Are relics a thing of the past?

The word relic denotes antiquity, but in just the past couple years, this centuries-old tradition has been causing a bit of medieval-style controversy. In September of 2014, the beatification process for Archbishop Fulton Sheen was postponed indefinitely, largely because of a dispute over Sheen’s body. (Sheen was an Emmy Award-winning television and radio personality who became a midcentury pop culture icon preaching and teaching on Catholic theology, making him one of the world’s first televangelists.) While the location of the archbishop’s body is not in question—he’s buried beneath St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City—the future location of his corpse is something of a bone of contention. 

The Diocese of Peoria, Illinois, which Sheen first called home, is asking that his body be returned to further the cause of beatification. Cardinal Timothy Dolan of New York City has been hesitant to hand over this precious cargo, citing Sheen’s last wishes that he be buried in New York. While the charismatic Sheen’s fame lay in his ability to modernize the way the Catholic Church reached out to the world, the controversy over the archbishop’s body seems ancient. In reality, it is only the most recent example of a fascinating tradition that reaches back to the dawn of Christianity.

As Christianity came to dominate the Roman Empire, the Christian focus on the physical remains of departed saints revolutionized the geography of Christendom, establishing the tombs of great saints as centers of pilgrimage as well as trade and commerce. Bodies of saints were considered something like public Christian property: Their bones and flesh were often dismembered and distributed across the globe for veneration among the faithful. 

A medieval Christian city could thrive or wither depending on the provenance of the bones buried beneath the cathedral floor. While the church in Rome was literally built upon the ”rock” of St. Peter, other claims to such spiritual authority have rested on less solid foundations. 

The Venetians, hoping to expand their reach in Northern Italy and across the Mediterranean, decided they needed to adopt a patron saint whose spiritual pedigree matched their commercial success. They settled on St. Mark and his lion, despite the fact that the evangelist’s tomb rested across the sea in Egypt. Undeterred, Venice orchestrated a secret mission to exhume and relocate the remains of St. Mark to Venice. Wrapping the saint in pork to deter suspicious but pious Muslim custom agents, they spirited Mark’s bones back to Venice. 

In recent years, scientific achievements have given scholars new ways to analyze such popular relics as the Shroud of Turin and the miraculous tilma of San Juan Diego. Despite a rising tide of skepticism, the new scientific treatment of these relics has raised awareness of the importance of physical remnants, even beyond traditionally religious circles. This is something that Archbishop Sheen, the modern master of Catholic evangelism, would likely smile to see. 

Hardly lost to history, the graves and relics of saints give us a proximity and intimacy with the dead that is impossible to experience at a distance. When Jesus rose from the dead, Thomas refused to believe until he could touch Christ’s risen body with his own hands. As Catholics in a physical world with roots extending far into past, we crave the same kind of intimate connection.

Gifts of the Magi

Perhaps this should have waited for the Epiphany.  But then I could never wait at Christmas, even as child.

I’ve always loved stories of the three kings. In Christian history, the miracle of the Magi has inspired many legends and fables. The single, brief gospel passage in Matthew offers little detail.  They came from the East, following a star. They brought gifts. They prostrated themselves in worship of the child.

Even the assumption that there were three Magi is not supported by the text. In Syrian Christian communities, which is where the Gospel of Matthew was probably written not long after the fall of Jerusalem, the legend is that there were twelve Magi.  Nor does Matthew make clear who the Magi were.  In Medieval Europe the tradition developed that they were kings, while most modern translations of the passage label the Magi as “astrologers.”  The Greek word used by Matthew (magoi) is elsewhere in the Bible and in early Christian usage is associated with magic. Many scholars believe that the reference is to Zoroastrian priests of ancient Persia, who would have been renowned in ancient Syria for their study of the heavens.  In truth, though, scholarship here is mostly speculation.

Likewise, the names commonly assigned to the Magi—Melchior, dark Balthazar, and Caspar—are certainly apocryphal. In non-European Christian traditions, a score of other names are used. By some accounts Melchior is from Persia, in others from Arabia; Balthazar from Babylon, while in others from Ethiopia, Caspar from India, while in others he is from Tarsus.  

The Magi are often depicted as special representatives, too—such as with Balthazar’s dark skin, or the legend that each of the Magi represented different stages of life, from beardless youth to old age. Many of our stories of the Magi developed in the mystery plays of medieval Europe, which the guild of goldsmiths sometimes organized. Yet, whatever the provenance, the stories are often wonderful. In some accounts the three Magi were baptized by St. Thomas in his mission to the East. Others name Prester John as their descendent. Another legend has it that gifts of the Magi were stolen by the two thieves who shared Christ’s crucifixion, only to be returned in the tomb.  These are all poignant parables.

Some of my favorite stories are of the four Magi. What I love about these stories are the reminders that the real gifts of the Magi were never merely gold, incense, and spice.

Here in the United States, the story of a fourth Magi was popularized by Henry van Dyke in the 1890s and has been retold in various forms over the years. The central character is Artaban, a Persian priest of the Magi, who was renowned both for his scholarship and his kindness. When the star appeared in the heavens, he set out from Persia to Babylon to join with the other Magi in search of the newborn king with three great jewels: a ruby, a sapphire, and a “pearl of great price.” En route, he came upon someone dying from disease and, overcome with compassion, he stopped, praying to God about whether he should allow his kindness to make him late for his journey with the others.

While Artaban heals the sick man, he misses the others and must spend his first jewel so that he can begin the search for the Christ child alone. For the next 33 years he searches; over and over again he is delayed by his compassion and kindness toward the poor and sick, just missing Christ each time, spending the jewels he had intended for the babe.

Finally, he is in Jerusalem on the day of the crucifixion. As he heads to Golgotha, a woman—the child of one of the original Magi—calls out to him. She is destitute and being sold into slavery. Once again Artaban’s love and compassion deter him. He has now only the pearl of great price, but he gives it up to save the woman. At that moment, the skies darken and the earth shakes. A piece of tile falls from a roof and crushes him. He agonizes in his last moments that his life has been wasted, that he never found the king he sought to honor. A voice then comes—appropriately the words are from the Gospel of Matthew—“Truly I say unto you, whatever you have done for these the least of my brethren, you do unto me.”

In Slavic countries, the fourth Magi is a woman. Called the babushka (meaning old woman or grandma), the marvelous story is that a very poor old woman lived alone in the woods. Winter set in, with its dark and cold, and her food and firewood were gone.  She had resigned herself to death, when jingling bells and bright lights appeared in the darkness. The Magi had come, asking if she had heard of the birth of a child of light. They had seen his star, and they said he would be a king. When she replied that she had not, the Magi invited her to join them in looking for this child.

Thinking that she had no gifts worthy of a king—certainly nothing to match the gold and such the others would give—she sadly refused. Once they left her, though, she realized that even she had something to give to the babe after all. So, she set off to find the Magi, so that she too might worship and give. The legend is that in the dark and cold of winter she still seeks to find the Magi and the child. She wanders the world looking for the Christ child and giving what she can to the needy and good along the way.

How can we not believe such perfect stories? Every blessing to you and yours for Christmas! 

Advent 4 C

Image: "For Joy," 
©Jan Richardson.

December 20, 2015

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The gospel today begins with a journey.

“Mary set out and traveled to the hill country in haste…”

This time of year, I think, a lot of us can appreciate the idea of taking a trip. Millions of Americans take holiday vacations.

But what Mary does here is hardly a vacation.

She has just been told that she is to be the Mother of God.

And rather than keeping this news to herself, or wondering how she will cope, she sets out on a journey, to visit her cousin, Elizabeth — and we have this momentous scene that follows, The Visitation.

Not only does Mary take this journey to a town of Judah but, with this event, the great journey of her LIFE begins – an adventure that will not end until her final journey, to heaven, on the feast we celebrate today, the Assumption.

We tend to think of the Blessed Mother as a quiet, serene figure – a woman of few words, but blessed with tremendous faith, and boundless trust.

This is true.

But this morning, I’d like to ask you to think of her a little differently.

Think of her also as a woman of action.

She is a woman on a continual journey — constantly, by necessity, on the move. She is restless, rarely sitting still or staying in one place.

After this journey to see Elizabeth, we next find Mary embarking on an arduous trip, while pregnant, to Bethlehem.

After giving birth, she and her small family are on the move again, fleeing to Egypt, to escape death.

We meet her again, traveling to Jerusalem, where her son goes missing – and we follow her as she goes in search of him.

Finding him, she continues her travels, bringing him home to Nazareth.

Mary, as the first disciple, in many ways prefigures all the disciples who will follow – those who traveled, mostly on foot, throughout the world to spread the gospel and proclaim the good news.

Like those apostles, Mary was a missionary – the first missionary, a woman who traveled and carried Christ to the world.

In today’s gospel, we see her, literally, bringing Jesus to another, as she carries him in her womb and goes to her cousin and speaks the words any missionary might pronounce – words which are the very essence of The Good News, and the beginning of all belief:

“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord.”

What follows, the Magnificat, is Mary’s great gift to scripture, one of its most beautiful prayers.

 It is prayed every evening in the Liturgy of the Hours by millions around the world. With that, Mary’s great acclamation becomes the Church’s.

We can only imagine what other travels she took in the course of her life … but we can’t forget one in particular, the most difficult of all, as she followed her son on HIS journey to Calvary…

…Her life is closely entwined with ours.

All of us, like Mary, are on a journey.

All of us are traveling to places we may not understand, to destinations we cannot see.

This is life.

But we ask Mary to help guide us on our way.

The road is long. The journey isn’t easy.

We pray to have the trust in God that we need to travel whatever road we must take – just as Mary did.

And we pray, too, that one day our journeying will lead us to meet her face to face – in that place prepared for her, that destination that became her home, and where she waits for us, with a mother’s love and a mother’s hope.

Third Sunday of Advent C

December 2015

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Sisters and brothers: rejoice in the Lord always. I shall say it again, rejoice.”

St. Paul commands this in the second reading

The word for rejoice in Latin is gaudete, so quite naturally this Sunday is called Gaudete Sunday.

Why all this exultation? Are we finally getting a break from the somberness of Advent?

Yes, but there is more to it than that.

Remember that Advent is like a retreat that the worldwide Church is making.

In this upcoming third week we will consider our lives in the context of the great beauty God has put in us and around us.

Can you think this way?

One line in the First Reading puts it in dramatic terms.

Zephaniah says that the Lord “will sing joyfully because of you, as one sings at festivals.”

Because of you!

Have you ever in your life thought that God might be singing because of you?

Have you ever let your image of God expand that far?

 Have you ever let him, in the most profound sense of the word, be one who sings you into existence?

In one of the books of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, the children are taken back to the very moment of creation.

They hear the voice of Aslan (the Christ figure) singing into the wilderness.

When the voice goes high, birds, clouds, blue sky appear.

At a certain lengthy turn of melody the mountains laboriously raise their heads.

A low hum vibrates forth the depths of seas.

Creation seems to be made out of melody.

Maybe it is.

Scientists still contend about it, however.

What is the physical universe composed of, particles or waves? (I think that is the choice.)

Einstein and many others tried to reconcile them, but no luck.

If I could come even close to describing “string theory,” we might have a third contention about the universe’s makeup.

Maybe you have seen TV shows about string theory on PBS or elsewhere, a model that some scholars actually do believe unites the two hypotheses.

These strings act a lot like sound does.

Like the vibrations that come forth from a violin string.

Instead of saying that particles or waves or uncertainty or whatever else are the basis of matter and force-fields and so on, these scientists instead postulate string-like particles—infinitesimal, ever changing, wriggling. By their dancing shapes these string circles generate (or constitute, or become, or whatever is the right way to say it) everything that is.

How about this for a possibility:

God’s gladness sings out joyfully at every instant,

and his song is the earth, the galaxies, the people and plants and chemicals and soaring hawks and encircling planets, droplets of dew and heavy black holes, youthful beauties, ancient wisdoms, and everything else that exists.

We are God’s song

Apply this, please, to Sunday’s Gospel.

People in long rows gather to be baptized in expectation of the Savior who is to come.

Each segment (the crowd, the tax collectors, the soldiers) ask John the Baptist the exact same question: “Teacher, what should we do?”

“Let your life sing,” he answers.

Let it sing.

Let your life be what it is: God’s joyous, interleaved and always consonant melody, sounding outwards in deepest joy.

Share your cloak and your food, collect only what is owed, do not extort, do these things and you will be sounding the true melody of your of your life.

Second Sunday of Advent C

Image: "Prepare," 
©Jan Richardson.

December 6, 2015

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Our minds have a mind of their own.

Thoughts think themselves, seemingly undirected by the thinker.

The discovery of this simple and undeniable facet of our makeup can be quite startling.

We fantasize we are in complete control of mental processes.

However, the actual situation seems to be quite different.

When we concentrate, we can focus thinking along a certain path.

But if we relax attention, certain automatic mental processes kick in.

The automatic process that concerns John the Baptist is how we deal with the wounds that have been inflicted on us and the wounds we have inflicted on others.

In religious language, his focus is on how the mind seduces us into identifying with sin.

There is an adhesive quality about sinful experiences. They stick.

We remember the beatings, the humiliations, the hateful glances, and the mocking words.

The wrongs done to us are available to memory in a way neutral and even positive experiences are not.

Although the experience of sin begins with being sinned against, we are quick learners in this way of being human.

We soon learn to wound others.

We engage in hitting, lying, cheating, betraying, etc.

We need to protect and promote ourselves at all costs.

Any behavior that appears to further this narrow and intense self-preoccupation we embrace.

Soon we can tell our life story in term of blows received and blows given.

It is a tale of sin; and even if we repress it, it secretly shapes our sense of who we are.

This attraction of the mind to the negative has a cumulative effect.

As the mind simultaneously nurtures a sense of victimhood and wallows in guilt over its own mistakes, sin rises to a new status in the interior life. We gradually begin to identity with the sinful dimension of our lives.

In our own eyes, we become, above all else, one who has been sinned against and one who sins in turn.

We are the receiver and giver of blows, and the highest compliment is, "He gave as good as he got."

The mind is convinced this is the "real us," and it defends this identity by citing facts and providing rationalizations.

Nothing can disprove this obvious truth.

However, there is an important distinction to be made in telling this inner story of sin.

The distinction is between what has happened and what the mind does with what has happened.

We really have been maltreated, victims of the wrongdoing of others; and we really have maltreated others, making them victims of our wrongdoing.

Not to acknowledge this active participation in the sin of the world is to be either incredibly dense or in chronic denial.

But the point is not the sheer factuality of moral evil. The point is what the mind does with these experiences.

It enthrones them as the secret and irreversible truth about the human person.

Sinner becomes the depth identity, the loudest interior noise that blocks out any refuting voices.

The result is an ever-deepening connection of who we are with the wrongs done to us and by us.

Our identification with sin becomes a serious roadblock—a mountain in the way, a winding and rough path that means slow travel, a valley that delays arrival.

 Jesus cannot get to us with his radical address that we are the light of the world, the salt of the earth.

When we cling to our identity as sinner, his words cannot penetrate the armor of our hardened self-evaluation.

He is not the One Who Is to Come, but the One Sin Keeps Away.

That is why John the Baptist is needed as preparation for Christ.

He enables people to go beyond the mind and let go of sins.

This repentance that leads to the forgiveness of sins is a subtle process, but it is not an impossible one.

Two key insights often help us.

The first insight involves our awareness of the nature of the mind.

When we become aware of the powerful tendency of the mind to hold onto sin, we are already beyond it.

We see what it is doing, and so we are more than it.

We transcend the mind by noticing how it works.

When this happens, a sense of spaciousness replaces the sense of restriction and a sense of freedom replaces the sense of compulsion.

We feel we have walked through a door into a hidden room that feels like home.

We are closer to who we really are.

The second insight involves an implication of the basic Christian conviction of the unconditional forgiveness of God.

God is ultimate reality and, therefore, if God holds the sin, the sin transcends the flow of time and remains permanently present.

But if God has let go of the sin, then who is holding on?

The forgiveness of God clears the way for us to see where the real action is.

The real action is the mind and how it clings to negative evaluations. The question changes from "Will God forgive me?" to "How can I go beyond the mind that clings to sin, even though God has forgiven me?"

Before we can hear the words that Jesus heard, “you are my beloved child, in you I am well pleased,” we will have to undergo John’s baptism which entails a repentance that leads to the forgiveness of sins.

If we do this, the path is cleared.

First Sunday of Advent C

Image: "Drawing Near," 
©Jan Richardson.

November 29, 2015

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Why do we have Advent?

You say, “I don’t know, it always just comes along.” Or, “to prepare for Christmas.”

But Christmas came long ago, and if Christ has already been born, what is this Advent waiting about?

“Have we forgotten about his birthing?”

 I have heard these questions, answers, and others, a number of times.

So let us look at his birth and at our forgetfulness.

Our hearts get drowsy and lazy, tired out by the anxieties of daily life.

Maybe we distract ourselves from troubles by working very hard, or becoming depressed, or becoming fascinated with drink, or sex, or out-of-control emotions, or gambling, or email, or golf, or surfing the web, or pride, or, or, or (name yours).

Whatever it is for you, the very clear message of Advent is, “Settle down for a while.”

Open the door just a crack to let God in.

There is a design to help us do this.

Each week’s First Reading is the carrot: usually positive, a promise of good.

 Then the Gospel hits you with a big stick to wake us up.

Take the encouraging First Reading this Sunday.

It reminds us of the promise God made to his people: rightness and justice will come to the earth.

Security. The day of the Lord will arrive, though long delayed.

Peace in our day.

How rewarding it is to desire such a time.

Too good to be true?

 Just pious thought?

Read the First Reading again later and ask yourself those questions. Spend time with them. Pray to God for help.

The Responsorial Psalm will aid you. It asks God to make known his ways to us, to guide us and teach us.

The Second Reading urges us to put God’s promise of peace into action, even if we are not yet sure what it means.

Love others and be loved.

Ah, and then the Gospel.

It tries to wake us up, especially if the above has not helped.

“But I am perfectly awake,” you say.

Alright then, go ahead and read the Gospel again later

.

Signs in the sun, moon and stars, nations in dismay, the roaring of the sea and the waves, people dying of fright, and the Son of Man appearing in the clouds with power and great glory!

Terrifying.

So are you all ready for it?

 Let yourself imagine what such a time might be like.

Picture it scene by scene and don’t worry about being exact. Just experience it.

Will such a shakeup really happen literally?

We do not know.

Maybe much worse is to come, judging from the state of the world today.

Do you live without fear of terrorists or ISIS, of proliferating nuclear weapons, of horrific climate change, of a crash of the world economy, or of the greed that fills so many hearts to overflowing—in your city, in your state, your world?

If you can say “You are right, I am afraid of these,” then you have a start on the reason for Advent.

Christ has to be born afresh.

 Yes, it worked the last time, but you and I forget so easily.

His birth must happen again, in our liturgy, in our lives, in this Advent, so that his sacrifice will not be in vain.

This is why we have Advent.

The Solemnity Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe

November 22, 2015

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Once there was a king named Arthur.
You remember him, the one who thought up the Round Table and had Lancelot as his knight and Guinevere as his wife.

Long before he became king, in fact when he was just an infant in the cradle, a strange thing happened.
The nurse stepped out for a moment and, quick as a wink, Merlin the magician stepped in and then stepped back out …

… taking the boy with him.

This was not a kidnapping.
Merlin was a kindly old magician and his job was to let the boy grow up as a normal—not a spoiled, pampered or “royal”—person.
He was not to be miles above the people and the animals and the tiny, precious specks of beauty in the most surprising places in our lives.
He was to live with us.

Merlin transported Arthur to a bedraggled castle ruled by a third-rate Lord named Sir Ector.
The people were nice enough, and ordinary, and the nooks and crannies of the castle were perfect for a little kid to hide in and the halls for him to run in.
All the servants and even the lords and ladies were his friends.
How could they not be? He was just an ordinary boy, though he would be king one day.
They called him Wart (which in those days rhymed with Art, which is short for Arthur).

Merlin, funny old character, decided to educate Wart in a special way. He changed the boy into various and sundry animals, each for a time.
He turned him into a hawk, for instance—to witness first-hand the world as it appeared in a hawk's eyes.
Or a fish. In fact, especially a fish because Wart then could attend a formal school of fishes and learn from their master.

Now, it seems that Jesus had a few things in common with the Wart.
As a boy Jesus was not called “King” or “your highness” any more than Wart was referred to as “your majesty.”
Jesus was called “Jesus,”** a common name in those days.
He played outside, helped his dad, rolled in the mud, cut his finger, even helped birds to fly.
And his mom was his very most favorite person.

He had a teacher who was even better at teaching than Merlin.
It was the Spirit of God.
It helped him through creeks and cubbyholes of the earth and made him friends with the funny sweet people who lived all around.

Both Wart and Jesus did grow up to be the kings they were meant to be. But they brought new images of a king.
Their love was not just for the noble and the mighty but for everyone. They were lowly.
Jesus was “king” because he understood every minutest texture of everyone’s life and world.

Pilate asked Jesus if he were a king.
He was, specifically, but not in any way Pilate could have imagined.
Smallness was his power.
Persuasion was his scepter, along with an amazing ability to teach.
And so, he was Christ the King.
Oh, I almost forgot. I typed a wrong key when I began writing, and hit a “d” instead of a “g” at the end of the word King.
It came out “Christ the Kind.”

This is who we find waiting for us on this Sunday.