You are Not Alone

It was a stormy night. Sister Faustina bowed her face to the ground and prayed the Litany of the Saints. Toward the end of the Litany, such drowsiness overcame her that she couldn’t finish the prayer. She immediately got up and prayed, “Jesus, calm the storm, for Your child is unable to pray any longer, and I am heavy with sleep.” With these words, she threw the window open, not even securing it with hooks. Sister Fabiola said to her, “Sister, what are you doing!? The wind will surely tear the window loose!” But Sister Faustina asked her to sleep in peace. At once, the storm completely subsided. The next day, the sisters were talking about the sudden calming of the storm, not knowing what had really happened. And Sister Faustina thought to herself: “Only Jesus and Faustina know what it means…” Such was the trust Saint Faustina had in Jesus. No wonder He appeared to her and gave her the mission of Divine Mercy for the whole world, with the instruction to inscribe the words: “JESUS I TRUST IN YOU.” She abandoned herself to Him completely, just like a child. Once, during Holy Mass, she had a miraculous vision. Jesus appeared as a one-year-old child and asked her to take Him in her arms. When she had taken Him in her arms, Infant Jesus cuddled up close to her bosom and said, “It is good for Me to be close to your heart…because I want to teach you spiritual childhood. I want you to be very little because when you are little, I carry you close to My Heart, just as you are holding Me close to your heart right now." Spiritual childhood is often misunderstood as naïveté or excessive sentimentality. However, it involves a total surrender to our heavenly Father's providential care—total abandonment of our own plans, opinions, and self-will—and a radical trust in God. Can we, too, ask God to give us the grace to accept—like a little child—all that He asks of us in this life? As we do, can we trust, like Saint Faustina, that the Lord will not abandon us, even for a moment?

Anyone even vaguely acquainted with my work knows that I advocate vigorous arguments on behalf of religious truth. I have long called for a revival in what is classically known as apologetics, the defense of the claims of faith against skeptical opponents. And I have repeatedly weighed in against a dumbed-down Catholicism. Also, I have, for many years, emphasized the importance of beauty in the service of evangelization. The Sistine Chapel Ceiling, the Sainte Chapelle, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion, T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, and the Cathedral of Chartres all have extraordinary convincing power, in many ways surpassing that of formal arguments. So I affirm the path of truth and the path of beauty. But I also recommend, as a means of propagating the faith, the third of the transcendentals, namely, the good. Moral rectitude, the concrete living out of the Christian way, especially when it is done in a heroic manner, can move even the most hardened unbeliever to faith, and the truth of this principle has been proven again and again over the centuries. In the earliest days of the Christian movement, when both Jews and Greeks looked upon the nascent faith as either scandalous or irrational, it was the moral goodness of the followers of Jesus that brought many to belief. The Church father Tertullian conveyed the wondering pagan reaction to the early Church in his famous adage: “How these Christians love one another!” At a time when the exposure of malformed infants was commonplace, when the poor and the sick were often left to their own devices, and when murderous revenge was a matter of course, the early Christians cared for unwanted babies, gave succor to the sick and the dying, and endeavored to forgive the persecutors of the faith. And this goodness extended not simply to their own brothers and sisters but, astonishingly, to outsiders and to enemies. This peculiarly excessive form of moral decency convinced many people that something strange was afoot among these disciples of Jesus, something splendid and rare. It compelled them to take a deeper look. During the cultural and political chaos following the collapse of the Roman Empire, certain spiritual athletes took to the caves, deserts, and hills in order to live a radical form of the Christian life. From these early ascetics, monasticism emerged, a spiritual movement that led, in time, to the re-civilization of Europe. What so many found fascinating was the sheer intensity of the monks’ commitment, their embrace of poverty, and their blithe trust in divine providence. Once again, it was the living out of the Gospel ideal that proved convincing. Something similar unfolded in the thirteenth century, a time of significant corruption in the Church, especially among the clergy. Francis, Dominic, and their confreres inaugurated the mendicant orders, which is just a fancy way of saying the begging orders. The trust, simplicity, service to the poor, and moral innocence of the Dominicans and Franciscans produced a revolution in the Church and effectively re-evangelized armies of Christians who had grown slack and indifferent in their faith. And we find the same dynamic in our time. John Paul II was the second most powerful evangelist of the twentieth century, but unquestionably the first was a woman who never wrote a major work of theology or apologetics, who never engaged skeptics in public debate, and who never produced a beautiful work of religious art. I’m speaking, of course, of St. Teresa of Kolkata. No one in the last one hundred years propagated the Christian faith more effectively than a simple nun who lived in utter poverty and who dedicated herself to the service of the most neglected people in our society. There is a wonderful story told of a young man named Gregory, who came to the great Origen of Alexandria in order to learn the fundamentals of Christian doctrine. Origen said to him, “First come and share the life of our community and then you will understand our dogma.” The youthful Gregory took that advice, came in time to embrace the Christian faith in its fullness, and is now known to history as St. Gregory the Wonderworker. Something of the same impulse lay behind Gerard Manley Hopkins’s word to a confrere who was struggling to accept the truths of Christianity. The Jesuit poet did not instruct his colleague to read a book or consult an argument but rather, “Give alms.” The living of the Christian thing has persuasive power. We have been passing through one of the darkest chapters in recent Church history. The clerical sex abuse scandals have chased countless people away from Catholicism, and a secularist tide continues to rise, especially among the young. My mentor, the late great Cardinal George, surveying this scene, used to say, “I’m looking for the orders; I’m looking for the movements.” He meant, I think that in times of crisis, the Holy Spirit tends to raise up men and women outstanding in holiness who endeavor to live out the Gospel in a radical and public way. Once again, I’m convinced that, at this moment, we need good arguments, but I’m even more convinced that we need saints.

Do you know the first martyr who preferred to die rather than to reveal the secret of confession? In 14th-century Prague, there lived Father John Nepomucene, who was a famous preacher. As his fame spread, King Wenceslaus IV invited him to the court to settle arguments and take care of the needs of the people in the city. He eventually became the queen’s confessor, spiritually guiding her to patiently bear the cross of the King’s cruelty. One day, the King, who was infamous for his outbursts of anger and jealousy, called the priest into his chambers and started questioning him about the queen’s confessions. Father John refused to reveal the confession secrets despite the King’s attempted bribes and torture; consequently, he was imprisoned. The King kept coercing him, and even offered him riches and honor in return. When he saw that bribery wouldn’t work, he threatened the priest with the death penalty. Father John was made to undergo all manner of torture, including the burning of his sides with torches, but even that would not move him. Finally, the King ordered him to be put in chains, led through the city with a block of wood in his mouth, and to be thrown from Charles Bridge (the Karlsbrücke) into the river Moldau. The saint's response remained the same and he exclaimed: “I will rather die a thousand times.” The King’s cruel order was executed on March 20, 1393. The body of John of Nepomuk was thereafter drawn out of the Moldau and entombed in the Cathedral of Prague. In 1719, when his grave in the cathedral was opened, his tongue was found to be uncorrupted though shriveled. He was canonized by Pope Benedict XIII in 1729. Often pictured near a bridge with a finger to his lips and with five stars over his head, it is believed that on the night Father John was murdered, five stars were seen over the spot where he drowned. For his valiant act of faithfulness to the confessional norms, Father John Nepomucene is considered as the patron saint of confessors.

Saint John Bosco, in addition to the many spiritual gifts he was graced with, often had dreams that revealed heavenly messages. In one of those dreams, he was taken to a meadow alongside the playground and shown an enormous snake coiled in the grass. Frightened, he wanted to run off, but the person who accompanied him held him back, asking him to get closer and take a good look. John was afraid, but his companion encouraged him to keep going, handed him a rope, and asked him to slap the snake with it. Hesitantly, John snapped the rope across its back, but as it sprang up, the snake got ensnared in the rope that had taken the shape of a noose. It struggled for a bit and died quickly. His companion took the rope and put it in a box; upon opening the box a few minutes later, John saw that the rope had shaped itself into the words “Ave Maria.” The snake, a symbol of the devil, was defeated, destroyed by the power of “Ave Maria” or “Hail Mary.” If a single Hail Mary can do that, imagine the power of the Rosary! John Bosco took the lesson to heart and even received further confirmation of his trust in Mary’s intercession. After the death of his dear student Dominic Savio, the saint had a vision of him in heavenly garb; this humble teacher asked the child saint what was his greatest consolation at the time of death. And he answered: “What comforted me the most at the moment of death was the aid of the mighty and lovable Mother of the Savior, Mary Most Holy. Tell this to your young people that they should not forget to pray to her as long as they live!” Saint John Bosco later wrote, “Let us devoutly say a Hail Mary whenever we are tempted, and we’ll be sure to win.”

People are often surprised when I tell them that my closest friend at the monastery is Fr. Philip, who happens to be 94. He being the oldest monk of the community, and me being the youngest, make quite the duo; another fellow monk affectionately refers to us as the “alpha and omega.” In addition to our discrepancy in age, there are numerous differences between us. Fr. Philip served in the Coast Guard before entering the monastery, studied Botany and English, has lived in Rome and Rwanda, and is fluent in several languages. In short, he has much more life experience than me. That said, we do share some things in common: we’re both California natives and converts from Protestantism (he Presbyterian and me Baptist). We enjoy opera immensely, and more importantly, we lead a life of prayer together. It is only natural to select friends who share our common interests. But as we get older and our situations in life transition, we find ourselves losing some friends while gaining new ones. Aristotle says that all friendships must share something in common. Enduring friendships are those that share long-lasting things. For example, friendship between two surfers persists as long as there are waves to be caught. However, if there is no swell or if one surfer gets injured and can no longer paddle out, the friendship will fade unless they find something new to share. Therefore, if we wish to have lifelong friends, the key is to find something that can be shared for a lifetime, or better yet, eternity. The high priest, Caiaphas, accused Jesus of blasphemy when He claimed to be the Son of God. Far more blasphemous than this statement was when Jesus told His disciples, “You are my friends.” For what could the Son of God have in common with fishermen, a tax collector, and a zealot? What can God possibly have in common with us? He is much older than we are. He has more life experience. He is both Alpha and Omega. Whatever we share in common must have been given to us by Him in the first place. Among the many gifts He shares with us, Scripture is explicit about which lasts the longest: “His steadfast love endures forever.” “Love…endures all things.” “Love never ends.” As it turns out, being friends with God is quite simple. All we have to do is “love because He first loved us.”

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.’

When your soul is exhausted and you don’t know how to calm your mind… You might be familiar with how Saint Francis of Assisi once asked: “Who are You, Lord my God, and who am I?” He raised his hands in the offering, and from them rose a golden ball as he said: “Lord God, I am nothing, but all of it is Yours.” I first heard this story on a silent retreat where we were tasked to contemplate the same question: Who are You, Lord my God, and who am I? In the chapel, before the Blessed Sacrament, I fell to my knees and prayed that prayer. God revealed my heart to me, covered in layers of old blood-soaked bandages, wounded and hardened. Over the years, I had built barriers around my heart to protect it. In that chapel, I realized I couldn’t heal myself; I needed God to rescue me. I cried to Him: “I don’t have a golden ball to give; all I have is my wounded heart!” I felt God reply: “My beloved daughter, that IS the golden ball. I will take it.” In tears, I mimed, pulling my heart from my chest, and raised my hands in offering, saying: “Lord God, I am nothing, but all of it is Yours.” I was overcome with His presence, and I knew I was completely healed of an affliction that had held me in bondage for most of my life. On the wall beside me, I noticed a copy of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son, and immediately I felt that my Father had welcomed me home. I was the prodigal daughter returned in poverty and distress, feeling unworthy and repentant, whom He received tenderly as His daughter. Often, our worldly understanding of love limits our understanding of what God can do for us. Human love, no matter how well-intentioned, is conditional. But God’s love is unfailing and extravagant! God is never outdone in generosity; He will not hold back His affection. Pride or fear makes us offer God only the best of ourselves, which prevents Him from transforming the parts we devalue. To receive His healing, we must surrender everything to Him and let Him decide how He will transform us. God’s healing is often unexpected. It requires our full trust. Therefore, we should listen to God, who wants the absolute best for us. Hearing God starts when we surrender everything to Him. By placing God first in our lives, we begin to cooperate with Him. God wants our whole selves—the good, the bad, and the ugly because He wants to transform these dark places with His healing light. God waits patiently for us to find Him in our littleness and brokenness. Let us run to God and embrace Him like lost children returning home to their Father, knowing He will receive us with open arms. We can pray like Francis: “Lord God, I am nothing, but all of it is Yours,” trusting that He will consume us with transforming fire and say: “I will take all of it and make you brand new.”

At half past six, when it was still pitch dark and freezing cold, Joshua Glicklich heard a whisper, a whisper that brought him back to life. My upbringing was very typical like that of any northern lad here in the United Kingdom. I went to a Catholic school and had my first Holy Communion. I was taught the Catholic faith, and we went to Church very often. By the time I got to the age of 16, I had to choose my education, and I chose to do my levels, not at a Catholic sixth form, but at a secular school. That is when I started to lose my faith. The constant pushing of the teachers and priests to deepen my faith and love of God was no longer there. I ended up at university, and this is where my faith was really tested. In my first semester, I was partying, going to all these different events, and not making the best choices. I made some really big mistakes--like going out drinking until God knows what time in the morning and living a life that didn’t make any sense. That January, when students had to return from their first-semester break, I returned a bit earlier than everyone else. That unforgettable day in my life, I woke up at about half past six in the morning. It was pitch black and freezing cold. Even the foxes that I used to see outside my room weren’t to be seen—it was that cold and horrible. I perceived an inaudible voice within me. It wasn’t a nudge or a push that was uncomfortable for me. It felt like a quiet whisper of God saying, “Joshua, I love you. You are my son … come back to me.” I could have easily walked away from that and totally ignored it. Yet I remembered that God does not abandon His children, no matter how far we have strayed. Though it was raining hailstones, I walked to Church that morning. As I put one foot in front of the other, I thought to myself, “What am I doing? Where am I going?” Yet God kept moving me forward, and I arrived at the church for the eight o’clock Mass on that cold, wintry day. For the first time since I was about 15 or 16, I let the words of the Mass wash over me. I heard the Sanctus— “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of hosts.” Just before that, the priest said, “Joining with the choirs of the angels and the saints…” I put my heart into it and focused. I sensed angels descending on the altar to the real presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist. I remember receiving the Holy Eucharist and thinking, “Where have I been, and what has all of this been about if not for Him?” As I received the Eucharist, a flood of tears overcame me. I realized that I was receiving the body of Christ. He was there within me, and I was His tabernacle—His resting place. From then on, I began to attend student Mass regularly. I met many Catholics who loved their faith. I often remember the quote by Saint Catherine of Siena, “Be who God meant you to be, and you will set the world on fire.” That’s what I saw in these students. I saw the Lord letting these people be who they were meant to be. God guided them gently like a Father. They were setting the world on fire—they were evangelizing by making their faith known to others on campus, sharing the Good News. I wanted to get involved, so I became part of the university chaplaincy. During this time, I learned to love my faith and to express it to others in a way that wasn’t overbearing but Christ-like. A few years later, I became the president of the Catholic Society. I had the privilege of leading a group of students in their faith development. During this time, my faith grew. I became an altar server. That’s when I got to know Christ—being up close to the altar. The priest says the words of transubstantiation, and the bread and wine turn into the true Body and Blood of Christ. As an altar server, all of this was right there in front of me. My eyes were opened to the absolute miracle that happens everywhere, at every Mass, on every altar. God respects our free will and the journey of life we take. However, to reach the right destination, we have to choose Him. Remember that no matter how far we have strayed away from God, He is always there with us, walking right beside us and guiding us to the right place. We are nothing but pilgrims on a journey to Heaven.

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.