had been a disciple of Jesus for many years, striving to live His ideals and principles. I had grown to trust Him as I encountered His enduring love again and again in my life. I would accept this discipline now, knowing it was a reflection of His love that wanted the best for not only me but for our family.

Clambering out of the car, the three of us approached the front door when I paused to read once again the wooden hand-carved sign that was perched at eye level: “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” Yes, that was what Phyllis had done. Just as the Lord does for us every day, if we have ears to hear, He “disciplines those He loves.” Jesus, our Teacher, works through those willing to risk rejection for the sake of another person’s good. Surely, Phyllis was striving to follow in His footsteps. Recognizing that this faith-filled woman intended to pass on what she had learned from the Master for my benefit, I knocked on the front door. As it swung open to allow us to enter, so too, did the door of my heart.

Ever heard of a robber who turned into a Saint? Moses the Black was a leader of a band of thieves who attacked, robbed, and murdered travelers in the Egyptian desert. The very mention of his name spread terror in people’s hearts. On one occasion, Moses had to hide in a monastery and was so amazed at the way he was treated by the Monks that he converted and became a monk! But the story doesn’t end there.

Once, four of the robbers of his former band descended upon the cell of Moses. He had lost none of his great physical strength, so he tied them all up. Throwing them over his shoulder, he brought them to the monastery, where he asked the Elders what to do with them. The Elders ordered that they be set free. The robbers, learning that they had chanced upon their former ringleader and that he had dealt kindly with them, followed his example: they repented and became monks. Later, when the rest of the band of robbers heard about the repentance of Moses, they also gave up their thievery and became fervent monks.

After many years of monastic struggles, Moses was ordained deacon. For another fifteen years, he continued his monastic labors. About 75 disciples gathered around the saintly Elder, who had been granted the gifts of wisdom, foresight, and power over demons by the Lord.

Once, a certain brother committed an offense in Scete, the camp of the monks. When a congregation was assembled to decide ‎on this matter, they sent for Abba Moses, but he refused to come. Then they sent the priest of the church to him, imploring, “Come, for all the people are expecting you,” and finally, he responded to their pleas.

Taking a basket with a hole in it‎, he filled it with sand and carried it upon his shoulders. Those who went out to meet him asked, “What ‎does this mean, O Father?” And he replied, “The sands are my sins, which are running down behind me, and I ‎cannot see them. Yet, I have come here today to judge shortcomings that are not mine.” When they heard ‎this, they set that brother free and said nothing further to him.

In the early days of the pandemic lockdown when the only way I could attend Mass was via live stream, I felt something missing…

The  Holy Spirit is ever at work in our hearts, so I should not have been surprised that, amid the worldwide turmoil of the early days of the Covid 19 pandemic, He opened my heart to a fuller experience of the mystical body of Christ.

When I heard the news that churches would be closed along with restaurants, shops, schools, and offices, I reacted in shock and utter disbelief. “How can this be?” Watching the Mass live streamed from our parish was familiar and disorienting at the same time. There was our pastor, proclaiming the Gospel, preaching his homily, consecrating the bread and wine, but the pews were empty. Our voices sounded feeble, and the responses were out of place in our living room. And no wonder. The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us that liturgy “engages the faithful in the new life of the community and involves the ‘conscious, active, and fruitful participation’ of everyone” (CCC 1071). We were participating as best we could, but the community, the everyone, was missing.

Kneeling beside the coffee table at communion time, I read the prayer for spiritual communion that was on the screen, but I was distracted and unsettled. I knew that the consecrated host truly is Jesus’ body and that consuming the Eucharist could unite me with Him and transform me. And I was certain this was not going to happen via live streaming in my living room. The Eucharist, the real presence of Jesus, was profoundly absent.

I knew nothing about making a spiritual communion. The Baltimore Catechism tells me that spiritual communion is for those who have a “real desire to go to Communion when it is impossible to receive sacramentally. The desire obtains for us the graces of Communion in proportion to the strength of the desire.” (Baltimore Catechism, 377) While it was painfully true that it was impossible to receive sacramental communion, I am sorry to say that my desire that morning was merely for the familiar routine. I was distracted, unsettled, and unsatisfied.

The first Sunday gave way to the second and the third, and then Holy Thursday and Good Friday. It had been a singularly dramatic Lent, with so many sacrifices imposed, sacrifices I would not have ever imagined. Sacrifices I accepted a bit too grudgingly. God is good, however, and even my imperfect sacrifices bore some fruit. Instead of focusing on all that was missing from these liturgies, I began thinking about the people who could not attend them even in “normal” times. Nursing home residents. Prisoners. The elderly, the sick, and the disabled were alone. People living in remote places with no priests. For those Catholics, viewing Mass virtually was probably a blessing, a link with Jesus and His Church. I looked forward to attending Mass again soon; they could not.

What was it like for these other Catholics, who could receive the sacraments only occasionally, if at all? They are members of the Church, of Christ’s mystical body, the same as me, yet more substantially separated from a parish community. As I began thinking more about them and less about my own disappointments, I also began praying for them. And during Mass, I began praying with them. In a way, they became my Sunday Mass community, the people surrounding me, at least in my thoughts. Finally, I could settle consciously and actively into the live-streamed Mass. United with the members of the mystical body of Christ, I truly desired union with Jesus, and spiritual Communion became a peaceful, fruitful moment of grace.

Weeks passed, and this new, but not normal, situation extended into the Easter season. One Sunday, after the live-streamed Mass, our pastor announced that a local food pantry was in desperate need. Food donations had been cut off when the churches closed their doors, yet the number of families needing food each week was multiplying. To help, our parish would hold a drive-up food collection on Friday. “The parish has been closed for six weeks,” I thought. “Will anyone come?”

They certainly did. I volunteered to help that Friday, and as I directed drivers to the drop-off site at the back of the parking lot, seeing familiar, grinning faces felt so good. Even better, seeing the donations stacking up, much more than anyone ever expected. Being a part of that food collection was exhilarating; the result, I believe, of the Holy Spirit at work. He had called our scattered parish community into action to be the living Body of Christ caring for those in need. Just as He stirred my personal prayer life to develop a greater unity with the mystical body of Christ, He had revealed Himself at work in our parish community, with a willingness to serve others in need, even when we couldn’t gather together.

Saint Lawrence was one of the seven deacons in charge of giving help to the poor and needy under Pope Sixtus II and was martyred during the persecution of Emperor Valerian in 258.

When persecution broke out, Pope Sixtus was condemned to death. As he was led to execution, Lawrence followed him weeping. “Father, where are you going without your deacon?” he asked.

“I am not leaving you, my son,” answered the Pope. “In three days, you will follow me.” Full of joy, Lawrence gave to the poor the rest of the money he had on hand and even sold expensive vessels to have more to give away.

The Prefect of Rome, a greedy man, thought the Church had a great fortune hidden away. So he ordered Lawrence to bring the Church’s treasure to him. The Saint said he would do it in three days. Then, he went through the city and gathered together all the poor and the sick people who were supported by the Church. When he presented them to the Prefect, he said, “This is the Church’s treasure!”

In great anger, the Prefect condemned Lawrence to a slow, cruel death. The Saint was tied on top of an iron grill over a slow fire that slowly roasted his flesh. But Lawrence was burning with so much love of God that he almost did not feel the flames.

God gave him so much strength and joy that he even joked during this torture. “Turn me over,” he said to the judge. “I’m done on this side!”

Just before he died, Lawrence said, “At last, I am finished.” Then, he prayed that the city of Rome might be converted to Jesus and that the Catholic faith might spread all over the world. After that, he went to receive the martyr’s reward. Today, Saint Lawrence is hailed as the patron saint of the poor due to his legacy of helping the less privileged during his life.

I could make out the head and shoulder of a man with shoulder-length hair, and something spiky above his forehead.

It was late in the evening. I sat in the improvised chapel we had set up for the annual diocesan youth retreat. I was tired. Tired and spent from organizing the weekend, in my role as a youth ministry worker, and additionally from being in the first trimester of pregnancy.

I had volunteered for this hour of Eucharistic Adoration. The opportunity for 24-hour adoration was a huge drawcard of the retreat. It was always edifying to see young people spending time with Our Lord.

But I was tired. I knew that I should spend the time here, and yet, the minutes dragged by. I couldn’t help but scold myself for my lack of faith. Here was I in the presence of Jesus, and I was too tired to do anything but think about how tired I was. I was on autopilot, and I began to wonder if my faith was more than just intellectual. That is a case of what I knew in my mind, not what I knew in my heart.

Turning on a Dime

In retrospect, this shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I’ve always been somewhat academically minded—I love to learn. Reading and discussing the weightier matters of life is something that stirs my soul. Listening to the thoughts and opinions of others always gives me pause to consider or reconsider the world we live in.

It was precisely this love of learning that resulted in my deeper immersion into the Catholic faith. I hesitate to call it a ‘reversion’ because I never left the practice of the faith, but I was certainly a surface-level cradle Catholic.

During my first year after high school, my life’s trajectory turned on a dime. A religious order took over my childhood parish, and their zeal for catechesis and evangelization—in both their homilies and their regular conversations—challenged what I thought I knew about being Catholic.

Soon I was a voracious and curious student of Catholicism. The more I learned, the more I realized I needed to learn. This both humbled and energized me.

I added weekday Masses and regular Adoration and started attending retreats, culminating in attending an international World Youth Day. I reveled in the ceremonies of priestly ordinations, the Mass of the Oils, and so on. More often than not, I attended these on my own.

The Missing Link?

I grew in knowledge of my faith and discerned a call to ministry—through journalism and youth ministry. I changed university degrees, met my now husband, and embarked upon a new vocation, motherhood.

And yet, five years after the genesis of my ‘immersion’, my faith was more academic than practical. The knowledge I had acquired had not yet begun to seep into my soul. I did what needed to be done, but I didn’t ‘feel’ that deep love for God in my heart.

So, there I was. Doing what needed to be done. Worn down by exhaustion, I did what I should have done from the start. I asked Jesus for His help. Help my faith, my love for you, to be real and tangible, I prayed.

The shadows lengthened, and candles flickered on either side of the ornate gold monstrance. I gazed upon Our Lord, trying to keep my mind focused on Him alone.

Basking in His Presence

As the shadows stretched across the monstrance, a picture began to emerge on the right-hand side of the glass panel which sheltered Our Lord. It was like looking at one of those old Victorian profile pictures; shadows created the image of a face in profile.

I could make out the head and shoulder of a man, his head lowered, gazing to the left. Some of the background shadows created indistinct shapes, but there was no doubt that this man had shoulder-length hair and something spiky above his forehead.

It was Him. During His crucifixion. There, on the monstrance, overlapping the Real Presence, was the shadowed profile of My Savior, pouring out His love for me on the Cross.

Rooted in Love

I was so overcome and overawed that I spent more time with Him than scheduled. My tiredness dissipated, and I wanted to bask in His Presence. I can never love Jesus as much as He loves me, but I don’t want Him to ever doubt my love for Him.

On that evening fifteen years ago, Jesus demonstrated a vital truth about our faith: it is not fruitful if it is not rooted securely in the love of Him.

For while it is worthwhile to do things because they are correct, it is infinitely better to do those same things out of love for God. Even when we may not ‘feel’ it.