Our Road to Emmaus

by Lisa Kelly in Reflections

Like many of us today, the disciples on the road to Emmaus were at a loss and in despair over a world seemingly gone mad, seeing the foundational principles of the world around them being shaken and living in fear for their own lives. The horror and shock of the Crucifixion had overwhelmed all hope and threatened the teachings of love and compassion Jesus had sought to instill. Do the horrors of today’s world events overwhelm your sense of hope? Do the teachings of love and compassion seem pointless in the face of terrorist atrocities, global warming, racial hatred, refugee crises, and so many other evils? Wherever you are at this moment, you are on that road to Emmaus.
Something happens on this road.

Christ joins the disciples, walks beside them, breaks bread with them, and opens their hearts with his Word in a way that is so overwhelming, the world is no longer mad to them. Note the world situation has not changed at all, but the hearts of the disciples have. For any Christian, for anyone who professes belief in the Resurrection and the teachings of Jesus, our hearts must be overwhelmed by this same interaction with God on our own roads to Emmaus. Christ walks beside us today. Christ breaks bread with us today. Christ opens our hearts with his Word today in exactly the same way he did on that road to Emmaus 2,000 years ago. His teachings are the same: Love God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. Love your neighbor, and pray for your enemies. Forgive all. Welcome the stranger. Care for the sick. Visit the imprisoned. Provide for the least among us. The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.
Nothing has changed, except now we are the ones walking the road.
This encounter on the road so turned the hearts of the disciples that they literally turned around and ran back into the fray, back into Jerusalem, back into the world. So must we allow our encounter with Christ in others, in prayer, in the Eucharist, and in the Word to turn our hearts around today. We must allow ourselves to be so overwhelmed by the revelation of a God of love, that no fear, no evil, no suffering, and no hatred can leave us in despair.

The choice is ours. You can continue on your road to Emmaus and stay there. Continue to live in despair, confusion, instability, and fear. Continue to live in a world where evil has the last word and death is the end of life. Or hear the Word, hear the Voice, and be overwhelmed by Love. Go back to Jerusalem, back to your passion, back to healing, back to a life of hope, and back to a world where love has the last word and life never ends.

When All That’s Left Is an Empty Tomb                   

By Cara Callbeck  - in Reflections 

Last week my spiritual director left me with a loaded question: “What are you going to do when all that’s left is an empty tomb?”.  As I gave his question some thought, I chuckled, realizing how well he knows me. Now he can even see my stumbles coming before I do.

What he was surely thinking of is how much I love church, and how just being inside the walls of the church brings me a feeling of such security and peace. I absolutely love Holy Week, mostly because I get to be at church a lot more than usual. I am in love with the music, the fellowship of our community, the beautiful liturgies, and that precious scent of incense. I get so that I never want to leave. And so my director, knowing that I will come crashing into the reality that is daily life all too soon, asked me his question.

We have so much to reflect on when we read the Gospel, so many descriptions of people’s experiences in the presence of God, but how often do we reflect on what happened AFTER those big moments? The angel Gabriel left Mary after the Annunciation; Zebedee’s sons left him on the beach with a bunch of fishing nets; and the three apostles had to come down the mountain after the Transfiguration. After those big moments, ordinariness followed. Life is not built up entirely of big moments and profound encounters with God. Most of the time, it’s just “the usual.”

Perhaps I can apply St. Ignatius’s wisdom: he tells retreatants to store up those moments of consolation and use them to get through the moments of desolation. While the empty tomb doesn’t have to be desolation per se, maybe the experiences I have stored up over Holy Week can give me the courage to walk away from the empty tomb and go out once again. I can’t help but think this was Mary’s strategy. We read in the Gospel that, “Mary pondered them in her heart.” Maybe she was mentally cataloging all she could of what had just happened, to carry with her as she continued along her own journey. Like one who plans food for a long trip, she knew to save the moments and memories and make them last as long as she could.

The empty tomb doesn’t have to be my crash and burn. If I take my experiences of Holy Week—my big moments—and ponder them and cherish them as the holy treasures they are, perhaps they will become the food for my missioning out from the tomb. Go now, the Mass has ended”.....and now it’s business as usual.

Approaching the Cross

By Cara Callbeck in Reflections

Pope Francis gave us all some homework during his weekly catechesis on April 16, just as we headed into the Triduum. Pope Francis challenged us all, “This week it will do us good to take the crucifix in hand and kiss it many, many times and say: thank you Jesus, thank you Lord.”

His words were on my mind at our Good Friday service as everyone began to queue up to venerate the cross. I somehow expected there would be more people kissing the cross than I had seen in years past. But as I watched, what I observed was not an ardent desire to kiss the cross; rather, I witnessed an awkwardness and uneasiness around many who approached it. And as I thought about it, I realized that this was actually very fitting in its own way.

What is the cross to us who believe? Among many other things, it is a sign of our lowest point, our sufferings joined with Christ’s; it is great pain, sadness, and brokenness. The cross reminds us of just how unworthy we are and what that unworthiness physically cost our dear Lord. As Pope Francis expressed in his catechesis that day, it is Jesus taking upon himself all human suffering as he reminds us, “He clothed himself in this suffering.”
If that is the cross, then the uneasiness I saw as my fellow Catholics venerated the cross was really a profound recognition of that very suffering. We tend to be uneasy around suffering and brokenness. We don’t know what to say or what to do to make it all go away. Our first inclination is not so much to kiss it as to fix it somehow.

But we can’t fix it. Just as in the contemplation sitting in the garden with our Lord before his hour had come, we are left only to stay with him, witness the moment quietly, and accept it along with our powerlessness to change it. The cross indeed should make us uneasy and awkward. I think that’s respecting the great sacrifice our Lord made for us. In the end, whether we kiss the cross, awkwardly approach it and then shy from it, gaze upon it from near or far, or touch it with love, we took that time to just be with Jesus in his suffering. It’s moments such as those—awkward or otherwise—that bring us closer to Christ.

Living Frugally on Surprise

by Michelle Francl-Donnay in Reflections

It’s been a tough few weeks, with just a few too many surprises disrupting the usually gentle rhythm of the semester. A grant deadline was pushed up by two weeks; my youngest son, a continent away, got quite ill. All the while my e-mail chirped like a nest of starving baby birds, messages popping up and demanding answers faster than I could stuff answers in them.
Last Monday, in what appeared to be a lull between winter storms both literal and metaphorical, I slid one last calculation onto the supercomputer queue and ducked out the door. I had booked a room for the night in a retreat house and was looking forward to some slow time with God.

An hour and a half later, I parked the car, sent a text to my husband letting him know I’d arrived safely, and opened the trunk to grab my overnight bag. It wasn’t there. I checked the back seat. Was it behind the passenger seat? Was it hiding under my gym bag? No, no, and definitely not. I had packed that bag with indulgences, balm for my soul after the slog of the last weeks. Peppery vanilla-scented chai, a book of poetry. These, I told myself firmly, you can live without. It’s Lent. You’re a grown up. But my pajamas? My toothbrush!

That’s when it occurred to me that the gym bag I kept shifting around, hoping to see my small bag hidden behind it, had a toothbrush and a few other necessities stashed in it.
There were pants and a sweatshirt that could double as pajamas, and while I decided I was not desperate enough to reuse the socks stuffed in the outside pocket, my feet could be happy in my sneakers without them.
I had enough to manage for the night.
I found myself remembering the opening words to Alice Walker’s poem “Before you knew you owned it”: “Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.” How much, I wondered, of what I think I need, could wait on surprise? How frugally could I live?
For one night at least, I could apparently manage with no socks and a single line of poetry.
St. Ignatius’s Principle and Foundation reminds us: “All the things in this world are gifts from God, presented to us so that we can know God more easily and make a return of love more readily.” I wonder how often I forget that many of the best gifts are surprises. I was surprised to think I could walk off and leave my bag by the door, but yet more surprised to realize there was nothing in it I truly needed.

What I needed was time empty of things demanding my attention, even a bag to unpack and repack. What I needed was not hot chai and chocolate, but God’s tender care, more easily seen when stripped of my own pretensions of preparedness and organization.
I didn’t even have time to open my e-mail the next day before the flock of tasks began demanding their due, chirping at the door. “Take only enough” of compassion, reminds Walker in her poem. The night had been just enough and simultaneously everything that I desired.

New Year’s Gift of Indifference

by Marina McCoy in Spirituality

As we move out of the Christmas season and into the New Year, my family is cleaning up the last decorations and storing away extra gift wrap and boxes. It reminds me of a prayer from many Christmases ago; when my spiritual director suggested praying about what gift I’d like to offer to Jesus and what gift I thought he might be offering to me.

This suggestion was given at a particularly difficult time in my life when I was experiencing many losses, and the idea that God might still have many graces to offer comforted me.

One evening I prayed that Jesus handed me a large wrapped box with purple ribbon. I opened the box and searched around inside with my hand. After a time of searching, I came up only with purple and gold tissue paper. In an instant, I realized that the gift was the empty box. The emptiness itself was a beautiful gift: indifference.

Ignatius’s idea of indifference describes the idea that we must hold all earthly goods in balance before God and be willing to accept the coming and going of all limited goods. Especially in a time of grief, the idea that I had yet more to "give up" to God held little appeal for me. The image of the gift box, however, helped me to re-envision the concept of indifference. I suddenly understood that indifference is not about giving up or stoically renouncing God’s good gifts, but rather about making room to be receptive to the new gifts that God constantly wishes to offer.




Life is constantly changing; not only external goods and relationships but also our very selves change and do not remain wholly stable over the course of a lifetime. Loss remains difficult. Yet if we do not cling too tightly to the gifts (or hurts) of the past, we make ourselves more receptive to new graces: the beauty of fresh snowfall; the possibilities in a new yet unformed friendship; or the freedom to follow new pursuits to which God calls us.

This year as we store away our old boxes and start up New Year’s resolutions, the idea of indifference as receptivity can assist us. I still struggle with indifference in the midst of change, but the image of the gift box reminds me that emptiness is less about absence than about a continued openness to receive.

 

Advent Consolation 
by Andy Otto in Reflections

There’s something about Advent and Christmas that stirs my heart. As my semester as a grad student winds down, I anticipate the time to relax into the season. Typically, my interior is not filled with holiday anxiety, but with consolation.

Each year Advent stirs up the memory of past Advents—those graces of hopeful anticipation, family time, and even the comfort of purple and pink candles lit on a dark winter evening. St. Ignatius says we ought to remember times of consolation, especially in times of desolation. After a delightfully fruitful eight-day retreat last year, my director reminded me that the consoling graces I received on that retreat are mine. I can always go back to them. I must always be reminded of them.

This year, after the tragic death of a family friend, I find it hard to fully settle into my normal Advent consolation. Thankfully, those warm memories of Advents past are still there. Those graces are mine to return to. There is never a good time for sorrow to enter our lives, but I feel Ignatius tapping me on my shoulder, reminding me of the memories of consolation, where I felt the grace of God resting upon me.
Advent is a time of hopefulness—not just for the birth of Christ, but for the time we will see Christ again, face-to-face. When I practice re-journeying into those memories of consolation, I find that the ice of desolation slowly melts away, and I rediscover the warmth of a reassuring God who promises to meet us face-to-face on Christmas and at the end of our days. It’s a promise that encapsulates and gives life to the Christian message, one we can rely on during Advent and at every other time of the year.

Three Ingredients in a Recipe for Gratitude by Lisa Kelly in Reflections

So many times a day we say “thank you” out of nothing more than common courtesy at best or, at worst, out of habit, with no realization that we even said it. Thus, saying “thank you” is actually the least impactful part of being grateful. My spiritual director will often instruct me to “sit with a feeling”— not judge it or rationalize it, but instead just “sit with it” so I really feel it. What does real gratitude feel like? Here are the ingredients I can almost taste when I take the time to feel truly grateful.

First we taste two cups of humility. True gratitude instantly puts me in a place of realizing I am dependent on another. Whatever I have just received—whether it was a cup of coffee, a borrowed pen, or the deepest desire of my heart—someone beyond myself has just positively impacted me and made my life better.
A western cultural mentality promotes the thinking that we somehow deserve whatever we have received, especially if money was involved. There is even a prosperity theology out there that asserts wealth is a blessing God bestows on some and not others. Don’t fall for it. God’s blessing comes in the way of life and love and is freely given to all. If you think money can take the place of your dependence on others, you are cheating yourself out of recognizing our interdependence and experiencing the humility true gratitude brings.

The second cup of humility in my recipe for gratitude comes from the Ignatian mantra that God is in all things. The enormity of God’s presence is easy to feel standing next to the vast ocean or staring up at a sky with a million stars, but even when I am heartbroken or scared, on the craziest of days or just standing in line at the department store, the moment that I reach for sincere gratitude I am bowled over by the enormity of God’s love and graciousness in my life.
How is it that with all my faults and failings, one mere creature of the billions on this earth, the God of all, the Creator of all, longs for me? How is it I have come to have this moment? True gratitude affirms the paradox of our smallness and God’s grandeur. Sitting in gratitude I can also taste a cup of relief. If you say “thank you,” but you don’t feel just a bit of weight lift off your shoulders or anxiety dissipate from your mind, chances are you aren’t really experiencing gratitude. 

Naming the concern or need that has just been alleviated

 instantly stirs the gratitude pot.

Finally, experiencing true gratitude always brings a taste of hope. Receiving is empowering. It allows you to take that next step down the road, to look to the future, and to keep going even when the road is hard. A barrier has been removed or a reinforcement has arrived, even if only in the form of smile from another.
Sitting in gratitude to experience this humility, relief, and hope need not take an extended hour of meditation. 

In mere seconds of awareness I can feel these ingredients all wash over me. 

St. Ignatius encourages us to begin and end all things with gratitude.