Journey to Bethlehem

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Scripture and our imaginations give us an image of Joseph and a pregnant Mary setting out on foot from Nazareth to travel to Bethlehem. Perhaps they brought a donkey along for Mary to ride as the road became more treacherous.

In fact, that road winds for considerable distance around dusty mountains as it ascends into the Judean highlands, where the town of Bethlehem stands perched on a cliffside. (I sure hope Mary did have that donkey.)

Today pilgrims ride the bus. In 1997, when I made my first visit to the Church of the Nativity, we traveled urban highways without obstacle, straight to an underground parking garage in Bethlehem.

In 2012, when I made my last visit, we were stopped at a passport checkpoint for almost an hour, while armed soldiers determined whether we should be permitted to pass into Palestine. This ritual was repeated as we returned to Jerusalem in Israel.

The journey to Bethlehem has never been easy.

Consider the Three Kings who traveled for months to pay their homage to the Christ Child. They did have animal transport, of course: camels, creatures that are reputed to be even more stubborn than donkeys.

Perhaps the most important journey to Bethlehem involves a sometimes-frightening walk down a church aisle with “everybody watching.” This trip is performed annually by small children dressed in outlandish costumes; a few of them might manage to enjoy the experience, but I suspect those are probably the exceptions. No, it’s us, their parents and grandparents who relish—in fact, insist upon—this yearly spectacle.

For more than a decade my fellow catechists and I joined forces to organize a typical extravaganza specifically for our public-school religious education children. Our students were not going to suffer because, for a variety of reasons, they did not attend Catholic schools! We would present our own Christmas pageant for the parish, no matter what it required.

In Matthew’s Nativity story, there is little mention of Mary; his focus is on Joseph. Aside from speaking to Joseph in his dreams, angels don’t appear, either (certainly not to shepherds in the fields). Joseph’s vital decisions, and important conversations the Three Kings hold with King Herod, drive the action in Matthew’s Gospel.

We know the angelic chorus and the shepherds from Luke’s Gospel, written much later in historical time. The Annunciation, the Visitation, a heavenly host of angels, and shepherds who keep watch over their flocks appear only in the Gospel of Luke. In Luke’s narrative, the Three Kings are notably absent. Neither Mark nor John offers a comparable birth narrative.

But the tradition endures.

At the Church of the Nativity, they tell pilgrims that there were once pictures of the Three Kings painted on its exterior walls. When Ottoman Turks swept through the Holy Land destroying Christian holy sites, this birthplace of Jesus was not razed. The invaders recognized their own faces in those mural portraits and spared the shrine.

For that reason, the precise site of Jesus’ birth is relatively more certain than many other Christian monuments in the Holy Land.

We often were told, “This may not be the exact spot where it happened. But it was somewhere very close by. These stories have been handed down, generation after generation, by families who still live right here today.” That’s the reason we love our Christmas pageants, too. They’ve been passed down in our families as part of our religious heritage. They may mingle different gospel stories; they may create a lot of extra work; they may drive sensitive elderly pastors crazy with their noise and chaos; but they are metaphors for something sacred that we all cherish.

One Advent, several years ago, I stood in a crowded church with a long line of people. We were all waiting to see a popular confessor when, ahead of me, I noticed three energetic teenage boys. They bounced on their feet as they waited and traded playful punches in the shoulder. Behind them, right in front of me, stood a teenage girl who had brought the boys with her into the church. I had watched her organize them into their current semblance of order with a charming personality that matched her physical beauty.

I kept thinking, “She looks so familiar.”

Finally, I touched her arm. “Forgive me. I think I might know you, but I don’t remember your name.”

She gave me a sweet smile and said, “I remember you. I’ll never forget the person who gave me my first Rosary. You cast me as Mary for the Christmas pageant in second grade.”

It matters how we travel.

May your journey to Bethlehem this Advent be blessed.

 

Copyright 2022, Margaret Zacharias

A Heart Story

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A Heart Story

Remember the blessings

I had heart surgery when I was four years old. The only things that I remember about this event are going to the hospital and taking a sip of the anesthesia. My parents have a better memory about my heart surgery. It was a scary time for them.

My heart surgery was thirty years ago, around Halloween. My parents kept track of this event. Each year they read the story aloud, reliving the emotions and touching memories. The main things that stuck in their minds were the blessings.

They remember how God strengthened us during this emotional roller coaster. They remember the people who encouraged us, comforted us, giving me gifts, and making meals. These simple blessings helped us in a variety of ways.

Acts of thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is coming! As we gather around the table and eat a nice piece of pumpkin pie (with cool whip on top), remember the graces God has bestowed on us this year.

Remember your blessings out loud together as a family. Write them down in your journal, or on a piece of paper. Put the thankful list in a place so that you can glance at it every day.

Being thankful helps us forget the hardships in life.

Psalms of praise

The book of Psalms is a wonderful example of gratitude! King David reminds us again and again to be thankful. To give praise to God, putting our hope and trust in him. To sing his blessings day after day.

Examples

Here are a couple of Psalms that mention praise and blessings.

Psalm 18: 1-3. I love you O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliver, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies.

Psalm 21: 3. For you meet him with goodly blessings; you set a crown of fine gold on his head.

These verses remind us that God is with us. He protects us in times of temptation. He guides us each day. He helps us in every situation. He loves us.

Are you struggling with something today?

God understands. He is nearby, taking care of you. He knows your fears, hopes, joys, and sorrows. He is waiting for you to come to him. You are his precious child.

Concluding thought:

As we prepare our Thanksgiving meals, remind yourself of the blessings and favors that you have received this year. The friends and family members who encouraged you, and those who helped you in both the good and bad times.

Tell God thank you for bringing these people into your life.

 

Copyright 2022 Angela Lano

The Path Late Taken

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The Path Late Taken

“Thy word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”  Psalm 119:105

I am one of those people who let life happen to me rather than setting an intentional course for my life.  But it is never too late to learn. As I look back over the years, I now see where turning to God for guidance through prayer and scripture at a young age might have led me to different destinations. No regrets. I wandered where I did and in the process of getting lost and finding my way back, I learned ask for and seek God’s light on all my paths. He is the lamp by which I write.

I have been writing since childhood. When high school rolled around, like most kids, I considered what I might want to do with my life. Journalism sounded appealing as I joined the school newspaper, but so did Library Science – a means to be immersed in a world of books. I thought about majoring in English.

It turned out; I became a nurse. My parents advised I’d always be able to find work. The manager at my first job said I would make a great nurse. I had two partial scholarships: one to Rosary College in Chicago where there was a library science program and one to Barry College in Miami where I had every intention on majoring in English. When an uncle told me Chicago was so cold in the winter, students walked through underground tunnels to get to classes, I swayed toward staying in Florida with the sun and beaches. The safe path.

At orientation, along with the crowd of freshmen being directed to meeting rooms, “English majors over here,” “Nursing majors, this way.”  I heard the voices of people I loved and respected and headed in the direction for Nursing.  It was the early seventies when there was a glut of teachers and jobs were hard to find.  The hasty detour.

In that split second decision, at age seventeen, I set the course for my life over the next twenty or so years. I lost sight of a few important road signs.  Number one, I loved words. Would I love tending to the human body and its maladies as much? I forgot about an impressionable moment in senior advanced English creative writing class with the editor of The Liguorian, a popular Catholic magazine.

The priest who talked with our class about writing, did so with a smelly brown cigar, wafting smoke into my brain pushing out any ability to hear or comprehend what he was saying.  I vividly remember after more than fifty years the growing ash at the tip of his cigar, teetering, clearly close to dropping on the linoleum floor.  Did he not notice? Didn’t anyone notice?  Were they so engrossed in his lecture or so not bothered by the odor that they ignored the possibility of a soon-to-be- scorched floor or possibly even a fire?

Behind him the jalousie windows were closed.  I couldn’t wait any longer and politely got up and turned the handle on the glass louvers, pointing out that now he could tap his cigar outside.  Oh, the fresh air! I forgave his odorous affront when he promptly told the class, “Now there is a good writer.”  Why did I not remember his statement during freshman orientation day? Again, no regrets, just a reminder to myself to look for the lamp to light my way.

So here I am more than fifty years later, writing. The path between college and retirement included stops as a Navy nurse and a long stint in the insurance industry with small detours down the creative writing alley. As retirement draws near, I’m paying closer attention to the road signs leading me to my dream of being a writer. As for that priest, I don’t remember anymore the smell of his cigar or even one word of his lecture, but I cling tightly to his singular statement, “Now there’s a good writer.” I’ll leave it to you to decide if I’m a good one or not. It’s never too late.

Copyright 2022 by Paula Veloso Babadi

Who Are the “Scribes and Pharisees?”

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Who Are the “Scribes and Pharisees?”

By the grace of God, I was able to travel to Germany and attend the 2022 Oberammergau Passion Play. I learned why most people blessed with this opportunity can afterwards only murmur, “It was a privilege.”

The experience was truly beyond words. Try, for example, to describe what you feel at the moment of Eucharistic consecration?

But there are a few insights that I think I can articulate. I’ll pass over the incredible chill of an outdoor theater high in the Alps. I won’t waste words to confirm that every villager in Oberammergau, from babes in arms to tottering elders, has indeed been focused on this reenactment of the Passion of Christ, as their personal act of worship, for the past 388 years.

It was like stepping into a time travel machine. In the audience, we felt almost a part of the action, 2,000 years ago on the surging streets of Jerusalem.

But who were “the scribes and the pharisees?”

When we hear this phrase read from scripture at mass, it’s all too easy to think, “Jesus, good. Scribes and pharisees, bad.”

At the 2022 performance, these gentlemen were portrayed as dignified representatives of an ancient religious tradition, caught in an impossible trap by politics of the Roman Empire.

Yes, a few simply dismissed Jesus’ words. But many tried to listen and understand. They stood in groups gathered all across the stage, discussing the new ideas with one another, getting angry, shrugging, stomping away, and returning to debate some more. I couldn’t help but feel that’s really the way it must have been.

Jesus was a 33-year-old man, trying to articulate a new revelation in human language. The scribes and pharisees, who were attempting to take it in, did not share one understanding, nor were they of one mind about what they should do.

The brilliant actor who portrayed Jesus also found the fine edge. I was fully aware of him as our Divine Savior, and that he knew exactly what the consequences of his words and actions would be. But he was also a young man debating theology with his elders in exactly the tempestuous manner that impassioned young human adults tend to use. As our faith teaches us, he was God and human, at the same time in one person.

We live in an era when we are called to raise our consciousness about the different ways we assign people into categories, and then speak as though a category label describes every individual.

This was my third trip to the country of Germany. I’ve admired their religious monuments in cities, villages, and fields; prayed with the people at mass; felt awe and wonder at their abiding faith. That faith has sustained generation after generation of German Catholics through all that they have endured.

We speak too easily in North America about “Germans” as synonymous with “Nazis.”

What if fate had placed you in 20th century Germany, to live the most important stages of your life through two world wars, and under the sway of the Third Reich? How would you have faced the moral challenges? What destiny would you have chosen within a fate you could not escape?

We’ve forgotten that Adolph Hitler hated Catholics as much as he hated the Jewish people; forgotten the martyrs who died terrible deaths to defend their vision of Germany.

Contemporary literary fiction is replete with tales of Nazi-resistance movements in France, England, Denmark, Italy, and Holland.

But the full depth and breadth of Nazi-resistance movements within Germany itself – encompassing laborers, mothers, altar boys, laundresses, aristocrats, Protestant clergy, Catholic priests, members of religious orders, and even rebel German Air Force officers — have been brought forward only in the 21st century.

On this first Saturday of November, I offer a short list of good books about the German resistance to the Third Reich.

  • Von Moltke, Helmuth and Freya, translated by Shelley Frisch, Last Letters: The Prison Correspondence, September 1944-January 1945, New York: New York Review of Books, 2019; Editors’ Introduction copyright 2019 by Helmuth Caspar von Moltke, Dorothea von Moltke, and Johannes von Moltke.
  • Utrecht, Daniel of the Oratory, The Lion of Munster: The Bishop Who Roared Against Hitler, Charlotte, N.C.: Tan Books, 2016.
  • Riebling, Mark, Church of Spies: The Pope’s Secret War Against Hitler, New York: Basic Books, 2015.
  • Zeller, Guillaume, translated by Michael J. Miller, The Priest Barracks: Dachau, 1938-1945,San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2015
  • Rychlak, Ronald J., Hitler, the War, and the Pope, Huntington, IN: Our Sunday Visitor Publishing Division, 2010.
  • Rabbi David G. Dalin, The Myth of Hitler’s Pope: How Pope Pius XII Rescued Jews from the Nazis, Washington, D.C.: Regnery Press, 2005.
  • Lapomarda, Vincent A., The Jesuits and the Third Reich, Second Edition, Lampeter, Ceredigion, Wales, United Kingdom: The Edwin Mellen Press, Ltd, 2005.
  • Anonymous, The Persecution of the Catholic Church in the Third Reich: Facts and Documents, Gretna, LA: Pelican Publishing Company, 2003.
  • Coady, Mary Frances, With Bound Hands, A Jesuit in Nazi Germany: The Life and Prison Letters of Alfred Delp, Chicago: Loyola Press, 2003.
  • Goldmann, O.F.M., Gereon Karl, The Shadow of His Wings, translated by Benedict Leutenegger, San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000.
  • Koerbling, Anton, Father Rupert Mayer: Modern Priest and Witness for Christ, Munich, Germany: Schnell & Steiner, 1950.

Copyright 2022 by Margaret Zacharias

Taking A Trip Down Memory Lane

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Taking A Trip Down Memory Lane

Memories can be happy, sad, or very painful. They can also be nostalgic. Old books, toys, and movies trigger certain memories.

A happy memory

The Fellowship of The Ring 2001 film came out when I was thirteen years old. Fans of J.R.R. Tolkien’s original book trilogy swarmed the theaters. Stores sold collectable items with pictures of the characters on top of the packages.

I remember another time when my sister read the first book out loud to my family while we were riding in the car. I was eleven years old at the time. Back then I did not understand who Bilbo was or why the ring was evil.

The first movie certainly made me curious about Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam. It also made me a Lord of The Rings fanatic! Like the rest of the fans, I watched the other two films and gobbled up the plot.

I cheered for Sam when he carried Frodo on his back in The Return of The King. His famous line “I know I cannot carry it for you, but I can carry you,” was very emotional.

Carrying each other’s burdens

Sam’s response in The Return of The King reminded me that we often need to carry each other’s burdens. We need to set a good example for our friends and family members in both the good times and the hard times.

Praying for friends, neighbors, and family members, along with little acts of kindness, can go a long way. We won’t always see in this life how our actions affected them. Sometimes only God knows.

Last thought for the road

The Lord of The Rings movie and book trilogy had a huge impact on my life. They helped me to admire the author. J.R.R. Tolkien. At the time, I didn’t know that he was Catholic. I found that out later. I was not a Catholic when I was a teenager, but little by little, God used things like these books and films to inspire me to think more about Catholicism and the Catholic Faith.

“The Road goes ever on and on

down from the door where it began”

(Tolkien, 1955).

This well-known little song from The Fellowship of The Ring reminds us that if we are open, God will lead us into situations that surprise us. Sometimes our actions might be a little bit like Bilbo’s. We want to remain at home, quiet and hidden from the world. Sometimes we end up in completely different circumstances.

Are you willing to take a long step out of your hobbit hole?

 

article by Angela Lano, copyright 10-13-2022
image by Pexels from Pixabay, free for commercial use

Plaster and Soul

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Plaster and Soul

It’s October 1st, and the feast day of our dear St. Therese of Lisieux is upon us. As I sat down to compose my small contribution to the illustrious works that have already been written about her, I felt confident that I could write the obligatory words, but could I find a perspective that had not been written? I searched my heart for a glimmer of inspiration.

There was, of course her famous “Little Way.” But many writers more talented than I had plumbed those depths. I thought about her childhood and her short time here on earth—where she served our Lord as a Carmelite nun. But of course, those biographies had been written as well, not to mention her own autobiography, The Story of a Soul.

I needed something else; something that belonged to me; something that was as yet … unwritten. And suddenly, I recalled a story about St. Therese that was actually covered by our local Catholic newspaper; but the entire story has never been fully explored … until now.

I was the RCIA Director for our Parish for several years. In that capacity, I liked to prepare for my incoming classes with different or unique Catholic artifacts; hence, I found myself in the basement of our church one hazy August morning, hunting for antique rosaries or old paintings.

I was in luck; there were several usable copies of St. Augustine’s City of God, hidden between some dusty candlesticks, and old chunks of marble. In fact, I discovered several pieces of fragmented marble in the recesses of the basement. Intrigued, I began to wander through the crypt-like room searching for … what? I wasn’t sure, but I had the peculiar feeling that I was searching for something important.

I finally found my way to the back of the basement. It was quite dark there, so I decided to retrace my steps, when my forward movement was suddenly arrested. Startled, I stopped and stared at the offending object. At first, I thought it was a person, but it was perfectly motionless. I smiled to myself. I had discovered a life-sized statue.

Intrigued, I reached up and tried to make out the features of the statue. It was badly damaged. Huge portions of plaster were missing, and the face and clothing had long since faded. Still, I had an intense desire to know who this was. I maneuvered the front of the statue toward a faint beam of light, to see if I could identify the owner. Recognition dawned, and I smiled to myself. I had unearthed an image of St. Therese. I don’t think I could have identified her if I hadn’t noticed the plaster roses she was holding.

I felt a touch of melancholy as I wondered about the events that had brought her to this uninspired resting place. I instinctively knelt before the statue and impulsively whispered: “St. Therese, I need to get you out of here!” Then I offered a small prayer for my future RCIA class.

I left the basement in deep thought, and nearly collided with Judy (an RCIA team member) who had come to look for me. We both laughed at the minor infraction, before I quickly divulged my discovery.  “If only I knew someone who restores statues!” I cried. But Judy seemed suddenly energized.

“I know someone who could probably do it,” she grinned. “It’s my son, Michael; he’s a gifted artist. Only … I should probably tell you that he’s not Catholic, although we have been praying for his conversion.”

Undaunted by this fact, I quickly made arrangements with Judy to contact her son. Michael agreed to the restoration project without reservation, and everyone sensed a touch of the miraculous in the atmosphere.

One year later, we re-dedicated—the now—pristine statue of St. Therese on her feast day, October 1st.

Michael entered the Catholic Church that same year.

He told me that he had gradually developed a devotion to St. Therese as he worked with her day after day in his studio, repairing the sacred image.

The broken and faded image of St. Therese had been perfectly restored; but the true restoration had taken place in the soul of a young artist—who had willingly taken on an unknown, only to be overcome with the truth and beauty of the Catholic Church.

Of course, all of us realized that it was St. Therese herself, who quietly interceded for Michael as he worked with her, day after day. There were no voices from heaven, or angelic visitations; it was simply the gracious supplications of a little nun—as she prayed for her own personal artist—before the Throne of Grace and Mercy.

St. Therese, pray for us, too!

Copyright 2022 by Sarah Torbeck

Step Out Like a Caterpillar and Fly

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Step Out Like a Caterpillar and Fly

Does the caterpillar know transformation is imminent? I imagine it has no idea that change is about to take place, and soon it will be something more beautiful than it was. 

I have spent many years focused on the beauty of the butterfly, though some would call it an obsession rather than mere interest. I first fell in love with the butterfly during a life trial when I learned the spiritual significance of re-birth, new life, and transformation. I strived every day to be the butterfly.

Over several years, my faith and time with God blossomed, and He blessed me with new friends and relationships. I committed to living as a butterfly by reinventing aspects of my life and living in the ways I felt God calling me. Little did I know that God was preparing me for something bigger, something unexpected, and something I’ll never forget.

Many times on my journey of becoming the butterfly I thought I had reached transformation, only to be struck down by life again. I never anticipated life as a butterfly as perfect. I had visited butterfly houses on many occasions and witnessed broken wings, or simply those that had reached life expectancy.

What needed to transform was how I handled life’s struggles. I’m not an expert, but I imagine the caterpillar does not need to prepare for transformation. Likewise, many times we do not see or anticipate the upcoming circumstances that will be life-changing. When a storm comes, we are thrown in without knowing when we will come out of it. This is similar to how the caterpillar observes its situation inside the chrysalis.

One day in a moment of prayer, God revealed that my focus needed to shift from wanting to be the butterfly to living as the caterpillar. Soon I knew the change would entail embracing every struggle knowing that in the end, God would bless me with something better and more beautiful. I began imagining how a caterpillar might react to God’s instruction and focused my efforts on becoming a new and improved version of my old self.

Becoming Bella was my new way of life; in Italian, Bella means beautiful. I did all I could to bring God with me into every struggle; thus, it would become beautiful. I learned to treat each battle or bump in the road of life as a gift. One where God would reveal the lesson or blessing, allowing the caterpillar within to emerge and fly as the butterfly God prepared it to be.

I learned so much through this way of thinking, and every new day God blesses me with more insight into life as a caterpillar. This way of living and thinking takes courage, and I can’t think of anything more wonderful than a courageous caterpillar! 

Sitting in a room full of butterflies, I can see where the caterpillar lives. I wonder whether the caterpillar knew it was going to become a butterfly. I meditate on that and consider the first thought once emerging from the chrysalis, “is this the end or the beginning of something new?”

Images Copyright 2022 Canva

Flammable

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Flammable

Our words and actions matter to others.  When the natives in Malta took care of Paul and companions, they had no idea of the recent hardships at sea or the blessings they would receive when the chief’s father and many others were cured of illness. Can we say we are as hospitable in our everyday dealings?

 

The islanders showed us unusual kindness. They built a fire and welcomed us all because it was raining and cold.  Acts 28:2

 

In nature, the careless toss of a match or neglect of a dying campfire can wreak havoc and destruction. That same carelessness with words can cause just as much damage and inflame a person’s emotional state. Today, hurtful rhetoric is everywhere. How do we get past the politics, the hate, the fight mentality? We must start somewhere, one encounter at a time.

 

Some years ago, my husband had to undergo a procedure.  He was afraid and in pain.  When the nurse at the outpatient facility was brusque with his questions and seemingly impatient, he lost his cool and began raising his voice. He became angry and seemed inconsolable, until the head nurse appeared in the doorway and gently pulled him to the back kindly talking him out of his feverish pitch. I thought how understanding she was, how insightful to see beyond his ire to recognize the emotions behind the outburst.

 

I questioned my own responses on other occasions when confronted with irate people and decided then and there I would look beyond the harsh words and return them with gentleness. It’s not always an easy thing to do.  Instead of returning the heat of the fire, I want to return a heart burning with the same love and kindness our Lord has for each of us.

 

My prayer for creation is that we strive to soothe and nurture this earth and each other – and if inevitable fires do ensue, may we focus on new growth arising from the ashes.

 

During the procedure, I penned my thoughts, and the following poem is the fruit of that encounter.

 

Flammable

Incendiary par with war-time evening news,
Coals heaped upon a head already burning-
Caution cries to censor words we choose
That set aflame the limbic system churning.
.
Kind response is water quenching fire –
A touch, a smile can cool the hottest ire.
In the end it’s all about the fear, the pain
That spoken words can soothe like water’s springs or
Aggravate like biting fire’s rain.
.
Partake of introspection if you dare
And count today times you’ve said
“I don’t care.”

 

Copyright 2022 by Paula Veloso Babadi

Oxygen Mask of Spirituality

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Oxygen Mask of Spirituality

If you’ve ever flown on an airplane with a child, you know that the flight attendants instruct that, in case of an emergency, you should secure your own oxygen mask before assisting your child. The reason is that you’re no good to your kids if you’re dead.

I’ve heard many people reference this example with respect to self-care. We need to make sure we are healthy, well rested, and cared for so that when we turn to help the other people in our lives, we have more to give them. The same concept applies to our spiritual lives.

Sharing the Gospel is the mission of every Christian. As parents, we are especially tasked to tell God’s story of salvation to our children. This is no small task, and the truth is, if we do not actively seek out our own flow of oxygen to grow in our own faith and relationship with God, we won’t be equipped to help anyone else, even our own kids.

Attending Sunday Mass is obviously the first step, but I believe that is not enough. We also need daily intentional spiritual development time. The trouble is, with our hectic lives and packed schedules, how can we make purposeful time for God?

The answer lies in using the tools and resources other faithful Catholics have created.

Explore what options your local parish has for study and fellowship. There may be a prayer ministry, a women’s group, or a Bible study. Instead of listening to music in the car, turn on a Catholic podcast (if you haven’t listened to it yet, The Bible in a Year podcast will change your life). There are Catholic Bible apps so you can read scripture on the go, and many apps that also have prayers, reflections, and daily readings, like the Hallow and Amen apps.

You can also sign up to get a daily inspirational email from Catholic organizations like Word on Fire or CatholicMom.com. Swap out your secular books with Catholic fiction, and trade Netflix for Formed, which is an online streaming service with shows, reflections, and even content for kids offered for free by the Augustine Institute.

Finally, one of the best and most fulfilling ways to grow closer to Jesus is through Christ-centered friendships. Jesus came to earth as a human so he could talk with and eat with us. When he commissioned his followers, he sent them out two by two (cf. Mark 6:7 & Luke 10:1). We aren’t meant to go it alone! The support and love of a Christ-loving friend can easily nurture and empower you to proclaim the message God has given you to share.

With so many options in this modern, tech-filled world, you will easily find daily ways to grow in your understanding and relationship with God, thereby further equipping you for your mission.

Now go and put on your own oxygen mask of spirituality, because you’re no good to anyone if you’re spiritually dead.

copyright 2022 Maria Riley

 

The Passion of Christ

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The Passion of Christ

These days the media seems to besiege us with headlines about the next terrible plague. Whether it’s the latest Covid variant or a new, horrible pox, it’s challenging not to become anxious. We shudder, and continue to pray that we and our families will be spared.

Imagine living in the seventeenth century Alps. Already ravaged by the Thirty Years’ War, Bavarian villagers learn that the Black Plague has come to town, in the person of a foreign peddler. They know that this frightening new disease has killed entire populations throughout the region. What will they do?

In 1633, the citizens of the Catholic village of Oberammergau, Germany, made a communal promise to God. If he saw fit to spare their town, if no one in the village died of the plague over the next twelve months, they would perform a play about the passion of Christ every tenth year, in perpetuity.

The first Oberammergau Passion Play to fulfill that offering was staged in 1634. Their promise has been faithfully kept for almost 400 years. (For more information, visit www.passionsspiele-oberammergau.de/en/home.)

Both the script and the methods of performance have evolved over the centuries. But even today, the play is still performed in its historical style of tableau. It is presented in two parts, each two-and-a-half hours long, with a break for dinner in between.

Every actor must have been born in the village, and nearly every native citizen is included somewhere in the ensemble of players.

In 2019, I watched a video of the casting ceremony for the 2020, now 2022, performances.

With an altar server carrying the crucifix before him, the parish pastor processed out of his church into the village square. The entire platz was filled with townspeople. Gathered to hear him announce the names of the persons chosen to portray the most illustrious characters, they maintained absolute silence.

The priest stopped next to the village school teacher; a young woman attired in an impeccably-pressed shirtwaist dress.  She was poised at a large blackboard, already prepared with the names of the major characters, to write the names. An alternate was also chosen for each role, in order to sustain the lengthy performance season, five days a week from May to October.

As the teacher carefully inscribed each name in exquisite handwriting, no cheers or congratulations marred the solemnity of the occasion. Only a few murmurs of satisfaction, or mild disappointment, could be heard on the film.

I’m still hoping and praying to attend the 2022 Passion Play this September.

In 2018, when my travel companion and I first began to consider our mutual bucket list trip, we were both in perfect health. Then the originally scheduled 2020 event was postponed to 2022 because of the world-wide Covid-19 pandemic.

Recently, just as our long-awaited dreams seemed about to become reality, my travel companion sustained injuries in a bicycle accident. The same week in July, I sprained an ankle.

As I walked down the hall of my apartment building a couple of nights ago, I ran into a friend who is over ninety years old. She was working out a pain in her hip at the same time I was exercising my sprained ankle.

She said, “I’ll give you my Oberammergau jacket.”

I looked at her tiny frame, then at my own considerably more substantial one, and said, “Thank you so much. But I don’t think it will fit me.”

She told me that she had attended the Oberammergau Passion Play in her younger years. After we conversed with awe about the endurance of this Bavarian tradition, she shared a parting thought about her own pilgrimage.

“I always think of that time as a special privilege.”

Both of my friends regularly take advantage of the opportunities offered to us all as Catholics, to attend mass and to be active serving neighbors in urban villages that can operate like small towns.

As I reflected on her words, I heard a message from the Holy Spirit.

At every mass, in every liturgical season, we have motivation to gather as a living community, just as the townspeople do in alpine villages like Oberammergau. We have daily chances to meditate on the passion of Christ at every mass.

It’s because the people of Oberammergau do these things that they have been able to keep a four-century-old promise, generation after generation.

It really doesn’t matter if health challenges, personal finances, family responsibilities, or the world situation allow us to travel to Jerusalem or Oberammergau – or not.

Christ’s loving offering of his passion for our salvation is eternal.

He comes to us every day, on every altar, wherever and whenever the eucharist is celebrated.

How blessed we are, indeed, by that special privilege.

 

Copyright 2022 by Margaret Zacharias 

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