Requiescat in pace, Papa

Pope Benedict XVI passed away this morning. He spent the last years of his long life in solitude, praying for the Church. At 95, his death wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it is still a loss. And, I think, heaven’s gain. It is not a sad occasion. It is peaceful, calm, serenely joyous—Christmasy.

He was born Joseph Ratzinger the Saturday before Easter. He died Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI the Saturday after Christmas. It is also the feast day of Pope Sylvester I, an early holy pope and patron of Benedictines. It is fitting for a man who drew so much from symbolism.

His legacy will be mixed, I think. Obviously, he will be infamously remembered for stepping down from the papacy.

He was born in Bavaria in 1927. In 1939 he enrolled in minor seminary. In 1942, the school closed due to the war. He was conscripted into the Hitler Youth, though it was well-established that his family opposed Nazism. In 1945 he was conscripted into military training but deserted upon news of American advancement and returned home. In late 1945, he and his brother entered seminary and ordained in 1951. He served at a parish in Munich. He continued to study, writing on St. Augustine and St. Bonaventure. He became a professor in 1958, teaching at Freising College, University of Bonn, and University of Munster.

In 1962, the Second Vatican Council convened. He was invited for his academic and theological knowledge and was known as a reformer, part of the theologians at the time calling for church reform, a renewed focus on social issues, and ecumenical cooperation.

In 1969, he cofounded the theological journal Communio with other heavy-hitting theologians such as Hans Urs von Balthasar and Henri de Lubac.

In 1977 he became Archbishop of Munich and Freising. His episcopal motto was “cooperatores veritatis,” “cooperators of the truth.” This appointment also led to him receiving the title of cardinal from Pope Paul VI.

In 1981, Pope John Paul II named him Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, basically the top theologian in the Church. He served in this office for the next 20 years.

He joined the European Academy of Sciences and Arts just a year after its foundation in 1990. His writings continued to strongly defend the Faith, and he became known as a conservative voice, though he maintained that his stances never changed from his “reformer” days.

Under this position in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, he was responsible for enforcing internal Church investigations, including those of priests accused of sexual abuse. His handling would be thoroughly criticized when the Church sex abuse scandal broke in 2002.

In 1997, when he turned 70, he requested to leave the Congregation of the Doctrine of Faith and to become an archivist in the Vatican Secret Archives and a librarian in the Vatican Library (because who wouldn’t want that?). Unfortunately for him, Pope John Paul II denied his request.

Then, in 2005, he was elected pope after four ballots. It was said that he was planning to retire after the conclave and said that "At a certain point, I prayed to God 'please don't do this to me'...Evidently, this time He didn't listen to me." He took the name Benedict after Pope Benedict X (who was pope during WWI) and St. Benedict (patron of Europe and founder of Benedictines).

In his first public words to the world as pope, he said, “The Cardinals have elected me, a simple, humble laborer in the vineyard of the Lord. The fact that the Lord knows how to work and to act even with insufficient instruments comforts me, and above all I entrust myself to your prayers.”

One of my personal favorite actions of his as pope was naming St. Hildegard of Bingen as the fourth female (34^th total) Doctor of the Church. He also created the Council for the Promotion of the New Evangelization, aimed at understanding the current circumstances of people and belief and the modern means of effectively reaching people.

In 2013, he famously announced that would be resigning the papacy, the first pope to do so since 1294. He was close to 86, the fourth oldest pope in history. He said his deteriorating health could not meet the physical and mental demands of the papacy. He had seen the deterioration of Pope John Paul II and sought a different path. He spent his post-papacy life at a monastery in the Vatican. He wrote some more, returning to theology. But mostly he became a hermit, praying in solitude and offering brotherly friendship to the new pope, Francis. I think if he had remained pope, he wouldn’t have lived so long. And it’s nice to think that he found peace in a quieter life in his last years.

I think in time it will be his writings and theology that will be remembered. He was more an academic than a public figure. His books, homilies, and encyclicals are brilliant. If you haven’t, you should check them out. I know I’ll be revisiting his words in the coming days and probably years.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.

"Truth and love coincide in Christ. To the extent that we draw close to Christ, in our own lives too, truth and love are blended. Love without truth would be blind; truth without love would be like 'a clanging cymbal.'" -homily at opening of conclave that elected him, April 18, 2005

Joy to All the World

Every year, the world experiences one moment when 99% of the human population experience daylight. It mostly goes by unnoticed; after all, it looks like any other day from our perspective. We don’t know we’re sharing in this moment. But how great would it be if we could appreciate the moment, find solidary among each other all over the world?

The “Christmas spirit” is sort of like that. There is a light in the darkness that we all want to see and share with others. There is a sense that we’re all feeling it at the same time—the magic in the air of a shared moment. Aren’t we all anticipating? Aren’t we all joyful? Aren’t we all seeing the cozy glow amidst the dark winter?

Of course, that’s just a feeling. Some don’t celebrate. Struggles continue. There is pain and loneliness, as there always is. On July 8 at 11:15 GMT, millions are experiencing nighttime. Millions more are on the edge of twilight; it might as well look like night. The shared moment isn’t all-encompassing. It’s difficult to get 8 billion people on the same page at the same time.

But the Church offers us as close as a shared moment as we can get. It may oscillate a bit with time zones, but we say the same prayers, read the same verses, celebrate the same holidays together. I don’t need to know you to know we’re sharing a feeling, experiencing the same joy of the coming king. We’re looking up at the same strange star. We’re looking down into the same humble manger.

The surrounding lights and flowers and decorations and sweet smells tell us that others around us are all on the same page. It’s the darkest time of year, but we all are celebrating light. In fact, we’re surrounded by light—the strings of lights, the candles, the goodwill. We can and do find solidarity with one another. We appreciate the season while it lasts. Together we acknowledge a shared moment—across time and space and culture and language. 

In one brilliant moment, amidst the dark and chaos, the Light of the World enters, and we begin to experience our salvation.        

Monday Motivation: Alfred Delp

 “Advent is the time of promise; it is not yet the time of fulfillment. We are still in the midst of everything and in the logical inexorability and relentlessness of destiny.…Space is still filled with the noise of destruction and annihilation, the shouts of self-assurance and arrogance, the weeping of despair and helplessness. But round about the horizon the eternal realities stand silent in their age-old longing. There shines on them already the first mild light of the radiant fulfillment to come. From afar sound the first notes as of pipes and voices, not yet discernable as a song or melody. It is all far off still, and only just announced and foretold. But it is happening, today.” ― Alfred Delp, Advent of the Heart: Seasonal Sermons And Prison Writings 1941-1944

Wherefore art Thou?

It’s the time of year with the best music—the classical, jaunty hymns of Advent/Christmas. I welcome them like old friends and belt them out. And on the first Sunday of Advent, as we began the processional, I had to endure the eye-rolling disappointment of an “updated” rendition of “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus.” No “thees” or “thous” (outside the title). “You” and “your” choppily pushed in. Is it really so hard to leave the lines as we’ve sung them for generations, I thought. What’s so bad about singing “thy?”

Sure, those words aren’t used in everyday speech anymore. They’ve become “church” words, almost formalized. But it wasn’t always that way. “Thou” was originally the singular second person pronoun; “ye” was the plural second person pronoun. Around the 1300s as Middle English was shifting into Modern English, “ye/you” began to be used as a singular second person pronoun, particularly when addressing a superior. This was in part due to the French practice of addressing superiors or strangers in the plural (the royal “we’). Subsequently, “thee/thou” remained the “common” singular second person address, for friends, family, or inferiors.

Over time, “thee/thou” fell out of use as impolite. In social introductions, it was considered to err on the side of formally, so “you” became the default second person pronoun. But it persisted in familial settings, and in hymns. What I find so interesting about the formal/informal distinction with “you” and “thou” is that all those hymns addressing God use “thou.” What sounds so formal to our modern ears is in fact a familial phrase—it’s addressing God not in a formal, superior way but in an intimate, domestic way. He is our father. He is our friend. He knows us more intimately than anyone.

Singing hymns, knowing the “thous” are addresses of familiarity, makes the hymns more intimate. It’s no secret that I find most modern Christian worship songs weak or annoying. They hold no nostalgia for me, they’re repetitive and theologically susceptible, and they often just aren’t that fun to sing. I rarely enjoy a song written after 1950, and I almost never have had one help me pray. They’re distracting to my disposition. And even a familiar song that’s been “updated” with gender neutral or less “archaic” language takes me out of the prayerful singing. (I do protest by singing the “right” words of “Be Thou My Vision.”)

Language evolves, and it makes sense that in a more democratic world the distinction between formal and informal has disappeared. But I do think there is a loss when words disappear. As “you” became singular, we have started to need a distinguishing word for the plural (like “y’all”). Words convey specific meaning, even as the meanings change. “Thee/thou” may not be used outside church hymns and wedding vows, but they still have a place there—the intimate, holy second person pronoun.

Monday Motivation: Father Jacques Philippe

 "The person God loves with the tenderness of a Father, the person he wants to touch and to transform with his love, is not the person we've have liked to be or ought to be. It's the person we are. God doesn't love 'ideal persons' or 'virtual beings.' He loves actual, real people. He is not interested in saintly figures in stained glass windows but in us sinners." - Father Jacques Philippe, Interior Freedom

Colors of the Wind

It was the peak of autumn last week; the leaves were hanging on and showing off their colors. I was reminded of something Pope Francis said during his trip to Canada earlier in the year:

“Among its many beauties, I think of the immense and spectacular maple forests that make the Canadian countryside uniquely colorful and variegated. I would like to take as my starting point the symbol par excellence of these lands, the maple leaf, which, starting from the seal of Québec, rapidly spread to become the emblem that appears on the national flag.

“That development took place in relatively recent times, but the maple trees preserve the memory of many past generations, going back well before the colonists arrived on Canadian soil. The native peoples extracted maple sap, with which they concocted wholesome and healthy syrups. This makes us think of their industriousness and their constant concern to protect the land and the environment, in fidelity to a harmonious vision of creation as an open book that teaches human beings to love the Creator and to live in symbiosis with other living creatures. We can learn much from this ability to listen attentively to God, to persons and to nature….

“The large size of the maple leaves, which absorb polluted air and in turn give out oxygen, invite us to marvel at the beauty of creation and to appreciate the wholesome values present in the indigenous cultures. They can inspire us all, and help to heal harmful tendencies to exploitation. Exploiting creation, relationships, time and basing human activity solely on what proves useful and profitable….”

In his reflection on the maple leaf, a simple leaf and yet also a symbol of an entire country, he noted how connected respect for nature and respect for human rights are. We are part of nature, even though we try to isolate and exploit it. We try to deny our connection to the earth, and we try to deny our connection to our brothers and sisters who are different from us. Loving God means loving his creation, from stewardship of the land to harmony with fellow humans.

Through this lens, he apologized for the way indigenous Canadians have been treated in the (not so long ago) past:

“I think above all of the policies of assimilation and enfranchisement, also involving the residential school system, which harmed many indigenous families by undermining their language, culture and worldview. In that deplorable system, promoted by the governmental authorities of the time, which separated many children from their families, different local Catholic institutions had a part. For this reason, I express my deep shame and sorrow, and, together with the bishops of this country, I renew my request for forgiveness for the wrong done by so many Christians to the indigenous peoples. It is tragic when some believers, as happened in that period of history, conform themselves to the conventions of the world rather than to the Gospel.”

He stressed the importance of seeing every culture, every group, every individual as worthy, part of our ecosystem:

“ …the poor, migrants, the elderly, the sick, the unborn… They are the forgotten ones in “affluent societies”; they are the ones who, amid general indifference, are cast aside like dry leaves to be burnt. 

“Instead, the rich multicolored foliage of the maple tree reminds us of the importance of the whole, the importance of developing human communities that are not blandly uniform, but truly open and inclusive. And just as every leaf is fundamental for the luxuriant foliage of the branches, so each family, as the essential cell of society, is to be given its due, because ‘the future of humanity passes through the family’”

It was a good speech, and, while there is still so much work and healing to do regarding the past actions against indigenous peoples, I hope it gave some comfort and hope.

As the leaves change color and fall, they don’t seem dead; rather nature feels alive in their vibrant colors and rustling noise and the crisp, clean chill in the air. There is change, movement. Can we slow down and appreciate it? Can we respect nature’s cycle, instead of rushing to turn on heaters and rake away leaves and complain about cold? Can we just let nature be, instead of exploiting and building on top of it?

And can we see the connection between caring for the environment and caring for our neighbors? It is the poorest and least powerful who are suffering from climate change the most. We need their voices in discussions about policies to reduce harm. We need to support them in their struggles. We need to support anyone struggling. It takes a mindset that the human in front of me and the land beneath me is more important than my level of comfort or potential profits.

“Through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” -Revelation 22:2   

St. Wiborada

St. Wiborada was born in the late ninth century to Swabian nobility in what is now Klingna, Switzerland. The family was faithful and took care of the poor and sick. After a pilgrimage to Rome, Wiborada’s brother Hatto decided to become a Benedictine monk at the Abbey of St. Gall. After their parents died, Wiborada joined him, becoming a Benedictine nun, also at St. Gall.

She learned Latin, and one of her chores was binding the books in the monastery library. While there, she was charged with an infraction and subjected to a trial by fire. She was exonerated, but the ordeal led her to leave St. Gall and seek a life of solitude.

In 887, the bishop of Konstanz arranged for her to become an anchorite attached to St. George Church near the monastery. She lived there for four years and then in 891 moved to a cell attached to St. Magnus of Fussen Church nearby.

Wiborada became known for her gift of prophecy, and people would come seek her advice. In 925, she predicted a Hungarian invasion of the region. The priests at St. Magnus and the Benedictines at St. Gall heeded her vision and hid the books and wine before escaping to nearby caves. Wiborada was urged by her abbot to take refuge, but she chose to remain in her cell. 

On May 1, 926, the Magyars indeed invaded. They burned the church and broke the roof into Wiborada’s cell. An invader took a shepherd’s ax and cut her skull. She died the next day. Rachildis, a fellow anchorite and follow of Wiborada, had also stayed. She survived the attack and testified. Wiborada was declared a martyr.

St. Wiborada’s feast day is May 2. In Switzerland and Germany, she is the patron of libraries and librarians.

Our Lady of the Pillar

The first Marian apparition reportedly happened on Oct. 12, 40. It was actually a case of bilocation as Mary was still alive and living in Jerusalem. The Apostle James the Greater had reached Spain preaching the Gospel. He was feeling discouraged and praying by the river in Zaragoza (Saragossa). Mary appeared to him standing on a nearby pillar, accompanied by angels, and offered James consolation and calling him back to Jerusalem.  

Although references to this apparition are not seen until the 12^th century, Zaragoza has evidence of Marian devotion dating back to Roman times. Votive images of Mary would be placed on columns or pillars. The church in Zaragoza, reportedly built by St. James, includes an image of Mary on a pillar. In a mystical account of the apparition written in 1665, it is said the angels who accompanied Mary built a pillar of marble and a miniature image of Mary with the Christ Child. The wooden statue on a pillar of jasper is still in the chapel.  

James did indeed return to Jerusalem, where he was beheaded in 44. His body was returned to the land of his mission, and he is buried in Santiago, the conclusion of the Camino.

Because the feast of Our Lady of the Pillar falls on the same day as the European discovery of the Americas (Oct. 12, 1492), Our Lady of the Pillar was named the patroness of the Hispanic World.

Like a Flock of Goats

Protests have recently risen up over women’s hair. It seems so innocuous, what a woman wears or doesn’t wear on her head. And yet people have died over it and are still dying over it.

In Iran, a young woman was arrested and beaten for not “properly” wearing her hajib. Her death at the hands of the morality police sparks protests across the country, not only against the hajib mandates but against the entire religious regime. Women are defying the law, taking off the hajib in public, cutting their hair.

In India people are protesting for the right to wear the hajib on school campuses, where uniform dress codes made no exception for religious coverings. When Muslim women began protesting by wearing their hajibs to class, some Hindi women counterprotested by wearing saffron scarfs, saying they should be allowed to wear religious garb if the Muslim students were allowed to wear hajib. The protests spread to other universities, and some Hindi students joined the Muslim students in protesting for their rights to wear hajibs.

The women in Iran and India are fighting for the same thing: the right to choose how to express their faith. They want to be free to practice their faith as they believe it. Some Muslims believe in veiling and others don’t.

I can’t speak on the Islamic arguments. As someone who often veils at Mass, I can say if I was told I had to veil, I probably wouldn’t appreciate veiling as much, might even resent. Until the 1980s, women were supposed to cover their hair at Mass, and other denominations have histories of prayer coverings. Sometimes the rules are strict and heavily regulated. Sometimes it's just the social custom. Some Muslim women only cover their hair at the mosque. As do some Christians and other faiths. And of course, socially in the West, women historically covered their heads in some form when out and about. It's rather recent that covering one's hair wasn't a part of the social custom. But that only makes the religious debate about if and why and who says more intense. 

Since veiling in church is no longer a rule, the meaning has changed: it is an individual choice, an express of piety, a sacramental to aid in the practice of faith. For someone without the baggage of having it forced upon me, it's always been a personal matter, one that isn't anyone else's business and not a stance on how conservatives my views (religious or political) might be. I am free from all that. But others, who have had it forced upon them, may feel the exact opposite and worship more freely without the weight of its history on their head. It is oppressive when imposed, empowering when chosen.

It's easy to see the sexism in the regulation of the practice. There is centuries’ worth of men debating if the veil must be opaque, if it must touch the collar, how much hair might show, etc. The risk of women going against the rules regarding their hair has varies from side glances to fines to imprisonment and death. While part of me does wish we still had the social mores of hat and gloves, again, being told you have to wear a head covering is simply sexist. It implies there is something obscene about a woman’s hair—often that she’s trying to entice men or she’s brazen and easy. The idea that hair covering is about modesty implies an exposed head is immodest. It also implies that men are too weak to operate in public if they see a woman’s hair, yet the onus is on women to hide their appearance, not on men to practice basic self-control.  

And regulating the other way—not allowing covering—is a form of secularism that punishes religious practice. (I do think the argument is different when it comes to dress that covers the face, like the burka, because security, identification, social cues that’s read through facial expression, etc, comes into play.) If a woman must choose between following her faith or going out in public, she will often choose her faith, thus being excluded from participation in the larger community. The very basis of religious freedom is that we should be able to practice our faith and be a member of society.

It can get difficult to wade into the details and try to parse what is religious and what is cultural; they are often so intertwined that there is no clear delineation. But the point of the recent protests is that whether women choose to veil or not veil, they are demanding that their clothing, their faith, their right to exist in public, be in their hands.

 

“How beautiful you are, my friend, how beautiful you are! Your eyes are doves behind your veil. Your hair is like a flock of goats streaming down Mount Gilead.” – Song of Songs 4:1

God Save the King

Queen Elizabeth II died on Sept. 8 at the age of 96. She had reigned as queen for 70 years. Although several monarchies still exist, the British royal family is easily the most famous and most watched royal family. Some rightly criticize the existence of monarchies, especially in countries where they have reduced power and elected officials. Yet, the families endure. And the fascination with monarchs and royalty continues. An estimated four billion people will tune in to watch the queen’s funeral tomorrow—a funeral procession and long Anglican church service doesn’t sound like record-breaking television, but we flock to the solemn pageantry.

All the pomp and pageantry makes sense when it’s for someone beloved, when it marks stability, order, tradition. We are sad, but we are safe, it says. We mourn, but all will be well. This has happened before, and we know what to do.

I think in general people want a monarch, a caring custodian who makes right and just decisions, guides our endeavors, and protects us from our enemies. But power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. There are no benevolent dictators. The people have risen up against rulers again and again due to abuse of power and corruption. Even democracy becomes tainted by nepotism, oligarchs, and lobbyist bribes. We create systems and checks and balances to try to fight against the corruption of power. But we hold onto this idea that a good leader can emerge, that a good leader will make everything alright and bring out the best in us. We want a leader worth following.

Many don’t remember any other ruler on the British throne. Elizabeth was the monarchy. She was well-beloved, grandmotherly. She was proper and above scandal (even when those closest to her weren’t). She was what we want in a leader, one of those people who seemed above it all, wise and in control. All the pomp and pageantry makes sense when it’s for someone beloved, when it marks stability, order, tradition. We are sad, but we are safe, it says. We mourn, but all will be well. This has happened before, and we know what to do.

When someone comes along that appears to genuinely care and duty more than wealth and power, we laud her. We cling to her, carve her likeness in stone, mythologize her to serve as an example in the future. Washington, Lincoln, Churchill: flawed individuals but heralded. The legend, the hagiography, tells us good leaders can exist. So we hope. We look for the worthy. In our best days, we demand it, and leaders face just consequences for failing us.

When a good leader dies, the mourn both the person and the legend. Will someone of equal virtue step up? Will our next leader be good or bad? Was our security tied up with a larger-than-life, too-good-to-be-true figure? The pageantry comforts us, but is it true demonstration or illusion?

When we say Christ is king, we done mean another national monarch like our earthly kings, or presidents, or mayors. Christ is that monarch we want, the one who carefully oversees his land and people, who would sacrifice himself for our good, who seeks our wellness and decries accumulating wealth, and who dispenses true justice and maintains peace. So, we proclaim “Christ is king."

Wild Goose Chase

There are so many books, blogs, speakers, etc. telling us how to live the faith. So many self-proclaimed experts making a living by encouraging us that we can just need to try this advice, do these prayers, follow these steps and our spiritual lives will deepen and flourish.

I’m not saying all the advice is bad or ill-intentioned. In fact, it probably usually comes from a sincere desire to help people and share the faith. But, faith is so individualized; our journeys progress at different paces, and we require different signs and practices. We can search, but we can’t find the Spirit by following the right step-by-step instructions or attending the right conferences.

The Spirit is beyond our control. Or mine at least. Maybe there are those to have full control over when and where the Spirit moves in them. But I don’t. I cannot plan the times that touch me deeply, that linger with no words for no discernable reason. And I do try to discern.

I can travel across the world to a holy pilgrimage site, a place covered in gold and statues, steeped in centuries of people’s prayers…and not be moved. Then I can walk into a local church whose contemporary architecture and bad music I often deride for an impromptu holy hour…and find words of prayer and contemplation pouring forth. Why not there? Why now? I don’t know. Those moments rarely come with answers, just movement in my soul that lingers in my memory for years. A particular Sunday in my regular pew. A rainy afternoon in Yorkshire. A sudden realization on the highway. Stillness, comfort, confusion but gratitude. Gratitude to God making himself known, for giving me those mystical moments that defy my understanding.

I know it’s a dangerous road to try to chase that high, to try to create those holy moments. I would burn out forcing myself into settings and retreats, devouring materials trying to find the right book, right reflection, right advice that unlocks the key. There is no key. The Spirit isn’t a lock. The Spirit is a bird, free to move as he pleases and land when and where he wants. I can be open. I can be patient. I can be grateful. But I can’t control or capture.

Although most commonly depicted as a dove, the Holy Spirit has also been depicted as a wild goose. Geese are vigilant and protective. They can be disruptive. They are untamed. A wild goose chase is “a hopeless search for something that is impossible to find.” The search, in fact, is full of hope. But we are not finding the Spirit. He is finding us.

Come, Holy Spirit.

St. Nicholas of Flue

St. Nicholas of Flue was born into a wealthy family in Unterwalden, Switzerland in 1417. When he was 21 he joined the army; the cantons of Switzerland were at war at the time. He earned the reputation of a distinguished soldier. In 1447 he married a farmer’s daughter named Dorothea Wyss, and they began to farm in the alpine foothills of Lake Sarnen above Lake Lucerne.

Nicholas continued to serve in the army for seven more years. It was said he would fight with a sword in one hand and a rosary in the other. After leaving the army, he served as a councillor and judge for his canton.

One day, Nicholas received a vision of a lily being eaten by a horse, which he interpreted as his worldly pursuits devouring his spiritual life. He decided to leave everything and devote himself to contemplation. In 1467, he left his wife, their ten children, and his political duties and set up a hermitage and private chapel. (It is said that he only left after Dorothea consented.)

As a hermit, he continued to receive mystical visions. His reputation as a spiritual advisor grew, and people would travel from all over Europe to seek his wisdom. He became known as Brother Klaus. In 1470 Brother Klaus’ chapel became a place of pilgrimage along the Way of St. James.

In 1481, his piety and counsel was credited by both Catholics and Protestants with preventing another civil war between the Swiss cantons.

He still remained in touch with his family. His wife and children were by his side when he died on March 21, 1487.

During World War II, the Swiss bishops promised to make a pilgrimage to Brother Klaus’ if Switzerland was spared from the effects of the war. He became known as the spiritual savoir of Switzerland, and he was canonized in 1947.

St. Nicholas of Flue’s feast day is March 21, except in Germany and Switzerland, where it is celebrated on Sept. 25. He is the patron saint of large families, the Swiss Guard, and Switzerland.

St. Rupert of Salzburg

St. Rupert of Salzburg was born in Worms around 660 into the Merovingian royal family. Little is known about his childhood. He joined the priesthood and did missionary work in Germany. He was elevated to bishop of Worms around 700, but the pagan community forced him out of the city.

The duke of Bavaria invited him to mission to the Bavarian tribes, so Rupert moved to Altotting. From there, he travelled down the Danube and preached, converting many in several towns and villages. Unstable politics along the duchy’s border regions caused him to pause his travelling mission work. He settled in an old, ruined Roman settlement of Juvavum and renamed it Salzburg for the nearby salt mines.

In Salzburg, Christianity had been introduced, but the faith and city had waned in previous years. Rupert reestablished the monastic community, laid the foundations of Salzburg Cathedral, founded a Benedictine nunnery, introduced higher education, and promoted the development of the salt works to bring money into the city. His reforms have earned him the title as founder of the city.

St. Rupert died on Easter Sunday around 710, though some reports say he returned to Worms until 717. His remains were transferred to the Salzburg Cathedral in 774. He is known as the Apostle of the Bavarians and is the patron saint of Salzburg, salt miners, and one of the patrons of Austria. He is often depicted holding a jar of salt. His feast day is March 27 but is celebrated in Austria on September 24, the date his relics returned to his city.

In Him All Things Hold Together

Recently, amidst all the chaos of the current times, the world looked up in amazement at the stellar first photographs from the James Webb Telescope, the farthest, sharpest images of the universe we have seen. The telescope’s images are expected to greatly advance the field of astronomy.

The telescope launched on Christmas Day last year, and its orbit is almost a million miles further out in the solar system than earth. Its mission to capture images of the first stars and light from the very beginning of the universe, to study galaxy and star formation, and to search for the origins of life.

Webb’s infrared technology allows it to find dimmer, cooler, and older objects than we have previously seen. Because the universe is expanding, as light travels, it becomes red-shifted. Webb’s technology is expected to be able to see as far back as just a few hundred million years after the Big Bang. The best of our technology seeks to know our origin, to see the past as clearly as possible.

The first released images were, well, other-worldly. And beautiful. It seems so impossible to adequately comprehend the vastness of the universe—the grandiose size of stars, the vast emptiness of space, the temporal distance that keeps us always looking in the past. The image above of the Carina Nebula, seen two weeks ago, is in reality how it looked 8,500 years ago; it just took that long for the light to reach here.

What are we to make of just grandeur? Some people look at the universe and feel so small on this tiny rock circling a small yellow star in a corner galaxy. And we are small. But not unimportant.

I see the beauty and vastness and grandeur of God’s creation. We focus on our world and ourselves, but his creation is so much bigger than just us. That doesn’t diminish our existence nor does it diminish the love his has for us. He created a universe full of galaxies and nebulas and black holes, and he cares for it so tenderly, so delicately, that he still knows every hair on my head.

Christ was there when those galaxies formed, when those stars first emitted light. Christ will be there when they burn out. The Christ at the beginning of the universe is the same one who walked the streets of Jerusalem 2,000 years ago and same we meet at every Mass now. The earthly, here-and-now is not so different from the vastness of space and all of time.

Go East, Young Woman

During a study abroad more than a decade ago, one of my assignments was to reflect on the difference between touring and travelling—intentions behind going somewhere and the ways once experiences that place. Are to you going to see a particular, popular thing, check it off your list, and go back home? Are you searching to learn more about an area, its people, its customs and open to being changed in the process? Are you a voyeur, a tourist, or a cosmopolitan traveler? It’s not wrong to merely be a tourist, but it’s good to know your intentions and biases when dropping into somewhere foreign. Are you there to be entertained, or are you willing to be changed by your experience?

As I prepare to travel again, the first time out of the country in years, I am reminding myself not to get caught up in the tourism of the places I’m headed, but I am not a tourist but a pilgrim.

I’ve been a pilgrim before, though I probably didn’t call myself that at the time. I’ve been pulled to religious places and gone with spiritual intentions. But this is the first trip fully labeled a pilgrimage, and it’s making me more conscious of insuring the distinction.

Pope Benedict XVI said this about pilgrimage: “To go on pilgrimage is not simply to visit a place to admire its treasures of nature, art or history. To go on pilgrimage really means to step out of ourselves in order to encounter God where he has revealed himself, where his grace has shone with particular splendour and produced rich fruits of conversion and holiness among those who believe.”

Christianity is a tactile faith. God physically became man to be with us. He lived at a specific time in specific places. He physically manifests in Eucharist. Matter matters. We want to touch, draw near. We hold onto relics and walk in the footsteps of those who walked the Christian journey before us.

In the fourth century, St. Helena travelled to Palestine to locate relics and locations related to Christ and the apostles. Recall that Jerusalem had been destroyed in 70; the Temple and other places Jesus would have been had been razed and new buildings had been put up. Helena had to research and inquire to determine where these holy places were (and then use her imperial power to knock down pagan/Roman buildings that had been built on those sites). Many of the churches commemorating specific events in Christ’s life in the Holy Land were built under her direction. Immediately, the Holy Land became a destination of pilgrimage for Christians with the means to travel. The Itinerarium Burdigalense ("Bordeaux Itinerary") was written by an anonymous pilgrim from Bordeaux, recounting a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the years 333 and 334.

The earliest pilgrims were merely searching for historical facts, establishing the things and places the Bible told of and restoring that knowledge. But once those places were established, pilgrims journeyed there with a more spiritual goal—to experience the place, to be there. Jerusalem, Rome, and the churches established by the apostles are the most popular Christian pilgrimage destinations, but there are thousands of others. European pilgrimages rose in popularity when the Ottomans held control of the Holy Land. Pilgrims went seeking answers to specific problems, even in hopes that the pilgrimage would bring healing (like Lourdes today). One of the most popular books in early English, The Canterbury Tales, takes place as pilgrims travel together on pilgrimage to Canterbury, the most important cathedral in England.

Pilgrimage is not a requirement in Christianity like the haj is in Islam. God is omnipresent, and we can encounter him wherever. But, it is a tool that can help us connect to Christ, biblical figures, saints, etc. Be it Jerusalem or the Camino or the local cemetery on All Saints Day, what makes one a pilgrim is the intention. Pilgrimage can pull us out of our routines and comforts and draw our mind to God. The physical journey can aid our spiritual one. If we let it.

When the Church lost Her Power

In the first few centuries of Christianity, the faith spread rapidly throughout the Roman Empire and beyond, despite no institutional support and persecutions from Jews and Gentiles alike. Most of the apostles, and thus, bishops, were martyred, along with many, many of their followers. Yet still it grew. The Church began to form: writing down the Gospels, electing deacons, have new bishops succeed the apostles. Mass was held in private homes; converts were scrutinized before being given baptism. It was a dangerous, narrow path.

By 300, by some estimates, Christians accounted for around 10% of the Empire’s population: a notable minority. Most lived in the eastern part of the empire. In 301, Armenia, a kingdom within the Roman Empire, made Christianity its official religion. Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity and legalized the faith throughout the empire in 313. In 391, Emperor Theodosius I closed all the pagan temples and made Christianity (as defined at the First Nicaean Council) the official state religion.

And it’s been downhill ever since.

Maybe that’s a little overdramatic, but I do think the Church suffered a lost in the fourth century. By gaining worldly power, Church and empire became intertwined in a dangerous way that remains to be untangled. It was good Constantine converted (if only for his own soul), and it is good that the persecutions ceased and that Christians could worship freely. But when an emperor converts, that leads a lot of followers with political ambitions to convert too—they aren’t seeking the Messiah or struck by the message of Christ; they want to impress and hobnob with influential people. It's a real Faustus situation: gain the world but lose your soul

And for the next 1,200 years or so in Europe, the faith of ruler dictated the faith of the believers. One didn’t choose Christianity or sacrifice to gather for worship. The Church was not the refuge from the world; it was another worldly institution with land holdings and serfs and noble’s-sons-turned-bishop. The Church can’t be countercultural when it is the culture. And while the Protestant Reformation and Thirty Years’ War brought this to a violent head, it did not solve the issue. Yes, maybe now it the Lutheran Church or a Calvinist Church instead of just the Catholic Church. But it still behooved you to follow the church of the leader/state where you lived. Or suffer the consequences.

And many did suffer the consequences, choosing their conscience of how the faith should be over the imposing threats of a church who disagreed with them. The Church, which once was persecuted, with political power had become the persecutor. The Waldensians, Hussites, Antibaptists, and other rejected a political church and were persecuted.

Here and now, persecution isn’t really the danger it once was. But the Church has had a hard time letting go of political power. After all, surely we can use that power for good, right? Isn’t it important that we Christians have a voice in shaping the laws of our country, to ensure that we live in a moral society? And there are certainly debates to be had how where that line is, especially in a country when individuals have a vote and must use make political decisions without compromising their morals. But I think the less the Church compromises her morals, the better. Better to be powerless Church, without tax incentives or legal schools or lobbyists or policy influencers, than be a powerful Church who has compromised the mission. No one has ever found the Christianity more humble, more loving, more resembling Christ when it gained more power within the state.

It’s good to have enough sway to maintain religious freedom and be able to openly worship and even openly evangelize. But the Church is strongest when she is suffering with her people. I don't want the Church, or any Christians, especially me, to suffer. I don’t envy the Christians in China or Nigeria or Saudi Arabia. But I bet their faith is stronger than mine. I bet Christ holds them closer. There is no political or economic benefit to their Christianity. They experience suppression and persecution and still choose Christ.

I’m thinking of this on Fourth of July weekend, when a lot of churches wrap their sanctuaries in American flags and sing patriotic songs. How unnerving to have your patriotism and your faith be indistinguishable and inseparable. The early martyrs could never. Countries come and go. Political power is gained and taken away. But the kingdom of God and power the Christ is above and beyond all that.

The Lonesome Valley

For a long time I put off doing things or going places because I had no one to go with. And one of the best decisions I made was to do it anyway. Go see that movie. Go eat in the fancy restaurant. Go take that road trip. I’m so glad I’ve learned to travel on my own, because otherwise, I’d miss out on doing things while waiting to make friends who will join me.

Today’s Gospel reading talks about how the disciples are to go about their work of spreading the Gospel. They are sent out in pairs. It’s a practice that still holds true as good advice. It keeps missionaries safer as they travel and spiritually more accountable—less likely to be influenced by worldly influences and stay and less likely to build up a cult of personality. It’s better to go together.

But as I sat there alone in the pew, I thought of us that do go it alone: without spouse or friend or mentor or spiritual director. I’ve struggled so long with a lack of community and spiritual connection. Years of failing to get spiritual direction, years of trying to form a community of friends who share the faith, years of pouring out of an empty vessel. I know it’s better to go together, but what happens when you have no one to walk with?

A benefit of the lockdown in 2020 was stepping away from parish life and not struggling to make it work for me. I’ve dived back in, and I’m still going, going, going, trying to make connections. But they don’t come. I can’t recall the last time I was invited instead of doing the inviting. It’s been a long time, and the person has since moved away, since someone last asked how I was doing spiritually. I don’t have that partner for accountability, and it can be freeing, but lonely. There is no one to celebrate with or mourn with or just pass the days with.

The messages are always about the importance of community and how we can’t do it alone, but they never address how to find a partner disciple and how to build connections. For those of us who seemingly don’t fit in easily, belonging is a lot of hard work, sunk costs, and unseen pain.

And not only is it lonely, but I’m also part of the problem, making someone else feel lonely and rejected. We solo spiritual travelers are sitting in the same nave and not seeing one another. I wondered who else was sitting there this morning feeling like a failure because they have no one to mission with. Who else is faithfully going alone because surely going alone is better than not going at all?

You get discouraged. You get burnt out. You get frustrated and jealous. But you keep trying. Because we are told not to go alone. And if you are eventually blessed with someone to walk with, you appreciate it more than others ever will. Until then, I can only find solace in that others are on this journey, even if I can’t see them, and that there are saints who do see me and prayerfully supporting me, and that Jesus walked a very lonely path as well. Do you think anyone ever asked him how his spiritual life was doing? Did anyone ever try to pour into him? Or was it always him pouring, him always ministering, him always giving—though he does have the benefit of pouring from an ever-overflowing jar.

In travelling alone, perhaps I am in more danger. But I get to go places I wouldn’t otherwise go. And maybe that is necessary. Maybe the lonesome valley is it’s own mission destination.

Oh, That’s a Cult

I’m slightly obsessed by stories of extremist cults. Books, documentaries, podcasts—I’ll consume it. It’s fascinating watching the same story play out again and again—charismatic leader, sincere followers, answers and perfection, isolation and abuse. There’s always a special twist, a different doctrine, a new look. Some are less abusive than others. Some are more sincere than others. And I’m fascinated by each, I think, because it’s an insight into an entirely different world, a community which has isolated itself, which lives intentionally very different from the everyday world. An exposé gives me a glimpse into a fascinating, foreign world. With distance, it’s easy to feel superior. How were these people so gullible? Wasn’t it obvious that this leader was just a grifter? I’m not that susceptible, I tell myself, partly because I’ve consumed enough of these stories to recognize a cult when I see one.

Of course, that’s prideful and in a way makes me susceptible. People get sucked into cults for all kinds of reasons, usually emotional, not logical, ones. Love-bombing works for a reason. Often, belonging is more important than the specific beliefs. We are apt to trade a bit of freedom and logic for love.

But one mistake I made in my ideas about cults is that they separated themselves, that there was a clear line between this group and that one. I thought people would disagree about a group being a cult, but in reality, there are cults in which people disagree about being a group at all. These cults operate around charismatic leaders, but the followers don’t realize how much control the leader has over them. They think the leader is just a person they like to watch online. They don’t attend formal meetings or have a register. They don’t move off to a rural compound, or even put up their own church.

Rather, these cults operate everywhere, in the minds and phones of people that belong to other organized structures and would never call their interest in this leader a cult. Yet they consume and internalize the leader’s views. [I'm being intentional vague, as I don't want to call out a particular personality over another. There are dozens, hundreds, some more dangerous than others in their control and rhetoric. But the particulars are the relevant point here.]

I was impervious to these cults of personality and ideology at first. Isn’t the leader just a popular writer/YouTuber/politician/professor? What’s wrong with being his fan? And that’s what makes it tricky, because a leader can have lots of fans who have a healthy way of consuming the leader’s message, deciding whether to accept or reject it, and integrating it into their larger pool of resources shaping their worldview. But others take the leader as always right and accept his messages without scrutiny. They become defensive at disagreement, turning further and further inward.

And the tricky thing is that some of these cults exist within a church. There are cults within the Catholic Church—cults of personality and cults of ideological communities—who call themselves Catholic, maybe even “real” Catholics or “true” Catholics. But they only see the Church through a narrow, distorted lens.

These interior cults aren’t easy to see, or they weren’t. In the past few years it’s become more and more clear how these mostly-online fandoms become cults and affect the real world. And suddenly two people who share the same pew every Sunday can barely communicate—they are in the same place, but their ideas are so distant it’s hard to find a common ground, even the common ground of a shared professed faith.

I don’t have a solution to this problem. I don’t think anyone does yet. I fear for where the country is at, and where it looks like it may continue to go. The division is strong, and healing seems almost unattainable. Healing only happens after the hurting stops.

But this realization—that cults can exist within other groups—opened my eyes to a blind spot I once had. I thought being active in a Catholic, or Lutheran, or Presbyterian, or etc etc church would serve as a bulwark against fantastical lies, fanaticism, and charismatic leaders. The Church has documents and tradition and structure to stay grounded regardless of fads. The Church is rooted in Christ, not an online talking head. I thought that was enough. It should be enough. And yet, these cults rise up. And they convince themselves that they are totally compatible with the faith, maybe even that they are only ones with true faith.

This realization made me examine if I followed any person with cult-like devotion. And it helped me when interacting with others that logic and debate is not a helpful tool these days. Members of cults don’t leave because an outsider tells them they’re wrong. Instead, interactions need to offer what the cult can’t—real compassion.

There are discussions to be had on how to combat dangerous ideologies or how to break through to those caught up in cults, and I’ll certainly consume the forthcoming podcasts and documentaries. But in the real world, the physical world of human interaction, it’s best to ignore the labels (though not ignore red flags) and get to know the person. Open doors, plant seeds, and pray for unity.

St. Sulpice the Pious

Sulpice was born in France in the late sixth century to a noble family. He was always devoted to caring for the poor and studying Scripture. He was ordained a priest and made director of the bishop’s school in Bourges. King Clotaire II heard of Sulpice’ good reputation and made him the almoner (distributor of charitable alms) and chaplain of the Frankish army.

In 624 Sulpice became the bishop of Bourges. He was the second bishop of Bourges with that name, the earlier being known Sulpice the Severe. Yet this man was known as Sulpice the Pious.He worked to reestablish ecclesiastical discipline and care for the poor. When the people complained of heavy taxes and mistreatment, Sulpice was not afraid to decree fasting for clergy, and even sent a decree of fasting to the king, making the statement that even the king was not above the Church.

He founded a monastery near Bourges. In his old age, he retired there, letting a coadjutor run the diocese. Sulpice died there on January 17, 646.

The church of Saint-Sulpice in Paris was named after him, the second biggest church in the city. It was there that the Society of Saint-Sulpice began. The society would send some of the earliest missionaries to North America in the sixteenth century.

Until He Comes Again

I’ll admit that for a long time, I never gave much thought to the Ascension. The Resurrection of Easter morning was such triumphant ending; it was hard to think about all that happened after. But if Christ were physically still present, then obviously there had to be more to the story—visits with the apostles, traveling around, and ultimately, what happened to him/his body since he’s not walking around now.

It's not a hidden mystery of the faith—it’s laid out in Luke, John, and particularly Acts. I proclaimed it every Sunday: “He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty.” I just never focused on it, jumping from Easter to Pentecost. Now, when I do think about it, it makes sense to want to gloss over it; it’s wild, inexplicable, unfathomable.

No wonder the disciples were left there, gobsmacked, staring into the clouds.

The Ascension makes us look up, to contemplate the work of the Resurrection and how heaven has been opened. It makes us turned toward the skies and see Christ now ruling as king. It makes us contemplate the vastness of the universe as his human body rises beyond the firmament and time-space continuum. The Ascension seems so lofty, miraculous, heavenly.

But its message is very earthly: we have work to do. We are being left here, now, for a reason. Before he ascends, Jesus tells the disciples that they will be filled with the Holy Spirit and serve as witnesses, not just in Jerusalem but to the ends of the earth. Heaven is open, but they aren’t going there yet.

This Sunday the priest commented in his homily: how long do you think the apostles stayed there looking up that God had to send messengers down to tell them to go? We don’t know how long they stayed, looking, waiting for more. They had left the tomb and look what happened there. It seems reasonable to me to wait around a bit. Or maybe God knew they’d need an extra push, and the angels arrived immediately.

The angels say, “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky? This Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven will return in the same way as you have seen him going into heaven.” At first, this seems like even more a reason to stay there; if he’s coming back the same way he left, we better keep an eye out, right?

But what’s more important than how he will return is that he will return. And he left us with instructions. And we better be at work when he comes back.

We can not be spectators to Christ’s work. We can not stand around waiting for miracles. We have been tasked with tending the kingdom on earth. We must be good stewards and strong witnesses. Now is the season of the Holy Spirit. He will light the fire, and we will tend the beacons until he comes again.

St. Germanus of Auxerre

Germanus was born into a noble family in Roman-occupied Gaul in the late fourth century. He was well-educated and studied and practiced law in Rome. It was there he met his wife Eustachia, who was from a popular imperial family. The emperor sent the couple back to Gaul; Germanus was appointed a duke, entrusted with the government of the Gallic provinces.

Germanus lived the life of a noble. He studied law, held large parties, and loved hunting. He even hung his hunting trophies on a large tree which had once been a scene of pagan worship. St. Amator, bishop of Auxerre, worried that by hanging trophies on the pagan tree, Germanus would led the people to associating success and paganism and slip back into pagan practices. When Germanus was away, Amator cut down the tree and burned the trophies.

When Germanus, angered by Amator’s actions, entered the church to kill him, Amator instead locked the doors and gave him the tonsure against his will. The tonsure was the haircut that signaled a life of piety and devotion to God. Amator told Germanus to live as if he would one day be a bishop and ordained him a deacon right there.

The incident had a life-changing effect on Germanus who did indeed start living a life more focused on ecclesiastical matters than imperial ones. When Amator died in 418, Germanus seceded him as bishop of Auxerre. He distributed his wealth to the poor and built a monastery dedicated to Sts. Cosmas and Damian.

In 429 after the Romans withdrew from Britain, a group of Gaulish missionaries went there to address the Pelagian heresy among British clergy. Germanus’ law background came in handy as the Gaulish and British bishops publicly debated and he rhetorically defeated the Pelagians. He also assisted the Britons against a Pictish and Saxon attack. When he went to tomb of St. Alban to give thanks to God, St. Alban appeared to him and told him of impending martyrdom. Germanus took a handful of dirt from St. Alban’s grave back to Gaul.

Sometime around 437, the Armoricans in Brittany rebelled against imperial rule. The Roman government sent in soldiers to severely punish the people. Germanus went to Italy to seek an appeal from the emperor. In Ravenna, he was able to plead his case to empress Galla Placidia and obtained the pardon.

He died in Ravenna of natural causes, having cared for his people as both an imperial and ecclesiastical leader. His feast day is July 31.

So That You Might Believe

“Now Thomas, one of the twelve, called the Twin, was not with them when Jesus came” (John 20:24). Thomas was not at the first encounter the disciples had with Jesus after the resurrection. And he is often remembered for his doubt and then touching the Jesus’ wounds in order to believe. While reflecting on Thomas’ story this week, I realized that Thomas is quoted several times in the Gospel of John, and in each instance, it is in regards to following Christ.

First is just after the death of Lazarus. When Jesus wants to return to Bethany, the disciples don’t want to go. There were leaders there who wanted to stone Jesus for blasphemy; it was dangerous. “Then Jesus told them plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead; and for your sake I am glad that I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.’ Thomas, called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him’” (John 11:14-16).

Thomas doesn’t understand that Jesus is going to raise Lazarus from the dead. But he does know that Jesus is doing something for them, for their faith. And if Jesus is going to Bethany, Thomas wants to go too, even if it means risking his life.

Then, at the Last Supper, Jesus talks about the betrayal and death that is to come. But he also offers words of comfort: “‘Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me…. I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And you know the way where I am going.’ Thomas said to him, ‘Lord, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?’ Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father, but by me” (John 14: 1, 3-6).

Thomas comes off as logical, but not doubting. He doesn’t follow blindly. He wants clarification, explanation. But he is not looking for loopholes or a way out; he wants to follow Christ. He just wants to understand.

Finally, after the resurrection, Christ appears and speaks to the disciples, who are in hiding. But Thomas isn’t there. Maybe he was the one brave enough to go out and get food. Maybe he was out looking for answers after a horrific week. “So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe’” (John 20:25).

Eight days later, Thomas does see Jesus. “Then [Jesus] said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but believing.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe’” (John 20:27-29).

Jesus lets Thomas touch the wounds so that he can believe. And Thomas immediately recognizes Christ, not just as his friend and leader Jesus, but as God.

Thomas gets the bad rap of being “doubting.” He was the only one not in the room when Jesus first appeared to the apostles after the resurrection. Who’s to say what any other apostle would have done in his position? It’s an incredible claim. The others had seen Christ themselves; Thomas was asked to believe on their testimony alone. Thomas doubts, but Christ gives him the evidence to believe that he asks for. And once provided with the presence of Christ and touching his wounds, Thomas does believe.

Most of us don’t get such tangible, concrete assurance. We are asked to believe on testimony. Where Thomas doubted, we are asked to believe. It doesn’t seem fair that Thomas was left out the first time, and it doesn’t seem fair that we can’t have such tangible evidence now. But even though he had a moment of doubt concerning an unprecedented, cosmic miracle, Thomas was a faithful believer. When Jesus calls for belief, Thomas is right there, seeking understanding but ready to go. He loved Jesus and wanted to follow him, even when it was dangerous or confusing. His is a faith worth emulating.