What Wondrous Love Is This: 2023

The Prince of Peace in a Pile of Rubble

At Christ’s birth, angels proclaimed peace on earth. The entrance antiphon of the Christmas vigil proclaims: “Today true peace has come down to us from heaven.”

But the world doesn’t feel very peaceful. I’ve mostly stayed away from the news in recent weeks. I try to stay afloat of the broader things going on in the world so that I’m informed, but I’m also trying not to get bogged down by all the details. Because the news can be depressing. There is so much war and cruelty. I feel I have an obligation to be aware, to counteract and combat the evil in the world. But I also know that sometimes wallowing in the awfulness does nothing more than eliciting despair.

All that to say, I know the situation in the Middle East awful and complex. I know there have been a lot of moving pieces in weeks since the Oct. 7 attacks. I was cautiously optimistic when there was a temporary ceasefire and some of the hostages were released. But I’ve mostly been cynical that there is swift, diplomatic outcome. There are deep, deep hostilities at play, and deep financial players backing both sides. That little strip of land seems to have never known peace.

I’d recently been struggling with feelings of belonging and sense of community. I was in some dark places, spiritually. Why can’t I ever feel like I fit in? Why do I struggle so hard to find deep connection? Why do I want it so badly?

There’s a lot to unpack with all I’ve been going through. But the first moment of comfort came at an Advent retreat discussing the yearning of the human heart.

We are meant to desire more. We are built for community and connection. And we are built for being in a relationship with God. The human heart will always yearn for that. That (sometimes painful) feeling of un-satisfaction comes from the world being unsatisfactory. We are broken and sinful. The world offers millions of distractions to keep us from exploring that yearning feeling. We’re told to find quick fixes, chase hedonistic instincts, dull any pain. We want to shake off that inner feeling that there should be more.

It’s Not Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas

I’m not putting up a Christmas tree this year. No day set aside for forgettable movies in the background while I scratch my arms on plastic needles and figure out why the middle string of lights don’t work. No second day set aside in January to take it all down again and have the room looking empty. No finding needles from the Jesse tree all over the house. No remembering to turn on or off lights or worrying about breaking precious ornaments or going through the holiday routines that no one but me would see. Other than the Advent wreath and the stack of presents on a side table, my house doesn’t look Christmasy at all. And I’m really ok with that.

I thought maybe as Christmas got closer I’d have more of an urge for decorations. But I haven’t. Christmas is still coming. I’m looking forward to the holiday and to the time off work, but I’m also sitting in Advent, reflecting, and not in an overly eager anticipation.

With Rosalynn Carter’s funeral this week, I’ve been thinking about the legacy of the Carters. I’ve always admired them. They demonstrated how Christian politicians should be—concerned for the poor, focused on peace, and placing their values above greed or power.

Jimmy Carter may not have been the most effective or most popular president, but I think he may be the most admirable ex-president. From divesting from his peanut farm to avoid any semblance of conflict of interest to negotiating the famous Camp David Accords to devoting his later years to building houses and Bible studies, he’s been a role model in a world where good role models seem harder and harder to find.

Jimmy and Rosalynn are also a wonderful example of love. Jimmy’s mother was Rosalynn’s delivery nurse, so they literally knew once another her entire life. They married right after he graduated from the Naval Academy, and they celebrated 77 years of marriage. Jimmy spoke and wrote adoringly of Rosalynn. “Rosalynn was my equal partner in everything I ever accomplished… As long as Rosalynn was in the world, I always knew somebody loved and supported me,” he said after her death.

“I think there is no suffering greater than what is caused by the doubts of those who want to believe. I know what torment this is, but I can only see it, in myself anyway, as the process by which faith is deepened. A faith that just accepts is a child's faith and all right for children, but eventually you have to grow religiously as every other way, though some never do.

What people don't realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe. If you fell you can't believe, you must at least do this: keep an open mind. Keep it open toward faith, keep wanting it, keep asking for it, and leave the rest to God. ”

― Flannery O'Connor

“Alexamenos is faithful.”

One of the earliest depictions of Jesus is a sketch mocking him. The Alexamenos graffito, also known as the graffito blasfemo, was scratched into the plaster of a wall near Palatine Hill in Rome around 200. The building had been an imperial house for Caligula then a boarding school for imperial page boys. It seems the graffiti was done during this time, by boys mocking a Christian in their ranks. The wall was covered up when extensions were added and remained hidden until 1857.

The image shows a figure being crucified with a head of a horse or donkey and a man dressed as a Roman soldier or guard looking on. There seems to be a Greek upsilon, tau cross, or Y written above. The Greek words below say, “Alexamenos worships his god.” It seems to be graffiti mocking a Christian named Alexamenos. There seems to have been a common claim among pagan Romans that Jews and Christians worshiped god in the form of a donkey around the first century. It’s possible that’s why the Christ figure in the drawing has a donkey head.

Tacitus claims the Jews, when wandering in the desert, followed a herd of wild asses to water, and so in the Temple, "they consecrated an image of the animal which had delivered them.” And even though, upon entering the Temple, found its sanctuary to be empty, it must have been from this story, that the notion that Christians, coming from Judaism, also worshipped that image, supposed Tertullian. Contemporary Jewish and Christian writers like Josephus and Tertullian both are seen refuting the charges of donkey worship.

The next year is bound to be a political mess. One of the worst aspects of the current political climate is the way Christian language has been coopted by political ideology. Rather than letting faith dictate how they vote, people let their political beliefs dictate their views of God. The two are so twisted in some circles that for many people, the face of Christianity is this hateful, toxic political movement that glorifies the wealthy and the warmakers.

As children, most of us are taught that the commandment “thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain” means not to use God’s name flippantly, as in “Oh my God” or “goddamn.” And that’s part of it. We shouldn’t invoke God flippantly. The Jewish tradition of not mentioning God’s name (Tetragrammaton) unnecessarily comes from this.

The second part of both Exodus 20:7 and Deuteronomy 5:11 both say, “for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that take his name in vain.” It is for this reason that some faith traditions don’t take any oaths, less they swear in the Lord’s name or on the Bible in vain. “In vain” here means using the sacredness of the Lord’s name without honor—without seriousness or to commit a falsehood but make others believe you are telling the truth. It’s about disrespecting God.

It’s the time of year when we are called to reflect on the dead—All Saints, All Souls. Really, we should always be aware of those before and those coming after. We do not exist in a vacuum. We are beholden to the generations before us—our genes, our environment, our political boundaries, our existing laws, our economy, our social mores. We are born into certain circumstances, and then it our lot to maintain or change them. And then it is our duty to pass along something to the next generation. Will it be an inheritance or a debt?

In The Abolition of Man, C. S. Lewis says, “Each generation exercises power over its successors; and each, in so far as it modifies the environment bequeathed to it and rebels against tradition, resists and limits the power of its predecessors.”

That’s why there are generational tensions. The younger generations feel like the older ones cheated them out of an inheritance or the older generations feel like the younger ones don’t appreciate the work put in into maintaining or building the current environment.

Romanos was born to a Jewish family in Syria in the 5th century. He was baptized into the Church as a young boy. As an adult, he moved to Beirut and was ordained a deacon. He later moved to Constantinople and served as a sacristan in the Hagia Sophia.

Legend says that he was not a talented reader or singer. Around 518, he was assigned to read the psalter during an all-night vigil. He read so poorly that another reader had to take over. Humiliated and weary, he fell asleep in the choir stall. There, Mary appeared to him with a scroll in her hand and told him to eat it. Romanos awoke, went to the pulpit, and beautifully chanted a hymn on the Nativity. According to tradition, this was the very first hymn, or kontakion, ever sung.

Anthony Mary Claret was born in Sallent, in eastern Spain, on Dec. 23, 1807. His father was a wool manufacturer, and Anthony himself worked as a weaver as a teen. When he was 18, he moved to Barcelona to specialize as a Jacquard loom programmer. In his spare time he studied Latin, French, and engraving.

Feeling called to the religious life, and fearing that a life in textile manufacturing would burn him out, he enter seminary in 1829 and was ordained in 1835. He was interested in missionary work, but after entering the Jesuit novitiate, he had to soon leave to poor health. He served as a priest in Spain in areas troubled by civil war and French invasion. In Catalonia he became fluent in Catalan and was known for eloquent preaching and spending long hours in the confessional. He wrote several books in Catalan and contributed to the revival of the language.

In 1848, Father Claret’s life was threatened, and he was sent to the Canary Islands for 15 months. There he gave well-received retreats and preached in the town plaza. When he returned to Spain, he founded the Congregation of the Missionary Sons of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, called the Claretians. He also founded a religious publishing house and library in Barcelona called the Libreria Religiosa, now the Libreria Claret.

Oh, a Rerun

Do angels get exhausted? I suspect my guardian angel must get exhausted, watching me cycle through the same problems over and the over—the same doubts, the same frustrations, the same sins, the same promises to makes changes and do better, and the same fall back into habits within days. Poor angel. I’m tired of me too.

At times I feel like such a failure, in specific ways and goals, but also in the fact that I find myself in these patterns, over and over. Am I stubborn or lazy or foolish? Why can’t I break the cycle? Why can’t I improve? Shouldn’t sincere contrition lead to change?

I keep getting frustrated at myself. But maybe that is a good sign. I keep wanting to improve. I keep making promises with sincere intention. I haven’t given up. The sticky, black cloud wants to take away all motivation and hope. But I promise, over and over, that I’ll do better. And I try. And some days I do better. And some days I fail. But usually I still believe in a future when I’ll figure it all out, when I’ll be a better person, or when I’ll at least have moved on to different problems. Surely that hope counts for something.

Hang in there, angel. I’ll keep trying.

Marguerite Dufrost de La Jemmerais was born in Varennes, Quebec on Oct. 15, 1701. She studied under the Ursulines. In 1722, she married Francois D'Youville, a bootlegger and fur trader. They had six children. In 1730, Francois died. Marguerite was left to support herself and her two surviving children, but also devoted a lot of her time to charity.

In 1737, she founded the Sisters of Charity, called the Grey Nuns, along with three others. In 1747 she was appointed Directress of the General Hospital in Montreal. The Grey Nuns established schools, hospitals, and orphanages throughout Canada.

Marguerite died on Dec. 23, 1771 at the General Hospital. She is the patron for widows, difficult marriages, and parents who lose young children. Her feast day is Oct. 16.

She was the first native-born Canadian to be declared a saint when canonized by Pope John Paul II in 1990.

Does It Ever End?

Conflict broke out between Israel and Palestine over the weekend. It’s such a tragic, complicated mess. There are the decades of official and unofficial provocations from both sides. During the recent feast of Sukkot, thousands of ultranationalist Jews had been storming the Al-Aqsa Mosque, also known as Temple Mount. Muslims were prevented access to the site. This conflict regular arises around the holy sites around feast days.

Things heavily escalated when Hamas, which currently has political leadership Palestine, unleashed ground troops and rockets on Saturday, attaching Israel from Gaza. Within hours, Israel responded with jet strikes and a declaration of war. Hundreds of civilians on both sides have been killed. More than 150 Israeli civilians have been taken hostage. Israel has threatened to cut off food and water to the Gaza Strip. Tens of thousands have fled their homes.

Ariadne lived in the 2nd century in what is now central Turkey. She was a Christian and enslaved to a prominent official in Phrygia who was pagan. Around 130, the official held a large birthday celebration for his son which included rites to a pagan god. When Ariadne refused to participate in the rites, he became indignant and had her flogged. When she still refused, he dismissed her and sent her away.

Yet, even after that, the official was not satisfied with the slave woman who had defied him and called the authorities on her. She fled and fell into a chasm in a ridge, where she died. Some say the chasm opened for and closed behind her, providing her a tomb rather than a violent death at the hands of the authorities.

Her feast day is Sept. 18.

No Greater Love

In this Sunday’s Gospel readings, there was one of the more well-known verses: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends (John 15:13).” (It was a special Mass, not the regular lectionary readings.)

I found myself thinking of that verse again and again today while I watched a documentary on 9/11. I had heard about the documentarians who were following some NYFD firefighters on the day, but for some reason, I had never looked up the documentary itself. The French filmmakers Jules and Gedeon Naudet were wanting to make a film on a rookie firefighter during his first year. Three months in, they follow the firefighters as the worse day of their lives unfolds, capturing footage no one else can.

There are lots of profound moments and amazing people in their footage. One in particular is Father Mychal Judge. Father Judge was a Franciscan friar and chaplain for the NYFD. The son of Irish immigrants, Father Judge was well known in the city for ministering to the homeless, hungry, addicted, grieving, and sick, including people with AIDS.

St. Eulalia was born in a Roman-occupied Spanish village of Sarria in 289 (the village is now a neighborhood of Barcelona. Her family was farmers, and Eulalia herded the geese. She was raised Christian, although the Roman government was suppressing Christianity at the time.

When confronted by the Roman authorities, 13-year-old Eulalia refused to renounce her faith. She ran away from home to the nearby walled city of Barcino to appeal to the governor Dacian to stop the hostility against Christians.

Instead, the governor sentenced Eulalia to 13 tortures, one for every year she had been Christian. After enduring all the tortures, including flagellation and hanging on a St. Andrew’s cross, she died on Feb. 12, 303. Legend says that a dove flew from her neck (or mouth) as she was killed and then a sudden snowstorm covered her body.

She was originally buried in the church of Santa Maria de les Arenes, but her remains were hidden following the Moorish invasion of 713. Eulalia is now buried in the Cathedral of St. Eulalia in Barcelona. Along with Mary, she is a patron of the city. In honor of the young goose herder, 13 geese are kept in a designated cloister of the cathedral. Her feast day is Feb. 12.

The Great Atomic Power, part 2

Today is the 78th anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki. While in part 1 I discussed how the horrors of war made the decision to drop the bomb easier, ultimately, ends should not justify means when it comes to making moral decisions. Since the dropping of the atomic bombs in 1945, the Church has spoken out against the use of nuclear weapons and worked for disarmament around the world.

St. John XXIII helped to deescalate the Cuban missile crisis. In his 1963 encyclical Pacem in Terris, he urged for a nuclear weapons ban and disarmament agreement. The Limited Test Ban Treaty was concluded four months later.

St. John XXIII writes, “There is a common belief that under modern conditions peace cannot be assured except on the basis of an equal balance of armaments and that this factor is the probable cause of this stockpiling of armaments….if one country is equipped with atomic weapons, others consider themselves justified in producing such weapons themselves, equal in destructive force.”

He acknowledged the challenge of disarmament goes beyond treaties and bans but requires a moral, spiritual commitment to peace—a goal often preached and never realized. He says, “Unless this process of disarmament be thoroughgoing and complete, and reach men's very souls, it is impossible to stop the arms race, or to reduce armaments, or—and this is the main thing—ultimately to abolish them entirely. Everyone must sincerely co-operate in the effort to banish fear and the anxious expectation of war from men's minds.”

Today is the 78th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. I saw Oppenheimer two weeks ago, so the development and use of the atomic bomb has been on my mind lately. One of the taglines of the movie is “The World Forever Changes.” The dawn of the atomic age does feel like a seismic shift, one of those fixed points in history.

But, did the world really change? For those years-deep in the horrors of war, maybe it didn’t seem so. Just bigger and badder, but just another weapon. Just as many died over one night of the fire bombing of Tokyo as in Hiroshima. A city destroyed, tens of thousands dead and wounded—looks like the same bleak world of war. Can a weapon change the nature of man?

Scientists have always been seeking the truth to how the world works. But with that knowledge comes power and responsibility. What do we do with newfound knowledge? Are there things that are scientifically possible but morally inexcusable? Who decides and enforces that moral line?

Helena (or Elin) was around the early twelfth century in southwest Sweden. She was from a noble family. She was widowed at a young age; shortly after the death of her husband she made a pilgrimage to Rome. She devoted the rest of her life to works of charity. She was known for helping the poor.

At her own expense, she built the church in Sköfde. According to legend, she had a portico built between the church and its tower, and when asked about its purpose, replied, "God will give us some saint whose body and relics can be suitably placed there." She was interred there after her death, and the church was eventually named after her.

In 1164, her daughter’s husband was murdered by some servants. The servants claimed Helena had instructed them to do it, even though she was currently on pilgrimage in the Holy Land. His family was enraged and believed the servants’ lie. After she had returned to Sweden, Helena went to Gotene to collect money for the church there. A member of her son-in-law’s family there stabbed her to death. It was later determined that Helena had had no knowledge or involvement in her son-in-law’s murder.

St. Helena of Sköfde’s feast day is July 31.

St. Martha Wang Luo Mande and Companions

Martha Wang Luo Mande was born in 1812 in Zunji, China. She and her husband were vegetable farmers. Although they had no biological children, they adopted two of her nephews. After her husband died and the boys left home, Martha ran an inn in Qingyian. A Catholic traveler introduced her to Christianity, and she joined the Church on Christmas 1852. She moved to Guiyang to work as a cook in a Catholic hostel. She also worked as a cook and cleaner at the seminary in Yaojiaguan.

Christianity had been banned in China in 1724, with different emperors allowing varying levels of tolerance. In 1840, following the opening of China during the First Opium War, China allowed Chinese people to follow the Catholic faith and restored several pieces of Church property confiscated in 1724. In 1844, foreign missionaries were allowed in certain port cities. In 1856, missionaries were granted full freedom of movement.

However, anti-Christian sentiment was rising following the Taiping Rebellion, in which a man claimed to be the brother of Jesus, built an army to seize land as part of his “holy mission,” and destroy Buddhist and Taoist temples. The rebellion led to a massively violent conflict, leaving millions dead between 1850-1864. Christianity became associated with violence. Foreign missionaries became associated with European imperialism, especially when missionaries built churches or schools in locations of old temples or abolished Chinese Christian institutions and replaced them with foreign-led ones. Violence against Christians rose, often under the permission of authorities.

Boiling Frogs

“The Earth sustains humanity. It must not be harmed; it must not be destroyed.” -St. Hildegard of Bingen

This month is hottest month since scientists began collecting and recording climate data. New single day records for hottest global temperature were set back to back on July 3 and 4, exceeding 17°C (62.6°F) for the first time. Although the level of warming is only about 2.4°F since preindustrial levels, that little bit is making big differences, showing just how fragile our hospitable environment is.

We’re racing toward an environmental precipice. We have to do something. Oh, but that’s hyperbole, right? We say this every year. Yes, because it’s worse every year. Yet because the constant drum beat as been regulated to another bit of background noise, we’ll failed to heed it’s warning. Plus, what are we supposed to do at this point anyway? It feels like not that urgent an issue and too urgent to fathom at the same time—both leading us to our response of nothing.

Inexpressible Groanings

It’s been an odd few weeks, with the returned gathering of the sticky black cloud. I mostly blame the humidity. It’s that part of summer where the air is thick and hot, seemingly acerbating feelings or motivations. I don’t want to do anything. I only want to lounge and wait for the crisp relief of an autumn day (which may be months away). I’ve managed by venerating the genius of Willis Carrier and looking up housing prices in Nordic regions. But mostly, summer is a season of endurance for me.

So it’s no surprise that the image of the Holy Spirit as a rushing wind is appealing in this season. Who wants tongues of fire? I want cooling consolation.

St. Giovanni Gualberto (John Gualbert) was born in 985 in Florence. He came from a noble family and was known to be a self-absorbed rich kid in his youth. When his brother was murdered, Giovanni sought out the murderer, intending to kill him in revenge. But when he and his armed friends did find him, it was Good Friday, and Giovanni granted the murderer’s plea for mercy.

This act of mercy must have had an effect on him, because he soon gave up his free-willing life to join the Benedictines. In fact, it is said that after the incident, he entered the Benedictine church at San Miniato al Monte to pray when the corpus on the crucifix bowed its head to him in recognition of his generous and merciful act. Giovanni begged Christ for forgiveness and that week cut off his hair and began wearing an old habit that he had borrowed. This story is the basis for the painting "The Merciful Knight."

Though his father was against it, Giovanni joined the Benedictine order and sought out a simple, penitential life. He spoke out against simony, which both his abbot and bishop were participating in. He left his order for a stricter religious life. He settled in Vallombrosa where he founded his own monastery in 1036. Brother Giovanni admired St. Basil and St. Benedict and hoped to model his order on their writings. One notable difference from other monasteries, instead of installing a traditional garden, the monks at Vallombrosa planted fir and pine trees.

I recently watched the documentary “Shiny Happy People,” which looks at the abusive system of the Institute of Basic Life Principles, in which the Duggar family participated, and more broadly, how it is part of Christian Dominionism and Christian nationalism. Though familiar, the sheer size of this movement, the number of people affected by it, and it’s blatant authoritarian and civil goals, surprised me. I’m surrounded by its followers and affects, yet it isn’t a Christianity I can relate to.

Dominionism and Christian nationalism arose in the U.S. in the 1970s in reaction to the progressive movements of the time. Christian nationalism seeks to eliminate the separation of church and state, place (their specific) religious symbols in the public square, and base laws on (their specific interpretation of) Christian theology. Dominion theology goes even further, seeking to establish a fundamentalist Christian nation, ruled by theocratic law. It encourages predominantly fundamentalist/evangelical/Pentecostal Christians to get politically engaged and gain control over all aspects of government, from local school boards to the SCOTUS.

The Spei Satelles (Guardian of Hope) mission recently launched with the goal to have a message of hope encircle the earth.

The satellite, promoted by the Vatican Dicastery for Communication, was coordinated by the Italian Space Agency and the Polytechnic University of Turin. It launched aboard a SpaceX rocket which released it in space. Only about a foot long and weighing about six pounds, the tiny satellite has been placed in Low Earth Orbit (525 km).

The Dicastery for Communication noted that this was a continuation of the Vatican’s interest in science and space exploration. The satellite carries a recording of Pope Francis’ Statio Orbis, the urbi et orbi blessing he gave on March 27, 2020 at the height of COVID. It also has a nano-book (about 2mm) of a collection of images and fragments from the Statio Orbis.

A copy of the book has also been deposited at the world seed bank in the Svalbard Seed Vault.

St. Jean-François Régis, or John Francis Regis, was born into a noble family on January 31, 1597 in southern France. In 1616 he entered the Jesuits. He taught grammar and rhetoric while studying philosophy and theology. He was ordained a priest in 1630. He was known for his zeal of sharing the faith through teaching and preaching. He particularly wanted to reach the marginalized. He desired to go to the New World, where many Jesuits were sent at the time.

Shortly after he was ordained, he tended to victims of the bubonic plague in Toulouse. He then spent several years in Montpellier where he worked to convert the Huguenots, preached to children and the poor, and visited the sick. There he became known for his work with at-risk women and children. He established several children’s homes and safe houses for former prostitutes where they learned a trade, often lace-making.

At the invitation of the bishop of Vivers, he travelled and preached, often converting many throughout the heavily-Protestant areas of southern France. His missions took him to the rural mountains of France and areas apathetic or out-right hostile to the faith. His preaching style was said to be direct and appealing to commoners. His mission field was not far from the place of his birth, but it was still a mission field, a place that needed his care and preaching, with marginalized people who needed him.

St. John Francis Regis died of pneumonia on Dec. 31, 1640. He is the patron of lacemakers, medical social workers, and illegitimate children.

Though he never made it to the missions of the New World, a Mohawk reservation in New York is named the St. Regis Mohawk Reservation after him, in honor of his desire to serve there.

Hallowed 50th

In my last post, I mentioned that the Hebrew jubilee was celebrated every 50 years because it followed seven cycles of sabbatical years (seven times seven). Another Jewish feast was calculated similarly: Leviticus describes the Festival of Weeks (Shavuot) as celebrated on the “day after the seventh Sabbath” (Leviticus 23:16). The “counting of the omer” would ritually count the days from Passover to Shavuot. An omer is a measure of unthreashed stalks of grain—the amount that was used in an offering at the temple. But the ritual of “counting of the omer” would count the days, often with a congregation after evening prayer.

Shavuot celebrates Moses receiving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. It is considered a time of covenant between God and humanity. Traditionally, Noah made his covenant with God on Shavuot. It is also the season of grain harvest, starting with barley around Passover and ending with wheat seven weeks later. When they had the temple, people would offer two loaves of leavened bread from the wheat harvest. It was also the beginning of the fruit harvest, and people would begin to bring their first fruits to the temple.

Recently, there was a story about a Moravian Church who purchased and forgave million of dollars of medical debt. The Trinity Moravian Church in Winston-Salem started the Debt Jubilee Project to help people in the local counties who are burdened by the outrageous medical debt system.

For some background: Healthcare spending per capita in the U.S. was $12,914 in 2021, $5,000 more than any other high-income country. Unregulated costs, complex administrative bureaucracy (often related to sorting out insurances’ coding and billing), and for-profit medical businesses inflate the costs of receiving medical care. There is an estimated $195 billion in U.S. medical debt, larger than the entire economy of Greece. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, 19% of households could not afford to pay for medical care upfront in 2017. Four percent of households held high medical debt (more than 20% of annual income). It’s a problem not seen on a such a scale in developed countries that treat healthcare as a public service for the good of the citizens.

When someone has an outstanding medical bill, the medical office will hire a debt collection agency to collect the payment. The collection agency, if there is still no payment, will bundle and sell debts on to a third-party collection agency, usually for pennies on the dollar so that they can recoup some of the loss ($1 is better than $0, even if the bill was $100). The medical office gets what it can and has to write off the rest. The third-party agency can do whatever they want with the debt. Usually, they try to collect it (make money). But in cases like this church, they forgive the debt. For around $15,000 the Trinity Moravian Church forgave $3.3 million of medical debt this year.

The famous bells of Notre Dame have become a recognizable, romanticized sound of Paris. Their constant vibrations give a continuous sense of breath to the sacred building. As part of the restoration since the 2019 fire, the bells have recently been restored and arrived back in the cathedral.

The first record of bell ringing at Notre Dame took place in 1198 during the construction of the cathedral. During the French Revolution, about 80% of France’s church bells were melted down. Notre Dame’s three clock bells and the large Emmanuel were spared. Emmanuel is the largest, current-oldest, and most famous of Notre Dame’s bells, was cast in 1686 and rings in F#.

The bells mark times for prayer but are also rung in celebration and honor. They were silent during the German occupation during World War II until in 1944, as French and American troops were entering Paris, the bells rang again, soon joined by bells across the city. Due to the Germans strict control over radio stations, many Parisians did not know how close Allied forces were. The bells were the first indication to many that liberation was imminent.

There’s one part of the story of Cain and Abel that always bothered me: why wasn’t Cain’s offering good enough?

Cain was a farmer. He offered what he had: fruit. Abel was a shepherd. He offered what he had: sheep. Why is what the brothers offered more important than that they made offerings? I’d be angry and gloomy too if God held no regard for my offering. Now, it’s not Abel’s fault, and Cain definitely shouldn’t have let the anger consume him and lead him to kill his brother. But, why was his offering rejected to begin with? Does God really require flesh over fruit?

Well, it turns out that what they offered wasn’t equal (“he offered what he had”). Revisiting the text, Abel offered “from the firstborn of his flock and from their fat portions” (Gen. 4:4): the first and the best. Gen 4:3 says, “So it came about in the course of time that Cain brought an offering to the Lord from the fruit of the ground.” There’s a footnote after “course of time” indicating at the end of day(s). So while Abel offered his first and best, Cain offered his leftovers as an afterthought. Later, God will accept offerings of first fruits from His people. It’s not about what was offered but how it was offered. Abel wanted to give the best he had; Cain was willing to give something but not the first/best and didn’t make it a priority.

St. Asicus, or Tassach, was born in Ireland in the fifth century. He was a metal worker in brass and copper. He was from the family of a wealthy druid. Asicus was converted to Christianity by St. Patrick, and they became friends. Asicus used his craft to make chalices, patens, and book covers for Patrick. He is credited with the copperwork on the shamrocked-patterned beaten brass altar screen in the cathedral in Sligo.

When Patrick established a church and monastery in Elphin, he appointed Asicus as abbot-bishop around 450. He was later abbot-bishop of all of Ireland.

It is said that he was often troubled by thoughts that he wasn’t worthy of his position. After a dispute in the monastery, Asicus spent the last seven years of his life alone on an island in Donegal living as a hermit. Some of his monks found him and tried to get him to return to the monastery, but he fell ill and died in 490. His brothers buried him in a churchyard nearby. A bishop in the nineteenth century noted, “We sought in vain for any trace of an inscribed stone in the old churchyard. He fled from men during life, and, like Moses, his grave is hidden from them in death.”

St. Asicus’ feast day is April 27.

In the House of Caiaphas

“‘Why, what evil has He done?’ Yet they kept shouting all the more, saying, ‘Crucify Him!’” (Matthew 27:23)

Last week was exhausting. Holy Week usually is. If you immerse yourself in the liturgy of the week, so much happens between Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem and the empty tomb. But this year I felt too immersed as the Tennessee state legislature pantomimed the seasonal staging of a rigged-up charge and rushed trial in order to silence a man preaching peace.

The week before, six people—three of them children—were killed in a school shooting at a Christian school in Nashville. As usual, leaders offered thoughts and prayers and promises to not address gun violence—money for arming school teachers and fortifying buildings, sure, but nothing to prevent access to weapons. Students marched to the state capitol building, chanting for gun reform.

I never know what to do with Holy Saturday—there’s no particular church service for the day. It’s there between the high holy days of Good Friday and Easter. We’re just…waiting. Mourning the dead Jesus. Anticipating a dispatch from the harrowing of hell. Packing baskets. Counting to three.

But then I remembered Holy Saturday is, well, a Saturday—the Sabbath. He has told us from the beginning what this day means.

Genesis 2:2-3 says, “On the seventh day God completed the work he had been doing…” The work of creation was completed on a Friday. The work of incarnating into his creation and sacrificing for humanity’s salvation was completed on Good Friday. It is finished.

“…he rested on the seventh day from all the work he had undertaken.” The work is complete, and so he rests. There is pause, time to let the work set in.

“God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work he had done in creation.” The day itself is consecrated as a period of rest, a constant reminder of completed work, to pause and rest and reflect.

God instructs the Jews to observe the Sabbath and to cease from work.

Something to Chew on

Not to knock da Vinci, but I’m so tired of his Last Supper. It’s great but overused. So I went on a search for other Last Supper paintings. So much is going on in that evening meal. There are so many moments throughout Holy Week that get overlooked because so much is happening so fast. Fortunately, every year, we take try to focus on a different aspect, piece it together over time, mull on it as spiritually needed. Maybe this year it’s about betrayal and repentance as you watch the difference between Judas and Peter. Maybe next year it’s about humility as you focus on Jesus washing the disciples feet or about God’s promises as you watch a meal around Passover transform into the institution of the Eucharist. We need to revisit these moments over and over again, looking at them from different angles.

The first is Peter Paul Rubens’ Christ Washing the Apostles' Feet (1632). First, I love some Rubens’ lumpy humans. In the painting, Peter is protesting as Jesus tries to wash his feet. It’s awkward. It takes humility on both parts—for the master becoming the servant and for the follower watching his beloved leader stoop before him.

AI has made great strides in the past few months, leading to conversations about AI’s role in the world. Is AI-created art art? Is AI going to replace millions of jobs? Is AI’s intelligence going to surpass human intelligence? How is it going to shape our understanding of the world, of information and expression, of consciousness?

Pope Francis recently addressed AI, citing the benefits it can contribute to areas like medicine and engineering, but he also cautioned developers to “respect such values as inclusion, transparency, security, equity, privacy and reliability.” You’ll forgive me if I’m not as trusting as the pope. I don’t trust developers, or rather, the corporations funding AI, to act ethically.

Technology should be used to benefit humanity—to reduce suffering and inequality. And yet, it’s often used for profit—increasing inequality and remaining unaccountable for its consequences on society. With AI, it’s not just about the haves getting the profits and the nots not, but also the impact it will have on information, verification of the truth, and personal/social biases in the coding creating the algorithms.

But even beyond its use, AI raises other ethical questions. Can an artificial creation become sentient? Would it, in fact, be alive? Does it deserve rights and autonomy? Or are we just anthropomorphizing a computer that we’ve programed to mimic human consciousness and emotions? What happens to our connections if we can’t tell who we’re talking to is human or not? Does it cheapen the human experience if it can be replicated by AI?

I think the questions should be asked and debated long before the technology becomes common-place. Some are having those conversations. In 2021, the Pontifical Council of Culture held a symposium “The Challenge of Artificial Intelligence for Human Society and the Idea of the Human Person.” The panels addressed how and to what extent the emergence of AI requires us to rethink what it means to be human, the prescriptive and normative consequences that AI raises, and humanity and hope in the context of emerging AI.

But I think in the broader society, we lack substantive, ethical conversations on technology in general. Just because we can do something doesn’t necessarily mean we should. And what we allow shapes who we are. We are a society that allows organ transplants, in vitro fertilization, and GMOs. We flirt around the idea of using nuclear weapons and general reject creating human clones (though cloned animals are ok). Why is that? It is about our personal comfort, or are there real ethical lines?

As Christians, we should approach all our actions with ethical concern, including what technology should be embraced, rejected, or used with caution. I don’t know how much AI will disrupt society nor its true impact. I don’t know what social and ethical consequences it may bring. But I do know we need to be aware of the ethical implications of new technology and address what is and isn’t worth society’s acceptance. We need to form our consciences before the robots do.

Monday Motivation: Conversion

"We are converted not only once in our lives but many times. And the conversion is little by little. Sometimes it is as imperceptible as grass growing. But Lent give us a time to move the process along. Intentionally. By small surrenders." - Emilie Griffin

Echtra Éire

For Lent, I've been writing a poem a day. They aren't that good or thought out; it's more about the consistency and stretching a small, creative muscle. But, since today is St. Patrick's Day, my daily poem took a distinctly Irish tone.

Echtra Éire

Air plays over Éire,
Err and ire and emerald fire,
Magic mist reveals mythical inhabitants:
A mad king and phantom queen,
A hound from the north,
Warriors and raiders and seafaring shepherds,
Cattle and clans clashing,
The Derry raided, Brigid cries over spilled milk,
Shannon runs, the Cailleach wraps winter round her,
Fairies dance, banshees scream, leprechauns mend their shoes,
Men ride alongside gods in war,
Giants storm the beach,
A slave stands to preach,
Snakes flee at a foreign brogue.
This outpost outlier, saving Christendom
In Colmcille’s convents, on Brendon’s boats.
Land of milk and poteen,
New World roots buried in the ground
Disperse old guard to set down New World roots.
Calamitous colonization,
Famine and emancipation,
Death and humor and oppression and craic.
What nonsense, Joyce, from a landlocked island
A Jung man sitting for portraits
While Finians wake and glare east
Facing the never-setting sun
Breaking the rites of spring:
On the day when His blood shed, peace
On the day of Resurrection, death.
Riddle and rhymes and revival,
Connacht’s love songs and Seamus’ poems,
New identity forged in hidden world, forgotten words:
Erin, go back,
Éire go brách.

Egeria the Pilgrim

Today is the International Day of the Woman. To mark the occasion, I’d like to highlight a woman, who, though her true identity is unknown, was one of the earliest Christian pilgrims, who traveled across Europe and the Middle East, and who, by sharing her account with other women, documented an important time in ecclesiastical and linguistic history, creating an invaluable resource for centuries to come.

Egeria is the name given to the author of a very early travel log, detailing a fourth-century pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It is written by a woman to a group of women back home. It has survived only in fragments, much of it discovered at Monte Cassino in the 11th century. The earliest fragment copy, written in a Carolingian script, is from the 9th century.

Sometimes we forget how much ancient people actually travelled. It is difficult for me to imagine a woman travelling on her own to the Holy Land in the 380s. But actually, it’s almost more difficult to believe that for centuries monks found this woman’s account to other women worthwhile enough to preserve. Because of that, it is the earliest detailed account of Christian pilgrimage.

The name Egeria comes from a Roman mythological water nymph who served an early king of Rome as consort and counselor. The name came to be used to describe a woman advisor.

It is possible that Egeria is really St. Sylvia of Aquitaine. Sylvia was born into a wealthy family in Aquitaine in the fourth century. Her brother, Rufinus, became a chief minister of the Byzantine Empire. He welded great influence in the East, so it’s possible to see how Sylvia was able—socially, physically, financially— to travel to so many holy places at that time. If Sylvia also held any political voice via her brother’s position, it’s easy to see how the name Egeria would apply to her.

In her pilgrimage, Egeria travels to Mount Sinai, Mount Nebo, the tomb of Job (in modern-day Syria), and the burial place of Haran and the city of Nahor (both in modern-day Turkey). She stays in Jerusalem for about three years, making trips to holy places around there, including the Sea of Galilee.

On her way back to Europe, she stops at the shrine of St. Thecla, a follow of Paul, in Turkey. She had a particular following from women. Egeria concludes this portion of her pilgrimage in Constantinople, though her letter mentions that she plans to go to Ephesus as well.

In her writings, she also goes into detail about how the Church worships in Jerusalem, particularly Holy Week and Easter. The liturgical calendar was still being developed, yet Egeria gives account of observances and how they were practiced. Her records have given researchers a better understanding of the early Church, the development of the liturgical calendar and feasts, and the evolution from Latin to Proto-Romance language.

Although information is much easier to come by today, Egeria reminds us to take the trip, experience things for yourself, and document your journey. You never know who may be inspired or educated by it.

Shake, Babble, and Roll

On Feb. 8, at the weekly chapel service at Asbury University, revival broke out. Students spontaneously kept worshipping for hours, then days—ultimately two weeks. As the news spread, people started traveling to the Methodist university in Kentucky to partake in the continuous testimonies, preaching, and music.

In truth, it made me uncomfortable. I don’t know what to do with revival—the spontaneous, emotive, communal outpouring. As a theological concept I can believe it—I affirm Pentecost. In actual, specific practice, I’m doubtful.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking about what about it is so uncomfortable. I don’t want to deny those students’ experience. I won’t want to limit the way the Holy Spirit can work. I don’t want to question the sincerity or rationality of other Christians. But here I am, side-eying the whole situation.

Revivals have existed as long as Christianity—again, see Pentecost. Even in liturgical churches, there were events of spontaneous, emotional release. American religion was greatly shaped by the Great Awakenings. The 1906 Azusa Street Revival kicked off the modern Pentecostal movement. For a denomination named after method, the Methodists sure love holiness movements.

Revivals are movements of the Spirit—unplanned, unedited, unrestrained. The constraints of social decorum are untied. There is repentance and healing and praise. Even if one doesn’t see anything supernatural in revival, one can see its purpose: it’s a valve, releasing the pressure of people who face discrimination, injustice, oppression. It’s a commentary and rebuke on society. It’s a wild moment where you’re value isn’t determined by race or sex or class or merit. You are a sinner. You are a child of God.

But it’s still hard for me to say “this revival is real” or “this revival is just collective hysteria and emotive manipulation.” In truth, most revivals are probably both—there are individuals genuinely led to God in such an experience and others who just ride the emotional high until the lights come on and leave puffed up on how pious they are. There are preachers calling for true reform, in the church, in the world. There are conmen manipulating the crowd for gain.

I think we can at least ask, “Does this revival bear fruit?” That’s something that can’t be answered for a long time. It can only be seen in the lives of the participants, their testimonies, and any movements that arise. It can’t be answered in real time watching the live streams. Pentecost is only Pentecost because it is the start of something—the beginning of the Church. The people were transformed and continued to gather and spread the Gospel. If it had just been one, wild morning in Jerusalem, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one today would care about some old, obscure sect and their messiah.

I’ve known since sixth grade (with the first of annual trips to Methodist youth gatherings) that I’m not the kind of person who finds God in swaying, singing crowds. Give me a dead author over a hip speaker who can relate the youths. I will stay seated during when everyone else responds to the altar call. And I used to worry I was missing something that everyone else seemed to somehow know. Was everyone around me really so in touch with God and brimming with revived faith? What did it say about me if I found it all unappealing? And then arrogant disgust, that only a young teen can truly express, came. No, surely they were wrong. They were being manipulated. I’m above such undignified emotionalism.

It's hard to let go of that instinctive reaction when I hear of people being so moved by repetitive guitar chords and yelling, crying sermons. But I don’t want to try to put the Spirit in a box, only moving in ways I understand. I don’t need to shake or roll to receive the Spirit. He comes to me in solitude, in silence, in stillness. I will approach the altar. I will weep. I will respond and repent and be revived. But the time and place and mannerisms will not proclaim “revival.”

So I’m not going to jump on board, extoling the virtues of something just because it’s Christian and viral. But I’m going to be less quick to dismiss or condemn. Maybe the Spirit’s moving there—good; I hope He is. But it’s more important He’s moving here. I’ll sit still and wait.

The Lengthening of Days

The name Lent comes from the Old English lencten, meaning spring or lengthening of days. And that makes sense: Lent is always celebrated in the spring. Even though officially, spring is a month away, it’s currently 80 degrees, and the daffodils are in bloom all around. And come Easter, the dogwoods will be in bloom. So, it certainly feels like the beginning of Lent is ushering in spring.

But Lent doesn’t look very springlike. In Latin, Lent is Quadragesima, after 40. The 40 days of Lent reflect the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert. It calls to mind dryness, barrenness, resisting temptation. In German, the season is Fastenzeit, or “fasting time.” Spring is supposed to be about plenty and life, but Lent is about restraint and sacrifice.

But restraint and sacrifice isn’t the point of Lent, in and of themselves. Lent is a preparation. We are called to die to self. But the Christian message is that death is not the end, death is not victorious. We die to self to live in Christ. Lent prepares for Easter and resurrection.

If we just bask in the warm weather and sunny evenings but don't work in the garden, then, despite spring's virility and the soil's richness, we won't reap any food. If we just show up on Easter morning with new hats and chocolate bunnies, we won't really be changed by Christ's sacrifice and victory.

If we truly want to celebrate the fruits of the Resurrection, we need to live a life in Christ. That takes reflection, effort, and sacrifice. Lent is the tilling of the soil, the weeding of the garden. It is the work done in order to make the garden grow.

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