Paul also viewed his own life through the prism of the Sacred Writings, and it was through the Word that he came to understand his own prophetic calling.  Upon meeting Jesus face to face on the road to Damascus, he straightaway journeyed into Arabia to meditate on the Scriptures so he could understand the encounter he had had with the Risen One.

But when [God], who from my mother’s womb had set me apart and called me through his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son to me, so that I might proclaim him to the Gentiles, I did not immediately consult flesh and blood, nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before me; rather, I went into Arabia, and then returned to Damascus.  Then after three years I went up to Jerusalem. … (Galatians 1:17-18)

The Holy Spirit led Paul into the desert to prepare him for his ministry as an apostle.  And Paul was more than an apostle — he was a prophet, like the other great biblical prophets: Moses, Elijah, John the Baptist.  They all went through a period of preparation and purification in the wilderness (at the urging of the Spirit) before they began their missions.

The Apostle was aware of the divine nature of his calling.  In Galatians 1:15 he portrays himself to be like the prophet Jeremiah, set apart to preach the word of the Lord before he was conceived.

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you, a prophet to the nations I appointed you (Jeremiah 1:5).

Paul was more than a prophet.  His calling by the Lord ordained him to be a missionary to the new people of God.  Returning from Arabia, he stepped across the threshold of the synagogue in Damascus to preach Christ crucified and risen.

In essence, Paul was thinking: What should I do?  Return to my former life in Judaism, as a Pharisee and respected religious leader?  Or should I go into the religious houses of study and worship and proclaim that Jesus is the Son of God?  I could go back to the High Priest in Jerusalem and work things out.  I have committed no unforgiveable offense, did not break the law.  I got ambushed out there on the road and sidetracked in my mission to arrest these men and women who follow the Way.  Caiaphas and Annas will understand.  What should I do?

The Acts of the Apostles reports Saint Paul’s answer to the great question on his mind: “He began at once to proclaim Jesus in the synagogues, that he is the Son of God” (9:20).

What is God promising me?  A life of persecution and mistreatment, of tireless preaching, peril, and temporal hungers, humiliation and persecution.  How can I refuse?

Paul’s answer to his calling, his very own fiat, became the basis for the New Testament, the fundamental theology on which the entire Roman Catholic Church has been constructed.  In that instance when he returned from Arabia to Damascus, Paul straddled his past and his future, even the fate of the world.  This short period is one of the most important moments in history: the conversion of Saul from zealous persecutor of the Church to the Apostle and indefatigable evangelizer.  Paul received religious instruction directly from Jesus, the source of love and life himself.  Now he had only to pay his debt to Christ, to pass on the faith to everyone he met.  He didn’t do this out of fear but out of obligation and out of love.

If I preach the gospel, this is no reason for me to boast, for an obligation has been imposed on me, and woe to me if I do not preach it! (1 Corinthians 16).

Don’t Try This at Home

Fasting isn’t easy; it takes discipline and hard work.  A first-century document called the Didache, or the Teaching of the Apostles, recommends fasting twice a week, on Wednesday and Friday.  Fasting can be as extreme as nothing but bread and water, or it could mean skipping lunch, or foregoing snacks between meals.  What matters is the intent behind the sacrifice.  Are we doing it for us or for Him?

Recently a Florida woman died in her home after a lengthy religious fast.  The Saint Petersburg Times reported that she locked herself in her bedroom and told her husband, a Pentecostal pastor, that she was not to be disturbed.  Nearly a month passed, and when she didn’t come out her family broke into her room but she was dead.  The husband said he and his wife have fasted before, so he didn’t check on her because he wanted to respect her calling to pray and solitude and fasting.  “This is our way of spending time with God,” he told the newspaper.  “People don’t understand if you don’t do it.  She was doing what she loved to go and what she felt God called her to do.”

Not So Fast

During Lent, we undertake penitential practices, forty days in the desert, to fast and pray and resist temptation, to purify ourselves in preparation for the Resurrection.  We are encouraged to make good confessions and to adopt a spirit of contrition as preparation for the Eucharist on Easter.  Lenten purification practices — fasting, works of mercy, almsgiving, prayer— — prepare us to receive the Body and Blood of Christ, who gave himself on the cross that we might life with him in paradise.  For though we have sinned against God, he remains determined to restore us to his friendship.  As the angel does with Elijah, God provides the sustenance for our Lenten journey — the Bread of Life.  But we have to accept his will, and that means going hungry, in our stomachs and even our hearts.  It means accepting our mortality and bearing in mind how we have fallen short when it comes to living the gospel.   That can be a heavy burden to bear.

Remember:  The laws of fasting and abstinence command the faithful to abstain from meat on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.  Fasting is described as the following: to eat one regular-sized meal (preferably at three p.m., the hour of the Lord’s death on the cross) and two small meals according to one’s needs.  The two small meals together must not equal the main meal.  Men and women between the ages of 18-59 are required to make these sacrifices.

Is This Fast Enough?

The call to holiness through fasting has never been abrogated, that is, done away with, by the Catholic Church.  In fact, it has always been how we express contrition, in the hope of restoring our relationship with God.  Pope Paul VI, writing after Vatican II, suggested that fasting should be reflective of our needs and situation.  A misconception about fasting is that it means not eating.  In some cases it does, but there is much flexibility.  Dietary laws are open to interpretation.  Abstinence does mean forgoing certain foods, like meat on Friday, but fasting itself is more about dietary restriction—it is not a diet—than controlled starvation for the sake of spiritual health and penance.

Why go hungry?  The idea of restricting our eating for spiritual purposes today seems at best arcane.  Holy men and women throughout the ages in the Church have always known that fasting is necessary for a fruitful prayer life.  “One does not lie by bread alone but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4; cf Deut 8:3). … Why do it?  Because it is part of our tradition, it’s what makes us Catholic!  It used to be a recognizable sign of our faith, like Jews or Muslims that don’t eat pork.  They could say, “Catholics don’t eat meat on Friday; what a strange religion!”  For us, it is not strange; it’s Tradition with a capital “T.”

Physical desire and weakness simulate our spiritual hunger for the divine fulfillment.  Common sense and moderation are necessary, but so is honesty and sacrifice.  We must follow our hearts.  How far can we go with this?  A lot further than we think but not as further as we hope to.  I doubt I’m going to collapse if I miss a meal but I may just gain more time to prayer because I’m exchanging a knife and a fork for my rosary and breviary.

Stay Hungry

Lent is all about the fast: afflicting our soul through sacrifice.  But it is not just restricting what we eat, and it doesn’t have to end on Holy Thursday.  It means approaching God with a contrite heart and a steadfast spirit (see Psalm 51).  We acknowledge the passing away of the world, as we did a few weeks ago on Ash Wednesday, and our mortality and the ashes traced on our foreheads initiate that pilgrimage.  Remember, the minister said, “Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel,” for “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”   Know anybody who is immortal?

Beware: guard against the leaven of the Pharisees.  That is, we mustn’t draw attention to ourselves and exaggerate our suffering.  Jesus warns us “not to look gloomy like the hypocrites” (Matthew 6:16).  Lenten penance is an inward display of our sorrows to God who reads the character of our souls.  “Penance therefore…  is a religious, personal act which has as its aim love and surrender to God: fasting for the sake of God, not for one’s own self.”

That maxim has been attributed to several people, most notably Solomon, son of King David, from whose dynasty Christ the Lord entered humanity.  The man who repeated the saying to me was an old spiritual director, after I’d gone to him seeking ways to overcome what a Kempis called “the wretched slavery of sin.”   Now I’m feeling the need to look him up again.

Easter is only a month away and I wonder whether I’m going to make it.  Two weeks into Lent and it seems I’ve given up, that my efforts for holiness have been vanquished.  I hardly put up a fight.  Now more than ever I know that there was a devil and that he wants me to quit.

My natural inclination — fight or flight — led me here.  I came to this monastery in the Berkshire Mountain Region in Western Massachusetts for renewal and recovery.  The seminary is on break and I could have gone to Florida or visited a classmate in Washington, D.C., but I wanted to regain momentum lost since Ash Wednesday.  The idea was to prepare for Easter through more prayer and fasting and to become as pure as snow.

Simple, but not easy.  There is more than snow drifted against my door.  God the Father himself said: “Sin is a demon lurking at your door; his urge is toward you, yet you can be his master” (Genesis 4:7).   Maybe that’s what my spiritual director meant.  Satan is here.  I can hear him clawing away.  Nope, false alarm.  That’s just Trooper, the monastery’s Labrador retriever, nosing around because he smells my bacon frying.

I could not have picked a more bucolic site, and the sport utility dog clinches it.  From this mountain I can see the foothills chock full of Americana that artist Normal Rockwell once committed to the covers of The Saturday Evening Post.  Nearby is Mount Greylock, the state’s highest peak, the humpback arching over the horizon that inspired Herman Melville to write Moby Dick.  Maybe I can write my masterpiece up here as well.  Funny, that’s what I planned to do last year.

Nothing comes to mind.  Instead of poetry, an ironic saying leaps into my head: “No matter where you go, there you are.”  Meaning: geographical cures cannot outrun the devil within.  A year ago I visited an abbey in Connecticut.  I drove from Boston through a blizzard for the same reason I’m in the Berkshires: a spiritual drying out, a renewal to lift my spirits during Lent.  For that is my purpose in Lent: to gain a clearer vision of Christ on the cross and to witness the empty sepulcher at Easter.

When I arrived at the abbey I told the abbess of my plans: prayer, fasting, and silence.  I was not to be disturbed.  “Oh, no,” she said.  “We’re an active contemplative order.  Didn’t you read our motto by the entrance?

“Ora et labora?”

“That’s right — pray and work.”

I sighed.  So much for my silent retreat.  I spent the rest of the week shoveling snow and stacking firewood.  The nuns kept me so busy that I forgot why I’d come to the abbey, which was a good thing.  Forced hard labor — “Whoever does not work should not eat” — proved a delightful distraction.  Perhaps I should try that more often.  Instead, this year, I came to a cloister — but the forty-day desert blues have deepened.

When I got off retreat, I went to see my spiritual director, a religious priest from the sixties.

“O, Father,” I cried.  “I can’t stop sinning.  What am I going to do?”

“The easiest way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it,” he said.

Somehow I don’t think that was what the writer of Genesis had in mind.

One of the difficulties of Lent, I think, is the fear that I can’t win.  The Church says that self-mastery is possible, that, with the help of God’s grace we can defeat the devil if we fight hard enough.  I don’t doubt what Mother Church says, but I do underestimate my ability.  Memory and imagination are the devil’s favorite weapons, and I spend too much time dwelling in the surreality of defeat.  Saint Peter once wrote: “Stay sober and alert.  Your opponent the devil is prowling like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.  Resist him, solid in your faith” (1 Peter 5:8).   Live in the solution, not the problem.

Few stories in the Old Testament excite me as does the story of David and Goliath.  The young shepherd David defeats the giant Philistine using a slingshot and a stone.  It is the classic story of good defeating evil, of mercy triumphing over judgment.  By conquering Goliath, David fulfils God’s will for him and his potential.

The story is set at a critical moment in Israel’s history.  The Philistine army is encamped against God’s people, led by a giant warrior in full armor, mocking the Jews, egging them on to battle.  Not even King Saul, the largest man in Israel, will fight Goliath.  Then David, a “mere youth,” volunteers.  The same Lord who delivered him from the claws and jaws of marauding bears and lions will save him from the Philistine.  When Saul offers David his armor, David refuses.  Too clumsy, he says, and I don’t know how to maneuver.  He goes with what he has: a shepherd’s staff, a slingshot, and five stones from the river.

David put his hand into the bag and took out a stone, hurled it with the sling, and struck the Philistine on the forehead.  Thus David overcame the Philistine with a sling and a stone; he struck the Philistine mortally, and did it without a sword. (1 Samuel 17:49-50)

David had confidence in the Lord and he did battle against Goliath with what little he had because he believed that God was with him.  His words to the giant are convincing and powerful: “You come against me with sword and spear and scimitar, but I come against you in the name of the Lord of Hosts. … Today the Lord shall deliver you into my hands; I will strike you down” (1 Samuel 17: 45a, 46a).

Lent is a means to an end.  It is a proving ground to condition ourselves against greater spiritual perils. The battle against temptation never stops.  The sins we fight during Lent won’t vanish by Holy Thursday.   If anything, Satan is plotting to go nuclear.  He isn’t afraid of blue skies, warm breezes, and palm trees, nor does he fear any mountain.

David chose not to wear the king’s armor because it felt cumbersome and unfamiliar.  Instead he stuck with what he knew would work and trusted the Lord would provide whatever he lacked.  David’s victory over Goliath allowed him to fulfill God’s purpose for his life and prepare for the Messiah.  God called David a man after his own heart, and no one knows our hearts like the Lord.

The Bible’s stories are populated with characters who sinned and were forgiven.  God showed mercy on Cain even when Cain rejected forgiveness and spurned God’s advice.  David was chosen by God to govern Israel but he did not lead a charmed life.  He enjoyed the trappings of wealth, fame, and power, but when he sinned he humbly appealed to God who forgave him.  (See 2 Samuel 11—12; Psalm 51).  From a biblical perspective these characters seem larger than life but like us they are human beings created in the image of God.   We must follow their examples. By overcoming temptation, we can awaken the giant within ourselves and defeat our Goliath.

Then I graduated from college and took a job in Florida, where they have no mountains, but I never forgot that cabin.  How could I?  In those days, breakfast was a cup of instant coffee, black, no sugar, and lunch was dry tuna from the can.  Less meant more, and I knew that no matter what happened, that mountain would remain long after I moved on.

On that mountain the sight of the sky overhead gave me a sense of surety that could only come from God.

It is good to have friends in high places.

In the Bible, big things happen on mountains.  God lowers himself and comes down, reaches out to us with the Word.  He speaks with us through his servants the prophets and tells us the way to his heart.  The mountain signifies strength, and it occupies a central place in Old and New Testament traditions.  Even now in the midst of Lent we may look to the summit of God’s holy mountain to strengthen us on our journey through the wilderness of sin and the hope of the resurrection at Easter.  Lent will lead to the Mount of Olives, and then to Calvary.

The mountain is the typical setting of prayer for Jesus.  He goes to Mount Tabor to prepare for the ministry to which he has been called by his Father.   This call from the Spirit (his own) is not arbitrary; he knows exactly what to do and where to go.  Jesus is following the pattern left by Old Testament figures Moses and Elijah, who each encountered God intimately during their respective flights into the wilderness and on mountains.   The less we take with us on our journeys to meet God the better we know him.

Jesus was a learned Jew, familiar with the Old Testament traditions and types that pointed directly at him.  He understood the significance of his heritage because this gave him his identity.   When Jesus returns to the mountain, as he does for his Transfiguration, it is because he wants to be closer to his Father.  The transfiguration happens after the first announcement of his passion and to provide the confirmation that his suffering and death will end in glory.

In depicting Christ in the desert, the Synoptic gospel writers, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, drew upon Old Testament scriptures and traditions.  Jesus becomes the mirror for Israel’s forty-year purification in the desert, following its release from captivity in Egypt.  Exodus 24:18: “Moses passed into the midst of the cloud as he went up on the mountain; and there he stayed forty days and forty nights.”

Moses is an Old Testament type for the Messiah.  He takes the sins of Israel with him to the summit of Mount Sinai, where he fasts and prays the Lord for forgiveness.  God hands down to Moses the Decalogue, a law intended to free the Israelites from the slavery of sin and unite them with their Creator.  Through fasting and prayer Moses sees God—something no man could ever do — in a theophany so profound it transfigures his face.  Yahweh’s glory is an ever-consuming fire.  Moses’ encounter with the Lord on the holy mountain is a prototype for Christian worship.

Four centuries later this tradition deepens and intensifies.  The prophet Elijah is another Old Testament type borrowed by the evangelists from the First Book of Kings to draw a parallel of Jesus’ time in the desert.  Elijah preaches to Israel after war and faction have divided it.  But Elijah first rejects his call to prophecy.  In fact, he is in full flight.  Fearing the vengeful Jezebel after he humiliated the Baal prophets and put them to the sword, he flees into the desert for refuge (1 Kings 19:4).  Not only does Elijah wish to hide from Jezebel, but he wants to hide from God!

The Lord’s purpose will not be undone and he sends his angel to intervene.  The angel supplies Elijah with food and water to strengthen him for his passage to Sinai, which he now accepts.  Only when the prophet hears the “still, small voice” of God in the wind can he receive his commission: to anoint Hazael king of Aram, Jehu king of Israel, and Elisha as his successor.  Elijah’s harrowing journey through the desert provides him clarity, fulfillment, and the discovery and acceptance of his divine calling.

One week into Lent, my spirits are beginning to flag.  Easter still seems so far away, and my sacrifices, such as they are, seem insignificant.  What matters is not what I give up, but with what spirit or intent I sacrifice.  God wants me to commit to his will and remain focused on the Resurrection.  As much as I need a wilderness to travel through, I need the mountain in the background with the glory of the Lord beckoning me to climb higher.

This ‘advent’ of Lent marks the beginning of several weeks of punitive devotions to show ourselves — and God — how disciplined we can be for the sake of his Son’s own passion.  We give up certain (usually edible) favorites between Ash Wednesday and Easter.  While this is not exactly staring down Satan in a rocky desert, each small sacrifice has the potential to unite ourselves more closely with Christ, who endured much temptation and suffering in the wilderness before being baptized into his ministry.

During Lent I like to meditate on Christ in the Desert, the 19^th-Century masterpiece of Russian artist Ivan Kramskoy.  In the painting, Jesus sits on a rock in the wilderness with his hands folded, face gaunt, hair matted, tunic tattered, eyes hollowed with dread.  There is no one with him but the devil, commanding him to turn the stones into bread.  Jesus resists temptation, and the devil flees for a while.

Jesus is human; he knows how we struggle.  Resisting temptation has a higher purpose than giving up cigarettes, chocolate, yelling at the kids, or booze.  The purpose of this sacrificial season is manifold:

1. 1. To prepare ourselves to renew our baptismal promises;
   2. To reaffirm our belief in the Trinity;
   3. Deny Satan;
   4. Recommit ourselves to Christ.

Jesus knows what we go through, because he did it too.  “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who has similarly been tempted in every way, yet without sin” (Hebrews 4:15).  As such, we embark on our journey wilderness with the Master as our guide.  We must abandon ourselves to the will of the Father as he did.

This all leads to metanoia, a conversion of heart intended to make us like Jesus.  To help, the Church offers time-tested traditions, penitential practices used by the pious saints throughout the ages to obtain and maintain a closer, more personal relationship with the Lord.  Prayer, fasting, merciful works (corporal and spiritual), praying with the Bible, frequent confession, the Eucharist — all prepare the faithful to receive the Holy Spirit and the Body and Blood of Christ at Easter.  Taken by themselves, these practices might not seem effective, if even we understand them.  As a whole, however, they have the power to change minds and convert hearts, to heal illnesses, and to free us from the burdened by sin.

Mysterious Origins

The practice of Lent as we know it can be traced back to the Old Testament.  New Testament writers drew upon the earlier Scripture and Tradition to develop a penitential characteristic aimed at helping Christian cleanse their hearts and unite their sufferings with those of Christ on the cross.  Over the past two millennia the season has remained rooted in biblical traditions and popular devotions and its development has crystallized.  Yet its origins remain unclear, despite how firmly ensconced it is in Christendom.

The word “Lent” is derived from the words lencten or lente, Anglo-Saxon for “spring,” and lenctentid, or “springtide.”  The Lenten structure comprises a penitential season that begins on Ash Wednesday and concludes on Holy Thursday with Vespers followed by the Mass of the Last Supper.  The anthropological development has been refined throughout the ages to what we now know as the forty-day period of abstinence, fasting, merciful works, and prayer.  Possible models for the origin and development of Lent are Old Testament figures Moses and Elijah, and the spiritual journey of Christ in the desert.  God brought up the Israelites from slavery by the Egyptians.  Once freed, they underwent a forty-year purification by wandering in the desert where they had been cleansed, in part by the serpent lifted on high (a type of Christ on the cross) and across the Jordan (waters of baptism) into the Promised Land, the New Heaven and Earth promised by God.

Regardless of origin, Lent’s purpose should remain clear: to enter into a state of metabasis, a passing from a state of sin to freedom by grace.  Lent is not a linear journey, but a vertical uplifting in imitation of Jesus’s sojourn in the desert following the break in his anonymity.  He is driven by the Spirit to fast, pray, and resist temptation.

At once the Spirit drove him out into the desert, and he remained in the desert for forty days, tempted by Satan.  He was among wild beasts, and the angels ministered to him (Mark 1:13-14).

Christ in the desert sets the example.  He emerges from his fast hungry to carry out his Father’s plan, “obediently accepting even death — death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:8)  Through sacrifice, obedience, and self-denial, Jesus shows us how to obtain the promise of the Father.  The horror and shame of the cross leads to the glory of the Resurrection.  Penitential practices observed during Lent lead us closer to the Father’s heart and the obtainment of our true vocation.  Who better to follow than the Word of God?

The holy season of Lent is a time of spiritual purification in anticipation of Easter, when we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the ultimate display of God’s sovereignty over death.

Mr. Reznicki was my high school social studies teacher.  He was also a bit of a relationship counselor.  He taught us two things I remember:  The first was about love and marriage.  One day in class the subject of marriage came up and Mr. Rez, as he liked to be known, stated emphatically: You have to marry your best friend . (I hoped he was wrong.  My best friend was the starting lineback on the football team and I was sure I didn’t want to marry him!)

Actually, Mr. Rez was talking about the special love between a husband and a wife necessary for a lifetime commitment to marriage.  This unconditional love is greater than physical attraction or trusting friendship, though these are important.  Marital love is absolute love, a relationship where, with the exception of Jesus Christ, the husband and wife prefer each other’s company to the exclusion of all else.  God created man and woman to support one another unconditionally as husband and and wife in the sacrament of holy matrimony (See Tobit 8:7).

Houses of the Holy

In his first encylclical, Deus Caritas Est , Pope Benedict XVI writes of the "love which God lavishes on us and which we in turn must share with others."  The Holy Father identifies three types of love: eros , or erotic love; philios , or friendship; and agape , unconditional love: the love a parent has for a child, or the love between spouses.  Agape also is the type of love God has for his children, a love so great and far reaching it can never be exhausted.

All three types of love are necessary to sustain a healthy, holy marriage.  But by themselves, eros and philiosagape are insufficient to support a commitment to marriage.  A relationship founded on romantic love alone is like a house built on sand: the waves will come and wash your dreams away.  Mature couples married in the Roman Catholic Church have designed for themselves a future with Christ Jesus as the cornerstone of their dream castle.  Theirs can be a home constructed on a foundation of rock, solid as a mountain that will withstand the wind and the rain. In good times and in bad, in sickness or in health, a marriage built on the unconditional love that is agape is more apt to endure through the difficulties of life, which befall all married couples.  No marriage is perfect — that’s unrealistic — but agape love trusts in the fidelity of God’s promise: the basis of a healthy, happy marriage.

To those who marry God promises the graces that will empower you to be faithful, to keep unselfishly  putting the interests of your spouse and children first, to bear with your spouses weaknesses with the same forgiving love that your heavenly Father gives to you.

Honey – Hurry! – I’m Home!

I didn’t marry my former teammate.  But I do remember something his mother told me years ago.  Her name was Sandy.  I once asked her what being in love was like — real love, not puppy dog infatuation of the pangs of lust.  She had been married to the same man for thirty years.  How did she know it was real?  She said: "After all this time I still get butterflies in my stomach when I hear his car pull in the driveway."

I imagine the joy they find in rediscovering one another day after day.  They are growing old together, yet their love never grows old.

Sandy told me another story.  When they were newlyweds she got pulled over for speeding.  As soon as she rolled down the window she burst into tears. (This brings me to the second lesson I learned in Mr. Rez’s class: if you ever get into a fender-bender, or pulled over, never admit guilt.  Leave the burden of proof on the law.) Well, Sandy didn’t need to plead her case to the cop; she simply told him the truth: "I was speeding," she said,  "because I work first shift, my husband works second shift, and if I didn’t get home I would miss him before he went to work."

How did she and her husband survive those difficult early years of marriage.  Everything seemed to be working against them and yet they persevered in the hope things would get better.  And they did.  It was worth it to endure a relatively short amount of hardship, considering they planned to spend the rest of their lives together.  Sandy and Ramsey committed themselves for life. Sustained by the power of agape love, thirty years later they are still discovering more about one another each day.

Love Everlasting

This agape , this unremitting love that transcends temporal boundaries because the match was made by God in heaven is what Saint Paul writes of in his First Epistle to the Corinthians : love "bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things."  Christian love, agape , characterizes our existence now and forever.  Love never fails in the sense of falling away as do the items of the material world.  When we share our love with the Lord and with one another — as Benedict instructs us to do — it grows from friendship and physical attraction to a spiritual union, as unbreakable as the sacrament of matrimony itself.  The relationship is sealed by God in a covenant, an agreement that cannot be dissolved.

Love never fails.

A young man came out of Appalachia with one goal: to become a millionaire.  He made a deal with the devil but it was the devil who laughed his way to the bank.  In 1929, the stock market crashed and the nation plunged into the great depression.  Family and friends found the man on a bridge, staring into the waters far below, and attempted to talk him down.  “Leave me alone,” he said.  “I’m trying to think.  There is something more important than money, but i can’t remember what it is right now.” 1

His wealth rotted away, he was left with nothing but his bottom dollar.

What the man forgot, or perhaps never knew, was the scriptural perspective on money.

“He who loves money shall never have enough.  O! The foolishness of thinking that wealth brings happiness” (Ecclesiastes 5:10).  That’s the wisdom writer’s version; to put in more plainly:  “Any fool knows you don’t need money to get enjoyment out of life.” 2

Money is a major fact in our lives.  What are we really after?  Peace of mind or to make a buck?  We spend more than a third of our life at work but somehow it still doesn’t add up, and we wonder why we do what we do day after day after day.   There is so much money in the world and even if we had it all in our pockets we still wouldn’t be happy.

Why is that?  Because original sin created a gaping hole in our souls, an emptiness that can only be filled by God.

The futility of money is stated very clearly in places besides Ecclesiastes: income tax figures, and the Bible.  The IRS warns they are going to slap a lien on our life if we don’t get solvent. Scripture warns that riches can destroy a spiritually fruitful life and turn our hearts against our creator. We’re better off listening to the Bible than we are to H&R block.  The Bible contains more than 2,500 references to money, possessions, finances, and the proper and improper use of wealth.  All the words about money in the Bible add up to one common denominator:

Everything we have belongs to God.

That’s the bottom line.

The Epistle of Saint James provides sound financial counsel for the rich and powerful who misuse God’s money.  Time to pony up.  James excoriates his readers-wealthy, unscrupulous landowners-about using their power to obtain profit from the disenfranchised.  “The wages you withheld from the workers who harvested your fields are crying aloud, and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts” (5:4).  Note the old testament theology James uses to decry injustices committed against poor farm workers.  Like Abel, the blood of the workers cries aloud to the Lord who hears their misery and promises retribution.

Now, God does not condemn money, only the misuse of it or the wrong attitude toward how it should be spent.  Many of the godliest people in scripture were very well-to-do: Abraham, job, Barnabas, and King David; all had means and yet they did not let their prosperity interfere with their relationship with the Lord or the work he gave them to help establish God’s kingdom. They are models of good stewardship.  David’s son Solomon prayed for wisdom, received great wealth, then used his fortune to construct the temple, the most impressive structure in the world in ancient times, all to glorify God.

Let us think about how we spend God’s money.  Why not make him our financial adviser?  Who better to help us manage our finances than the Lord?  After all, it’s his money.  Pray to God for the wisdom to know the difference between what we want and what we need.  Let us be content with what we have and allow him provide us with his excellent financial guidance and our own fair share of his bountiful rewards.

If only the man on the bridge hadn’t lost sight that the Lord provides.  He could have pulled out his wallet and read what it says on the back of his bottom dollar bill:  “In God we trust.”

Notes

1. Adapted from Your Money Counts: The Biblical Guide to Earning, Spending, Saving, Investing, Giving, and Getting Out of Debt,” by Howard Dayton. 1996 Crown Financial Ministries Inc.

2. Merton, Thomas.  The Seven Storey Mountain.  New York: Harcourt Brace, 1948, page 4.

After we die, God is going to examine our conscience.  Sharp knife in hand, he will conduct a spiritual post-mortem.  Under the knife, our innermost secrets and thoughts of the heart will be exposed.  The “scalpel” God will use is his Word.

This Word is “living and effective,” says the writer of The Epistle to the Hebrews, “sharper than any two-edged sword, penetrating between soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and able to discern reflections and thoughts of the heart” (4:12).

Think of God as the doctor.  The Soul Doctor.  The Love Doctor.  Whichever.  When we are sick we visit the physician and jot down our symptoms on a clipboard in the waiting room so he can make his diagnosis.  If we’re not honest with the doctor, if we can’t tell him where it hurts, he can’t help us.

It’s the same way with the Word.  We hear the Word of God proclaimed at mass in preparation to receive our Eucharistic Lord.  We must allow ourselves to receive these vital spiritual elements so that our wounds — which Christ bears, ultimately and entirely so we don’t have to — can heal.  Before we receive our medicine we must allow ourselves to be examined.   No surgeon, and certainly no patient, should approach the operating table unprepared.  As such, we must make ready to receive the living Word before we approach with faithful and holy fear the Great Healer and Physician.

The Liturgy of the Word prepares us to receive the Eucharist; the Eucharist fulfills the Word written by God upon hearts.   “The Church has always venerated the Scriptures as she venerates the Lord’s Body.  She never ceases to present to the faithful the bread of life taken from the one table of God’s Word and Christ’s Body” (CCC 102; cf Heb 1:1).

The Word of God is “living” because it is the Word of the Living God.  And it is “active” in the hands of the skillful surgeon, sharper than any two-edged sword.  The instrument that the writer of Hebrews describes is called a machaira (mah-kai-ruh), a small knife precise enough to flense meat and sinews from a stew bone yet strong enough to sheer through a warrior’s bronze helmet.  The machaira also was a symbol of intellectual agility, used by magistrates and judges in the Roman judicial system.  The double-edged sword represented the guile of court officials capable of using both sides of a legal argument to defeat opponents in court.

If a kitchen knife can puncture a bronze helmet, God’s word is certainly sharp and powerful enough to perforate the divide between soul and spirit, elements as close to our essence as are our joints and marrow.  With his scalpel God can perform open-heart surgery and examine our deepest secrets.  There is nothing that can be concealed from God.  “Everything is naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must render an account” (4:13).

God sees the heart and uses his Word to help us see our true spiritual condition (Jer 17:9).  Spend time daily reading the Word and meditating on it, always applying its truths to your heart.  One day we will render an account to God of what we have done with his Word.  We must be faithful.

What sort of magic did he practice?  Saint Luke doesn't tell us directly in his narrative, but Simon was said to have been able to fly and claimed to be immortal.  He succeeded in luring converts away from Christianity and even fooled the Roman Emperor Claudius Caesar into erecting a statue in his honor.  It was from Simon Magus that we derive the term simony, the buying and selling of spirituality, a form of heresy condemned by the Roman Catholic Church, and an offense that earned Simon a place in the eighth circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. 

Jewish law in the Old Testament also forbad the practice of magic: "Do not turn to mediums or wizards; do not seek them out, to be defiled by them: I am the Lord your God" (Leviticus 19:31). 

Why study heresies that purportedly died out two millennia ago?  Because pop culture is rife with gnosticism.  We see it in novels like Christ the Lord Out of Egypt by Ann Rice, which depicts fictional scenes of Jesus' life based on gnostic gospels, and Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code, a runway bestseller that seeks to supplant Church teaching by advancing the unfounded assumption that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene and that they had children.  So what? many say.  It's just a story.  Because people often believe there's truth to a fictional story, especially a wildly-popular novel like Brown's.  "The best fiction is far truer than any nonfiction," novelist William Faulkner used to say, and well he knew the ability of the storyteller to enrapture the people with literary card tricks. 

One of the best ploys is to borrow authority from the Bible by claiming to have located some "lost" part of it, like the "gospel of Judas," an ancient manuscript discovered in Egypt and introduced to the world by National Geographic in 2006.  This "gospel" offered what National Geographic termed "new insights into the disciple who betrayed Jesus."  Religious scholar Bart Ehrman, author of Misquoting Jesus, claimed this discovery would "turn Christianity on its ear."  Unlike the canonical gospels, in which Judas Iscariot is portrayed as a traitor, the gnostic text depicts Judas acting at Jesus's request to hand him over to the authorities for crucifixion.  "Come that I may teach you secrets no person has ever seen," Jesus tells Judas at one point in the story.  Sounds authoritative … sort of.  Hmm, what if that were true? 

Thankfully, modern-day apologists exist to set the record straight; their response to resurgent gnosticism has been swift and severe.  Many fine books have been written to counter The DaVinci Code's claims, like The DaVinci Hoax by Carl Olson and Sandra Miesel.  And biblical scholar N.T. Wright, an Anglican bishop and author of twelve books on Scripture, wrote a definitive refutation of the Judas gospel in which he acknowledged the manuscript's authenticity — not as lost scripture, but as the work of a Gnostic sect.  Christianity has nothing to worry about.  The Church's response to Gnosticism has remained consistent throughout the ages: Gnostic heretics reject the truth and promote falsehoods that lead the people astray. 

Which is the point of Luke's story of Simon Magus in The Acts of the Apostles.  He is purposefully ambiguous in his depiction of the sorcerer's tricks — he doesn't mention the type of wizardry Simon practices — but definitive in his focus on God's salvific action.  Saint Jerome, in his sprawling biblical commentary, notes that Luke in Acts does not focus attention on Simon's magic but rather on the heresy itself, how the other Samaritans worshipped him.  The Evangelist casts Simon in an adversarial role to be conquered by the Gospel. 

A man named Simon used to practice magic in the city and astounded the people of Samaria, claiming to be someone great.  All of them, from the least to the greatest, paid attention to him, saying, "This man is the Power of God that is called Great."  They paid attention to him because he had astounded him with his magic" (Acts 8:9-12). 

The story of Simon is archetypal of the particular challenges First Century believers faced.  As it happens, Saint Luke positions the account at a critical point in Church history: Stephen has just been martyred and his death sets off a new wave of severe persecution (led by Saul of Tarsus) that scatters the Holy Ones throughout Samaria and Judea.  Philip the deacon is sent to minister in Samaria, where he is observed by Simon, who marvels at the power of Philip's preaching.  He witnesses the "great joy in that city" brought about by gospel's ability to cure the sick and drive out demons and allows himself to be baptized.  In fact, Simon doesn't just convert; Luke tells us that he becomes Philip's constant companion.  His intentions, however, are nefarious: he only wants to be a Christian to obtain 'the power of God that is called great.'  He sees the Holy Spirit as a commodity to increase his authority and hold more sway over the people.  Dante held a place for him in his Inferno, along with priests who sold confessions.

Some time later, Peter and John arrive in Samaria, where they pray for the local Church, that the Father might send the Spirit, for as yet the Samaritans have only been baptized with water; they have not received the Holy Spirit (see Acts 8:16).  When Simon sees that the Holy Spirit is conveyed by the laying on of hands, he offers Peter money, which sets off an altercation.  As Luke often does throughout Acts, he draws up their confrontation in a dramatic scene:

"Give me also this power so that anyone on whom I lay my hands may receive the Holy Spirit," silver-tongued Simon says to Peter.

"May your money perish with you because you thought you could obtain God's gift with money!" Peter replies.  "You have no share or part in this, because your heart is not right before God."

In Matthew, Jesus commissions the Twelve Apostles, entreating them to preach the message of repentance and the forgiveness of sins, asking nothing in return.  "Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give" (10:8b).  Peter's response to Simon's heresy holds true to the words our Savior taught us: God alone is the owner and master of the Spirit; grace cannot be purchased; it can only be received as an unmerited gift.

What becomes of Simon Magus?  Gnostic tradition holds he died at Rome after a final confrontation with Peter.  According to "The Acts of Peter," an apocryphal text, a great spiritual battle ensues between them in the forum.  Simon flies through the air until Peter's prayers sap him of his strength and he falls headlong to the ground, where he breaks his legs and thereupon the people rush in and stone him.

They are beautiful. The books are a gift to myself for being accepted to the seminary. Starting in August, I begin priestly studies at Blessed John XXIII National Seminary outside Boston, where I will pray the Liturgy of the Hours with my new prayer books every day.

The Liturgy of the Hours is the official non-sacramental prayer of the Church — it is the prayer of the Church. The breviary, or book that contains the psalms, canticles and antiphons of the liturgy, provides structured prayer, meditation, and reflection at regular intervals throughout the day.

From its inception, the Roman Catholic Church has held the custom of celebrating daily the Liturgy of the Hours, thereby fulfilling Christ's precept to "pray without ceasing", and offering praise to the Father who intercedes for the salvation of the world.

A priest (or a potential one for that matter) is called to be a man of prayer. Clerics are mandated to remain faithful to prayer and service of the Word. In fact, they make that promise to the bishop when they are ordained. By praying the Divine Office, presbyters and deacons demonstrate fidelity to the liturgy before the faithful needing spiritual direction.

The Liturgy of the Hours is not just for the clergy; it was crafted for the entire people of God, so Christ may continue His priestly ministry within us and claim us as his own. All His people can participate in these prayers, thereby harmonizing our voices in praise to God in one accord.

In its coverage of world affairs, the media frequently note that Muslims pray five times a day. Television footage often displays rows of men kneeling on rugs and bowed in prayer. While that may be true for many devout practitioners of Islam, I would contend that the vast majority of Muslims, like Christians, are not so faithful. Daily concerns like earning a living to support a family can override a prayerful spirit. Christian prayer is structured so that we can — and should — worship seven times a day, and I'm not even counting the Rosary, the Regina Caeli or the Angelus.

The liturgy also serves as the antidote for our increasingly secular world. I commit to the Divine Office because the practice anchors me in the reality of the Church and extends the Most Holy Sacrifice of the Altar — a perpetual spiritual experience with the Eucharist. Daily I take up my thick, black book, running my fingers over the words embossed on its onionskin pages laminated in gold, delighting in these ancient rhythms, poems spiritual author Thomas Merton called "the Church's perfect prayers."

In the 60s, the recitation of the Hours among the common priesthood was brought back into practice by the Second Vatican Council. Earlier in the century, Pope Pius XII, writing in his 1947 encyclical, Mediator Dei, proposed that these prayers unite us with the mind of Christ and transcend the boundaries of time. He wrote: "The Word of God, when he assumed a human nature, introduced into this land of exile the hymn that in heaven is sung throughout all ages."

By his Word, the Lord unites us with Himself and each other by singing these divine canticles composed in eternity. Think of it like this: Because of time zone differences, Catholics around the world are praying the Liturgy of the Hours at every moment, meaning that, by their recitation, each moment — all time — is sanctified. The world belongs to God.

In his Confessions, Saint Augustine of Hippo reflected on how hearing the Liturgy the first time brought him to tears. "How I wept when I heard your hymns and canticles, being deeply moved by the sweet singing of the Church."

The Liturgy of the Hours is truly the prayer of the Roman Catholic Church. It is the Lord's gift to bishops, priests, deacons, and the religious, indeed, all God's people, and should be undertaken every day to maintain a prayerful spirit, an expression of gratitude to the One who gives rich rewards to all.