Tag: god

Spirituality, Travel, Writing

José Luis Iriberri, SJ

Christine Eberle

Part of the Thankful Thursday Series

The route that Ignatius took from Loyola to Manresa has existed for 502 years now, but the Ignatian Camino in its present form would not exist without the extraordinary commitment of Fr. José Luis Iriberri, Director of the Office of the Ignatian Camino. In addition to organizing and physically leading trips spring through fall each year, he has co-authored (with Chris Lowney) two Camino books:  On the Ignatian Way and Guide to the Ignatian Camino. And now, you can see him for yourself—along with many of the places featured in my book—in a 90-minute YouTube documentary that premiered this summer!

Fr. José, on the Way!

A quick word search of my manuscript reveals that I mention him more than 150 times in 187 pages; clearly, he was an integral part of the experience!  Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 43: “In Praise of Our Fearless Leader.”

Perhaps the shortest and most accurate thing I can say about José Luis Iriberri, SJ, is that he is a true son of Ignatius. (He even looks like the saint, being of Basque descent and cultivating a bit of an Ignatian beard!) He is intimately familiar with the path Iñigo traversed, pointing out churches where he worshipped, buildings where he conducted business, and hostels where he might have stayed.

It is one thing to know about Ignatius, however, and quite another to know Ignatius and to model one’s life after him. That is the experience of traveling with this man: the sense of being in the company of one of Ignatius’s close companions as he guided us through both the outer and inner landscape of the Camino. He was our spiritual guide, in every sense of the term.

Backpack on, walking stick in hand, he moved like a mountain goat, lightly, over any kind of terrain, knowing every twist and turn of those hundreds of miles—most of which he had marked by hand. But he also knew the contours of our hearts, watching us carefully, listening closely to what we said and didn’t say, reading our faces, and offering sage observations. He knew when to encourage a flagging pilgrim, when to offer a bit of respite, when to break the tension with a droll remark, and when to put his foot down if someone’s ambitions exceeded their abilities. Though he could grow exasperated with our ridiculousness, he was completely attentive and caring the moment someone manifested a genuine need.

José’s helpfulness has continued since our return. When the first draft of my manuscript was complete, I sent it to him for fact-checking.  Just a few days later, I received the electronic document back, marked up in red ink in his own hand.  He caught many errors—from place names I’d gotten wrong to bits of Spanish history I’d misunderstood—which I gratefully corrected. (He also inserted comments like “Oh I don’t think I said that” and “the walk didn’t really take that long,” which I took under advisement.)  He’s even helped with the audiobook: when I discovered a bunch of words in Euskara and Catalan that I wasn’t sure how to pronounce, I sent him a list and he read it into a voice memo for me! The book is so much better for his attentive care, as I was better for his attentive care along the Way. 

The book is so much better for his attentive care, as I was better for his attentive care along the Way.

He also shared these kind words:  Christine catches the spirit of the pilgrimage, living the full experience in her own body and soul and bringing an open mind to both the obstacles and wonders that pilgrims may encounter along the Way. This book will help you to understand the gifts that you would find walking freely in Spain, following the steps of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, a saint who lived five hundred years ago but experienced a transformation that is most needed in our twenty-first century.

For this walking example of loving God with one’s whole heart, soul, mind, and strength, I am truly grateful.

NYC Skyline
Retreats, Spirituality, Writing

Jennifer Sawyer

Christine Eberle

Part of the Thankful Thursday Series

Jennifer Sawyer is my road not taken.  

When I was a sophomore in high school, I attended forensics nationals in NYC and fell in love with the place. I began dreaming of going to Fordham, whose Lincoln Center campus had hosted some of the events. After four years as a communications major in the Big Apple, I figured, I’d snag a job as an editor and pursue my own writing after hours.

NYC Skyline

All it took to derail that dream was my mother’s discovery that the Fordham campus where I’d be living and studying was in the Bronx. (Cue scary music.) Whatever she was picturing there did not include her only daughter. Mom put her foot down, and I followed a different path.

Jen Sawyer headshot

Two decades later, a Massachusetts gal had a similar dream—and a more accommodating mother. Jen Sawyer is a Fordham alum holding a degree in communication with a concentration in American Catholic studies. After graduation, she deployed her storytelling talents in some fascinating venues, working for “The Martha Stewart Show,” and “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” as well as the Cooking Channel and Yahoo. As a freelance writer, she has contributed to “Good Morning America,” Metro, the NY Post, Fordham Magazine, America, and more. She and her husband lived the dream in a tiny apartment in New York before finding a home in New Jersey, where they now live with their 2-year-old daughter, Nora.

Thanks to Jen’s Jesuit education, one question pursued her through the whirlwind of writing, editing, and producing: “Am I doing the most good that I can in my job?” That question led her to combine her skills and passions at Busted Halo, an online platform that presents “a more joyful and meaningful experience of Catholicism” through articles, videos, podcasts, radio, and more. She began as Digital Content Producer; by the time we met in Jonathan Malesic’s spiritual nonfiction class, she was Editor-in-Chief.

One question pursued her through the whirlwind of writing, editing, and producing: “Am I doing the most good that I can in my job?” 

As the culminating exercise of the class, we had to pitch an article. I crafted a pitch for Busted Halo, then actually pitched it. Jen and I bounced some ideas around. I wrote the piece. She made it better. In December, BH published “This Advent, Let’s Pray with Our Foremothers in the Faith.” Throughout the process, Jen was a delight to work with. Half a year later, she and I had the joy of participating in the Ignatian Creators Summit together, along with Jon Malesic and several other members of the class.

I so enjoyed getting to know Jen personally in the “temporary alternative space” that the good folks at the Jesuit Media Lab created for us. From taking risks in small-group sharing to swapping stories on the bus ride home from Camden Yards (Let’s go, O’s!), we were at ease in one another’s company. Jen has a great smile. She’s funny, friendly, and fully engaged in the work of helping others connect life and faith in meaningful ways. The world is lucky to have her.

Here’s what she had to say about Finding God Along the Way: Readers don’t have to trek 300 miles across Spain to appreciate the wisdom gleaned from Christine Eberle’s time walking in the footsteps of St. Ignatius of Loyola. With profound insight, vulnerability, and humor, Eberle invites readers to journey alongside her as she reflects on the modern-day relevance of Ignatius’ life and teachings. “Finding God Along the Way” is a must-read for those curious about Ignatian Spirituality and its capability—like pilgrimage—to transform our hearts, our minds, and our perspectives.

For the opportunity to cross paths with the road not taken—and to admire it wholeheartedly yet without regret—I am truly grateful.

Picture of a Goat
Book Tour, Retreats, Spirituality, Travel, Writing

Sneak Peek: So Many Goats!

Christine Eberle

As I’ve been playing “what-were-we-doing-two-years-ago” all month, so many profound and silly memories have surfaced. Here’s one of the latter, told as part of Chapter Forty, “La Cova.” It takes place on the evening of October 30—the day after what we thought had been our final hike, from Montserrat to Manresa. Enjoy!

At three-thirty that afternoon, Fr. José told us, we were to meet in the garden to walk to Mass at Our Lady of Good Health. We should be sure to wear our boots, he added, and bring our hiking poles. Oh, good grief, I thought. How are we not done with those? And why are we hiking to Mass when there are more chapels than I can count right here in our residence?

The hour’s walk took us through the old town and surrounding commercial district, then onto a rocky path through the fields beyond. I will confess, I was grumpy.

My mood lightened when I discovered that we’d be sharing the road with goats. In the field beside us strode an actual goatherd—wearing sandals, carrying a crook, and accompanied by a frisky dog. (A twenty-first-century goatherd, he was also wearing jeans and a camo baseball cap, but still, it was pretty cool.) Close on his heels were at least fifty goats of varying colors and sizes, each sporting a noisy bell. As we hustled forward, the goats followed, kicking up a cloud of dust behind us until our ways diverged.

The surreal goat encounter banished what was left of my petulance. And, of course, the walk was worth it. Santa Maria de la Salut is a tenth-century hermitage. Preserved in the entryway is a rectangular slab identified (in Catalan, English, and French) as “the stone where Saint Ignatius knelt down on his visits to this sanctuary.”

How is it that a hunk of rock touched by Ignatius’ knees has been preserved for five hundred years? Fr. José explained that the ordinary people of Manresa kept Ignatius’s memory alive, realizing that they had been in the presence of a holy man. According to Tellechea Idígoras’s biography, when the saint’s canonization process was opened in 1594—seventy-two years after his sojourn in Manresa—many testified to the lasting impression Ignatius had made on them or on their parents and grandparents. Perhaps that’s why he continues to feel so present in this place.

As daylight was no longer being saved, the sun had dipped below the horizon already by the time we finished Mass. We started back at a good pace, hoping to reach the paved roads before dark; nevertheless, we had to navigate the treacherous end of the rocky path by flashlight. At last, we reached the bright Burger King and KFC signs on the outskirts of the city—a sharp contrast to the millennium-old hermitage and timeless goatherd. Like many of the towns we visited, Manresa is a place where the past and present coexist.

After dinner, we gathered for our final reflection . . .

Coming January 14, 2025 from Paraclete Press
Spirituality, Travel, Writing

Sneak Peek: The Power of the Pause

Christine Eberle

This morning, I received a WhatsApp message from one of my pilgrim friends, who has returned to Spain with her husband and is spending a few days in Zaragoza. On Bette’s vacation, the city is a beautiful place to explore for a few days between San Sebastian and Barcelona. On my pilgrimage, it was the blessed oasis where Porter and I ground to a halt, nursing our blistered feet and his sudden fever.

A peek at the calendar revealed that I was in Zaragoza exactly two years ago this weekend. What more excuse do I need to share an excerpt of Finding God Along the Way with you? This is from Chapter 25, “Pausing.” It picks up in Tudela, after Fr. José doctored Porter’s and my disastrous feet, shook his head, and gave us directions to the train station.

Sunrise over the Basilica of Nuestra Señora del Pilar in Zaragoza

There’s an old tale in which Himalayan sherpas (or, in another version, African tribesmen) are hired by a group of American trekkers to transport their supplies. After a few days of walking fast and far, the locals sit down and refuse to move for several hours—waiting, it’s explained, for their souls to catch up with their bodies. Although I didn’t have the liberty of such on-the-spot refusal along the Camino, I did come to appreciate the power of the pause.

My longest was the three days I spent in the city of Zaragoza. On a Monday morning, Porter and I caught the train from Tudela, ensconced ourselves in a café so I could write for a while, then walked slowly to the Hotel Sauce. Doing our best to approach this wide-open day with wide-open spirits, we lingered wherever we saw something interesting. We stopped in a hardware store for a carabiner to secure the straps of Porter’s old suitcase and visited a department store—El Corte Inglés—to invest in new hiking socks. That brief stroll recalled us to ourselves, reminding us how much we enjoy exploring a new city. It also helped us see beyond our transitory struggles, anchoring us in the surpassing goodness of our life together.

Despite our having a free day on Tuesday, by Wednesday morning my feet were still awful, and Porter was feverish—felled by the slow-moving stomach virus that had been making its way through the group. We would have to linger in Zaragoza for one more day. Our hotel room had a bathtub with a broad ledge at one end, allowing me to indulge in two refreshing pastimes while Porter slept: soaking my feet and perusing the New Yorker magazine I’d optimistically chucked in my suitcase.

Late [the next] afternoon, I made a long, solo visit to the Basilica of Nuestra Señora del Pilar—Our Lady of the Pillar—whose origins were the stuff of legend. When St. James began evangelizing the Iberian peninsula in the first century, the story goes (preaching the Gospel “to the ends of the earth”), he almost despaired of bringing the Christian faith to that pagan land. One day, while he was deep in prayer along the banks of the Ebro River, the Blessed Mother appeared to him atop a rosy pillar, encouraging him not to forsake his mission.

Despite COVID restrictions, visitors still can touch a bit of the titular pillar.

Today, the cavernous interior of the Basilica houses an intimate chapel where a tiny Mary statue sits atop a pillar of pink jasper. Even though the Basilica felt cold and empty, the chapel was warm with the devotion of many visitors; I was lucky to witness a weekly ceremony where children receive a special blessing and get their picture taken with the statue. Pausing in prayer, I felt something shift in me; heading back to the hotel, I realized that I was walking much more easily. Like the apostle James in that same place almost two millennia ago, I felt a renewed hopefulness and a readiness to rejoin my friends on the road the next morning.

Though the three-day break in Zaragoza was a great blessing, pauses did not need to be long to be restorative. On our steepest climbs, when the grade was fierce, I allowed myself to stop for a few deep breaths every ten steps. Count to ten; stop and breathe. Count to ten; stop and breathe. In addition to getting much-needed oxygen to my lungs and leg muscles, this strategy kept hope in view. I knew that in seven . . . five . . . three more steps, I could take a brief, blissful pause, until the terrain grew merciful, and I could press on without stopping.

The most delightful pauses arrived unexpectedly. Occasionally, as we walked through the woods, a clearing would open and—voilà—a café where we could grab a quick cortado and use real restrooms. Fr. José never told us they were coming. This was consistent with his desire to keep us in the present moment, though I suspect he also relished being able offer us a pleasant surprise. Those periodic oases of rest lasted just long enough to refill my well of gratitude before starting out again.

Perhaps my insight here seems obvious. Take a break; do you really need me to tell you this? But maybe you do; maybe, like me, you tend to soldier on. Maybe you never take a sick day (or didn’t, until COVID made bringing your germs to work seem less heroic). Maybe you wouldn’t dream of closing your eyes for five minutes after lunch. Maybe you stare at the Sunday crossword puzzle long after your brain has stopped generating solutions, or routinely accept diminishing returns for your labor in exchange for the ego boost you get from thinking of yourself as a person who “never quits.”

So, in case you do need to hear it, I’ll say it again: There is power in the pause. Whether for a moment or an hour, a day or a week, a well-timed pause can reconnect us to ourselves, giving us fresh energy and perspective. More importantly, the pause can reconnect us to God—inventor of the Sabbath, after all—for whom accomplishment is never everything.

You know who knew this? Jesus. He routinely slipped away from a life of preaching and miracle-working to pause, pray, and recharge. “Come to me, all who labor and find life burdensome, and I will give you rest,” he said—not “and I’ll give you more to do!” Holy pausing is not about taking the easy way out or shirking our share of life’s burdens. It’s about acknowledging our utter dependence on God, who alone provides strength for the journey.

Cover image by Alexander Gresbek from Pixabay

A red cardinal in a tree in winter
Grief, Retreats, Spirituality, Writing

Paula D’Arcy

Christine Eberle

Part of the Thankful Thursday Series

“Wait, you know Paula D’Arcy?” I’ve loved Paula’s writing for decades; my Camino buddy Jane Lafave might as well have told me she’d been hanging out in Ann Patchett’s kitchen! Jane explained that she’d known the author for many years, since going on a pilgrimage she led to Notre Dame (Paris) as part of her grief ministry.

Paula D’Arcy

The ability to write or speak authentically about loss is hard earned, and Paula D’Arcy paid a terrible entrance price to the world of grief ministers. When she was a young mother, pregnant with her second child, her family was struck by a drunk driver. She awoke in the hospital, alone except for the child in her womb. Her beloved husband and twenty-one-month-old daughter were gone.

That she built a beautiful life in the wake of such tragedy is a testimony to the power of resurrection. I first encountered the story in her 2004 book Sacred Threshold: Crossing the Inner Barrier to a Deeper Love. When my mother died a few years later, I clung to D’Arcy’s next book, When People Grieve. It is full of sanity-saving wisdom and practical advice about the physical, mental, and emotional aftermath of a profound loss. I owe much of my patience with the slow course of grief to her gentle guidance.

D’Arcy’s devastating accident was almost fifty years ago. What defines her life now is not the tragedy, but her consequent commitment to helping others keep the doors of their hearts propped open, even in the midst of grief. She is the founder of the Red Bird Foundation, whose mission is to assist others in the transformation of pain and the restoration of hope.

What defines her life is not the tragedy, but her consequent commitment to helping others keep the doors of their hearts propped open . . .”

I am thrilled to announce that Paula soon will be offering a retreat via Zoom through the SSJ Center for Spirituality in Ocean Grove, NJ. Mark your calendars for Thursday, February 13 from 6-8 p.m. for “Beauty Beyond Loss: Finding Your Way Through the Mystery of Grief and Gratitude.” I just signed up; you can learn more and register here.

Knowing that pilgrimage has been a meaningful part of Paula D’Arcy’s life, I asked my friend Jane if she could reach out to her on my behalf. Paula read my manuscript, then swiftly responded with these lovely words: Finding God Along the Way is equal parts adventure and strong spiritual experience; I felt like I was being given a private retreat as I read along. In this beautifully written book, Eberle encourages readers to risk what it means to step into the unknown each day, putting the Camino experience within every person’s reach.

According to the Talmud, every blade of grass has an angel bending over it, whispering “Grow, grow, grow!” For every angel on earth who whispers hope into the hearts of grieving people, I am truly grateful.

Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality, Writing

Imagining the Gospel: A Reflection on Mark 10

Christine Eberle

This is the longest lead-time I’ve ever had on an assignment.

At the August 2023 Ignatian Creators Summit, participants volunteered to write imaginative encounters with Gospel texts for the coming liturgical year; the 28th Sunday of Ordinary Time (October 13) fell to me. I began thinking about it immediately, and even posted a mid-point “work in progress” blog (including a homemade sonnet) when Mark 10:17-30 popped up as a daily Mass reading in May.

Here at last is the “final” product. (Scare quotes only because no wrestling with this challenging reading is ever the last word.)

Enjoy!

Imagining the Gospel: The Rich Man’s Question
a pile of open books
Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality, Writing

Lost in Translation

Christine Eberle

I really ought to get over it. The “new” translation of the New American Bible hasn’t been new since I was in college (1986), and it’s been in liturgical use for more than two decades now. But, every once in a while, something about the revised edition hits my ear badly and sets my head shaking again. This was one of those days.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is on his way to heal the dying daughter of synagogue leader Jairus when they are halted by an afflicted woman who (literally) reaches out for a cure by touching the tassel of Jesus’ cloak. The ensuing conversation delays the trip to Jairus’ house long enough for people to arrive with news that the child has died. Turning to the stricken father, Jesus says . . .

“Do not be afraid; just have faith.”

Seriously?

I suspect it’s the word “just” that bugs me. Such a dismissive little word. Like the “Just Say No” anti-drug campaign of the 80’s, or Nike’s “Just Do It” commercials, the reality is so much harder than the word “just” implies. In the old (1970) New American Bible—the version engraved on my heart—Jesus says: “Fear is useless; what is needed is trust.” That has always moved me. “Fear is useless” sounds so much stronger than “Do not be afraid.”

I remember, in grad school, learning about the continuum of approaches to biblical translation. On one end is literal translation–as close as possible to word-for-word. On the other is paraphrase–rendering the ancient languages in chatty, accessible prose. In the middle is something called dynamic equivalence, which aims to convey the meaning of the original as fluently as possible in the new language. As I understand it, this was the intent of the 1970 NAB, but it was perceived as having gone too far. The 1986 version is more literal, but to me it feels like they’ve sucked the poetry out of all my favorite texts.

I’m on this today not to lobby for the old translation—clearly, that ship has sailed—but because of a realization that hit me as I was fussing about it.

Last week, I reviewed the suggested copyedits for my new book, including the insertion of translation acronyms after every Scripture citation. In addition to the New American Bible Revised Edition (NABRE), I’ve use the New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE), the King James and New King James Versions (KJV & NKJV), and even something called the Complete Jewish Bible (CJB). What is wrong with me? I wondered as I went through the text. Why can’t I just pick a translation and stick with it? (Hah! Once again, “just” is harder than it sounds.) This morning, I realized why: it’s because the translation in my head doesn’t exist anymore, so I’m forever searching for the one that comes closest.

The next time a line of Scripture catches your attention, I highly recommend visiting Bible Gateway, where you can see it in over sixty English translations. (But not the 1970 NAB; for that, you have to haunt used bookshops like I do!) Perhaps you’ll discover a nuance you hadn’t grasped, or a phrasing that speaks to your present circumstances. The most important thing is that you let the Word “dwell in you richly” (to cite many translations of Colossians 3:16), remaining close to your heart where it can make a difference in how you approach the world.

As for me, I’m just going to keep muttering “fear is useless” . . .

Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality

Do You Not Care?

Christine Eberle

“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mark 4:38)

These words from today’s Gospel are on my shortlist of saddest lines in Scripture. It’s right up there with Martha’s and Mary’s response when Jesus finally shows up after Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

In the other accounts of the Storm at Sea, the disciples simply cry out “Lord, save us! We are perishing” (Matthew 8), or “Master, master, we are perishing” (Luke 8). Those sound like the desperate prayers any of us might utter in a crisis. But in Mark, they say “Do you not care that we are perishing?” Ouch. (I suspect that “Do you not care?” was the subtext of the sisters’ words as well—implying that a caring Jesus would have arrived in time to save his friend.)

Mark’s Gospel is shorter and terser than than the other two, so it’s unusual that his account would have more words. It’s also the oldest Gospel, though, so perhaps the other evangelists edited out the apostles’ accusation, finding it unseemly. Yet their question strikes me as perfectly human—and refreshingly honest.

Read more: Do You Not Care?

The feeling that we are going under, or that someone we love is about to slip from our grasp, is indeed terrible. This morning, I’m thinking of the people evacuating Ruidoso, New Mexico ahead of raging wildfires, the couple from my parish racing across the country to be there for their son’s brain surgery, and all the suffering souls in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, Sudan, and countless other places. The enormity of what people endure is staggering; feeling like God is asleep or indifferent compounds the misery.

Does knowing that even Jesus’ closest friends doubted his care for them offer any consolation? Does belief in their eventual rescue—the storm stilled, Lazarus raised—offer the least bit of solace when we’re in the thick of our own distress? That, my friends, is a question only you can answer for yourself.

What helps me is remembering how many times I’ve reached the other side of a metaphorical storm—emotional, medical, financial, interpersonal—and found my feet on the damp sand of life’s next chapter. Awareness of what God has done nurtures trust in what God may yet do, so I try to begin from a place of gratitude.

One of my favorite Easter hymns is “Sing with All the Saints in Glory,” set to the tune of Beethoven’s “Hymn to Joy.” It contains these marvelous lines:

All around the clouds are breaking,
Soon the storms of time shall cease;
In God’s likeness we awaken,
Knowing everlasting peace.

The song doesn’t minimize suffering, but it does put it in perspective. No storm lasts forever. We will know relief, whether in this world or the world to come.

Whatever storms you are experiencing right now, I invite you to be as honest with God as Martha, Mary, and those soaking-wet disciples were with Jesus. From that place of honesty, may you grasp the outstretched hands of gratitude and hope, waiting to lead you to a place of peace.

Scripture, Spirituality, Writing

What Happened Next?

Christine Eberle

What treasures from my chest would I not shove
if Jesus looked at me with that much love?

For months now, I’ve been playing around with the story of the Rich Man in Mark (which you can read here) as an assignment for the Jesuit Media Lab’s Imagining the Gospel series. It’s the Gospel for the 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time (October 13), so I have months left to muse on it. But when I began my morning with Pray As You Go, I discovered that it is also the Gospel for today—Monday of the 8th Week of Ordinary Time. So it felt right to share with you my thoughts in progress.

Although poetry is not my medium, something about this passage kept pulling me in that direction—specifically, the discipline and economy demanded by a sonnet. Perhaps Jesus’ invitation to pare down the rich man’s possessions made me want to do the same with my words?

I’m not saying it’s a good sonnet; mostly, it feels like a high school English assignment—compressing my thoughts into fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. But the ending couplet that began this post has stayed with me:

What treasures from my chest would I not shove
if Jesus looked at me with that much love?

The story begins with the rich man running up to Jesus, ostensibly seeking guidance but quick to say he’s kept all the Commandments from his youth. (Oy. Brag much?) We know how it ends: after Jesus tells him he’s only lacking one thing (go, sell all you have, give to the poor, and come follow me), the man goes away sad, for his possessions are many. But sometimes we forget the middle, the pivot-point: “Jesus, looking at him, loved him.”

Why did Jesus love him? I don’t think it was his spiritual resume. (Oh, you’ve kept all the Commandments?) Perhaps he was touched by the man’s earnestness or even his anxiety—that someone who’d followed all the rules would still have such deep unease about the path to salvation.

On the other hand, maybe asking “why” Jesus loved him is not the right question. Maybe that spontaneous, compassionate regard is the nature of the beholder, not the merit of the beheld. Maybe to be looked at by Jesus is to be loved by him.

So, what happened next? Was that love transformative? Did the rich man go away sad because he knew he wouldn’t be able to tear himself away from all those possessions—or because he knew how much work lay ahead of him?

I hope it was the latter, but the pressing question today is simply this: Can we allow ourselves to stand in that divine gaze long enough to be transformed by the knowledge of how deeply we are loved?

“What Happened Next?” (with apologies to Shakespeare)

As on a journey they were setting out,
I bet the muttered epithets were rife
When some rich guy delayed them with a shout:
What must I do to gain eternal life?

Our Lord, so patient, listed out the Ten
Commandments. Oh, I’ve kept them from my youth!
“You have but only one thing lacking, then:
Sell all and give, then come and follow Truth.”

Poor foolish burdened ass, you well may say—
Too tied to “stuff” for generous reply.
But I suspect that, as he walked away,
Sheer magnitude of work’s what made him sigh.

What treasures from my chest would I not shove
If Jesus looked at me with that much love?

And here’s the final version, if you’re curious.

Spirituality

Here Comes Valentine’s (Ash Wednes) Day Again!

Christine Eberle

When this weird overlap of sacred and secular observances happened in 2018, it was the first time in 73 years. But we get a do-over now, and another in 2029, so I guess we should pay attention.

Here, then, is a lightly edited version of my previous post on the topic . . .

Bleeding heart flowers with link to previous blog post

I’m not sure how many people are dismayed by the collision of Catholic and Hallmark holidays. Probably not as many as the Internet would have us believe. But those who would persuade us that this is a conflict are misunderstanding both days, selling us—literally—on an artificial, commercial understanding of love.

Every February, we’re told that we should “say it with flowers,” and the price of roses shoots up. Grocery stores’ seasonal aisles fill—on the day after Christmas—with giant heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.  Jewelry stores run commercials featuring gifts in the the “now I know you love me” price range.

But real love – romantic or otherwise – has never been about that stuff.  Real love is much more akin to the three disciplines of Lent—prayer, fasting, and almsgiving:

Flowers v. Prayer
Whatever the “it” is that needs to be said, I’d rather have the words. Sincere words / meaningful conversation / shared vulnerability—things that don’t wither up and die by next Wednesday. It’s what we need in our personal relationships, romantic or otherwise, and it’s what we need in our relationship with God. Showing up. Saying what we feel. Listening for the response. Being vulnerable before the One we love.  That’s a pretty good description of prayer, and an open invitation to spend a little extra time with God this season.

Candy v. Fasting
I do not understand why chocolate is invested with so much power: THE symbol of Valentine’s Day and THE thing to give up for Lent. Real love is always more about sacrifice than consumption. And by sacrifice I don’t mean “Oh no, I can’t eat that; it’s Lent!”  I mean that we give up stuff for each other all the time. Parents give up sleep for their infants; teachers give up weekends to grade their students’ papers; housemates give up couch time to do the dishes; college students give up whatever when a friend needs a ride or a shoulder or a study partner. That’s the spirit in which we can frame our Lenten sacrifices, too . . . not setting up some sort of Olympic deprivation hurdle for ourselves, but simply asking what we can let go of in order to create more space in our hearts / minds / lives / schedules. This, then, frees us to be more responsive to the needs of those we love and those God loves—which is everyone.

Jewelry v. Almsgiving
TV commercials would have us believe that love is best expressed with a jaw-dropping price tag. We know that’s not true. But real love is generous. Love is open-eyed and openhearted. Love sees the need—the need of the person right in front of us, and the needs of people we will never meet. And love responds—sometimes with money, other times with attention or service or time. Lent invites us to that kind of generosity, and calls it almsgiving.

So as we move into the season of Lent, go ahead and let this divine alignment of Valentine’s Ash Wednesday set the tone.

  • Carve out quality time with the God you love.
  • Give up something that gets in the way of your freedom to love.
  • And let that love overflow with generosity.

Blessings as you go . . .

Christine