Showing posts with label CBillhimer. Show all posts
Monday, February 2, 2015
On Eagle's Wings: The universal call to holiness, Part II
“They that hope in
the LORD will renew their strength, they will soar on eagles’ wings; They will
run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint.” – Isaiah 40:31
Ten years ago, I chose
St. John the Evangelist to be my patron saint. St. John was Jesus’ youngest apostle, as well as the only
apostle who was not martyred. This
is because Christ gives the keeping of His Holy Mother, Mary, to John at the
foot of the cross in the following exchange: “When
Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he
loved, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son.’
Then he said to the disciple, ‘Behold, your mother.’ And from that hour the
disciple took her into his home” (John 19:26-27).
St. John is referred to
multiple times throughout Scripture as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” He was entrusted with the protection of
Mary and was persecuted under the Roman emperor Domitian, who exiled him to the
island of Patmos, where it is believed he wrote the final book of the Bible,
Revelation. In approximately 99
AD, St. John died a natural death of old age as the author of the fourth
Gospel, Revelation, and three epistles.
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| Koshy Koshy's "Palla's Fish Eagle" is licensed under CC by 2.0. |
I suppose eagles have
been on my mind because this past October, my grandfather passed away. This was a sudden and devastating event
for my entire family, but especially for my sisters and I because my
grandfather had been more of a second father to us than a grandfather. The family gathered for a
beautiful funeral and burial remembering and celebrating his life, but each day
is still a challenge to discover how to live in a world that he no longer
occupies. I find it is these
moments in life—births, deaths, marriages, funerals—which bring home to us the
necessity and reality of our faith with blazing clarity. Our faith carries us
through these monumental human events, giving meaning and purpose to events
otherwise too mysterious, tragic, or awesome to comprehend.
My grandfather was a
man of profound, steady, and enduring faith who prayed every day of his
life. His last words, in fact,
were praying the chaplet of Divine Mercy with us. He understood himself to be a simple man; he was a carpenter
who fought in the Korean War,
married his childhood sweetheart, and fathered three children. He was the patriarch of our family,
which grew to include his seven granddaughters and great grandson. He was a family man, a stable, abiding,
and quiet presence in all of our lives that guided and encouraged when we were
being less than what we should. He
lived the practical reality of his faith as a steward of the land, working with
his hands on his farm until the day his body no longer allowed him to work. His every action and word demonstrated
his quiet integrity, his infinite patience, his fidelity to his faith, his
wife, his children, and his home.
In short, when I think of
what it means to be a “good man,” I think of my grandfather.
There
exists somewhat of a mental hiccup when we, as lay people, use the word “holy”
to describe another lay person.
There’s always a touch of reservation when applying, or hearing that
word applied,
to a person who is not a member of a religious order. It seems difficult for us to remember that all people, of
all vocations, are called to be holy.
In the Vatican II
Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, Lumen
Gentium (Light of
Nations), this universal call to holiness is proclaimed: “Thus it is evident to
everyone, that all the faithful of Christ of whatever rank or status, are
called to the fullness of the Christian life and to the perfection of charity;
by this holiness as such a more human manner of living is promoted in this
earthly society” (Lumen
Gentium, Chapter
5). In short, every human person
who chooses to follow Christ has a mission and a calling to holiness. Whether through the sacrament of
marriage, as a member of a religious order, or simply as a celibate single, we
are all called to the type of holiness that strengthens and renews the Church
with its purity of purpose.
My grandfather was a
holy man. He was not a priest,
brother, monk, or deacon, but simply a man who lived out his vocation as husband
and father to the fullest. He
guided his family in faith through his words and actions. He believed, he educated, he lived, and
he died practicing the truth of his faith. And I think this is
a type of holiness to which those of us who are married are
called—a life of beautiful, profound simplicity, in which faith and family are
both the anchor and the horizon.
Whatever our gifts, whatever our burdens, we are called to live out
Christ’s love for the Church, through vocation, regardless of financial
situation or status. And as we
grow in holiness, we watch this holiness take root and blossom in our families
and friends.
My grandfather inspired
my entire family to the type of holiness that he lived out every day of his
life. Still, if you used that word
to describe him, he would have been embarrassed and denied it
unequivocally. I think that type
of humility belongs to holiness like warmth belongs to fire. And though
most days holiness may seem like an unachievable goal or unrealistic expectation
for most of us, we need to center
ourselves on the reality that we are called, regardless of our weaknesses, to
give that holiness to our families and the world at large.
I pray that my
grandfather is in heaven, or very soon will be. I find myself praying to St. John in special intercession
for my grandfather, who, out of everyone I’ve ever known, most earned the word
“holy” in his lifetime. I like to
visualize the eagle of St. John during these prayers and hope that my
grandfather was carried, on eagle’s wings, straight into the arms of the
Father.
May you rest there,
Grandy, until we meet again.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
"O Come, O Come Emmanuel:" Self-surrender as the path to universal holiness, Part I
“Rather, he emptied himself, taking the
form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he
humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death, even death on a cross.” –
Philippians
2:7
Like everyone else, the
commercialism of Christmas can be overwhelming to the point where I feel like
I’m in the middle of Whoville’s mad “buy, buy, buy!” mentality from The Grinch who Stole Christmas. It’s hard to imagine that Christmas Day
used to be a day of solemn prayer, contemplation, and shockingly . . .
worship. Christmas Day began the
12 Days of Christmas during which merriment, feasting, and dancing occurred,
culminating in the 12th day, Epiphany. Sometimes, that reality feels very far away. We allow ourselves to be consumed by
cleaning, decorating, purchasing and wrapping gifts, entertaining, and mostly,
rushing through it all. As
culpable of this rush as anyone else, I find myself at odd moments during
Advent masses (or even just listening to carols in the car), surprised and overwhelmed
by the beauty and awe of Advent as anticipation for the birth of Christ.
As cradle Catholics, many of
us grow
up casually referring to the Holy Family, and somehow along the way forget that
our own families are called to holiness as well. At Vatican II, the Dogmatic Constitution on the Church Lumen Gentium (Light of Nations)
emphasized that all Christians – not just members of the religious or clergy –
are called to be saints.
For
those of us whose vocation is marriage, we are called to live out this holiness
through our own families, which are themselves understood to be little “domestic”
churches. And yet our families are
often the source of stress and argument, and regrettably, they commonly bear
the brunt of our worst behavior.
We’ve all heard the maxim, “You always hurt the ones you love,” but I
don’t think we spend enough time considering that the ones we love are the ones
who deserve the best from us and not the worst. We need to look to the Holy Family, not as an unreachable,
mystical symbol, but rather as a tangible, physical reality which once existed
and towards which we should never stop aspiring. This time of year, we most often visualize the Holy Family
in the context of the Nativity, and I find I use that depicted moment of wonder
and awe to center myself in meditation on the type of holiness that we are
called to during Advent.
Most Catholics know the
Nativity as the third Joyful mystery of the rosary, but I want to speak for a
moment about that word, mystery.
We are blessed to inherit a rich history of revelation, including an
abundant multitude of mysteries that we are still contemplating more than 2,000
years later. The Incarnation is
arguably the greatest of these mysteries, rivaled only by the Paschal
Mystery. And Christmas is the Incarnation, this profound
mystery in which God becomes human, without limiting or detracting from His
divine nature as God. The familiar
nativity stable scene of Our Lady, St. Joseph, and the Christ child, complete
with angels, shepherds, and wise men is deceptively simple and humble when you
consider the awesome reality of God choosing to enter the world through the
consent of a human woman.
Since I was a little girl,
one of my favorite Christmas carols has always been “O Come, O Come
Emmanuel.” As I grew up, I learned
that we have this revealed name of God, Emmanuel, as just one of many names for
Christ. In contrast to Yahweh,
whose divine name means being and existence itself, but is unpronounceable and
ultimately unknown, Christ reveals Himself to us constantly, through many
names. He is Jesus Christ, the
Alpha and the Omega, Emmanuel and the Rod of Jesse, the Lamb of God and the
Bread of Life, the Bridegroom and the King of Kings, the Way, the Truth, and
the Life . . . the Logos, or the Word
of God. And the meanings of these
names are fascinating, from the “Messiah” as the “anointed” to Christos, meaning “God saves.” But, above all, my favorite name for
Christ is still Emmanuel, meaning, “God is with us.”
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| "Nativity with the Torch," Le Nain brothers |
Because this is what our
faith is all about. This is what differentiates us from
every other religion. We have a
God who loved us enough to become human—to live, love, teach, suffer, die, and ultimately
unmake death for us. We have a God
who remains with us, physically and
literally, in the awesome mysteries of the seven sacraments, but most
profoundly in the Holy Eucharist.
For the first time in salvation history, God enters the world, not as a
military leader or an omnipotent vengeful deity, but in the most vulnerable
form possible—that of a human infant.
And more—He chooses to enter the world through the free consent of a
human woman, who has no agenda or delusions of power, but who says “yes” rather
because everything that she is and has ever been is a fiat, or total,
unreserved “yes” to the Trinity.
In Philippians 2:7, we read,
“Rather,
he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and
found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death,
even death on a cross.” The Greek
word for this “humbling” is kenosis,
which translates as “self-emptying.”
Now, we must not understand this “self-emptying” as a kind of mindless
numbing, or worse, some Buddhist form of detachment. Rather, we understand this to be a complete and utter
surrender of one’s will to the Father, until one becomes a perfect and pure
vessel for the Father’s will.
We
understand Christ to have taken on everything it means to be human—including a
human body, mind, will, suffering, and death—in sheer and perfect obedience to
the Father. And more—Christ’s
motivation for all of this is nothing but absolute, utter, and unfathomable love
for the Father and for His lost and wandering children. And I think this is the
core of what it all comes down to for us at Christmas, and of what we are
called to during Advent—nothing less than this self-emptying in which we
surrender everything that we are to Christ in love, and through this surrender,
finally find ourselves.
And
so, as we celebrate these days of Christmas, I wish nothing less than this for
all Catholics, and all men and women of the world, that we may join together in
prayer and allow Christmas to not just be a time of hope, generosity, and love
in which we anticipate the birth of the Son of God and the renewal of the
world, but that it may also be a time of self-giving in the sense of kenosis, a time of emptying ourselves
until nothing but Emmanuel remains:
God with us now and for all ages.
O
Come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord.
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