Something strange is happening, there is a great stillness on earth today, a great silence and stillness.  

So states an ancient sermon regarding Christ’s descent into the netherworld.

The earth trembled and is now still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear.

The sermon tells us that Christ has gone to look for our first parents and for those who live in the shadow of darkness and death:

He has gone to free the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast with terror and cried out to everyone: “My Lord be with you all.” Christ answered him: “And with your spirit.”

Christ commands all those held in bondage to come forth from the darkness:

I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead… For your sake I took the form of a slave. I endured scourging to remove the burden of sin that weighs upon your back. See my hands, nailed firmly to a tree, for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree… Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly paradise. I won’t lead you back to that one; I’ll enthrone you in heaven.

That is a very neat story, but is it true? The late Pope Benedict XVI wrote that the Christian Faith stands or falls on the truth of the testimony that Jesus Christ rose from the dead. As St. Paul put it: “If Christ has not been raised then our preaching to you is in vain.”

Benedict wrote that, without the resurrection, we could still piece together some nice ideas about Christianity—a kind of religious worldview—but what would we be left with? Just a failed religious leader. Jesus would still be a great man, but that is all He would be.

And if that were the case, Christ’s authority would extend only as far as we would be interested. Christ would no longer be the criterion. That means we would become the criterion. We and our own judgments. We would pick and choose what strike us as useful from Christ’s teachings.

There of course is nothing new in this. At the beginning of the Bible, Adam and Eve chose to become the criterion. In doing so, they thought they could “be like God.”

So there is nothing new in people thinking that in sinning they can be like God. The only new thing that came into our world is Christ and His resurrection. Benedict wrote: “Only if Jesus is risen has anything really new occurred that changes the world and the situation of mankind.”

In my first year in theology school, a Dominican religious sister taught the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Bible. The consensus soon arose in the class that she really did not believe Christ was God. She continually cited a man named Rudolf Bultmann, a Lutheran scripture scholar from Germany who was one of the early 20^th century’s major forces in biblical studies. One of his famous quotes is this:  

It is impossible to use electrical light and the wireless and to avail ourselves of modern medical and surgical discoveries, and at the same time to believe in the New Testament world of spirits and miracles.  

So, because Edison invented the light bulb, and we found a vaccine for measles, it became foolish to believe in the supernatural events connected to Christ?

This heretical thought process was featured in seminaries for a good portion of the 20^th century. In a later work by Pope Benedict, he cited Bultmann’s book New Testament and Mythology. Bultmann argued that the “natural event of the resuscitation of a dead man doesn’t really help us in our faith.” This famous and influential scholar then appeared to argue Christ was not resurrected, but merely resuscitated.

Pope Benedict answered that the coming back to life of a clinically dead person wouldn’t have changed anything. Something like that would not have transformed our human existence. Did Christ appear to His Apostles beaten, bloodied, and bruised and tell them, “Somehow I pulled out of it”? Would that have inspired them to go to their bloody deaths proclaiming that Christ was God? Of course not.

We then have to use our reason and intellect to help us get to the truth. The late Pope Benedict, one of the Church’s great theologians and Scripture scholars, bottom lined it by stating this: “I trust the Gospels.”

Pope Benedict wrote that the Apostles were so overwhelmed by the reality of seeing Christ alive that, after initial astonishment and hesitation, they could no longer ignore the reality: “He’s alive. He’s spoken to us; he’s allowed us to touch him, even if he no longer belongs to the realm of the tangible in the normal way.” Christ was different, but He was no mere resuscitated corpse, nor was He an hallucination. He no longer belonged to the world, but yet He was there present to it. Pope Benedict wrote it was an utterly unique experience for the Apostles, something that surpasses all experience, yet it was utterly real and present.

But is it true? Our modern, enlightened world that “trusts the science” says it is a myth. Yet Pope Benedict argued that the resurrection does not contradict scientific data. The resurrection accounts certainly speak of something new, unprecedented, a new dimension of reality. It shows us there is a further dimension, beyond what was previously known.  

Does that contradict science?

Can there really only ever be what there has always been? Can there not be something unexpected, unimaginable, something new?

If there really is a God, is he not able to create a new dimension of human existence, a new dimension of reality altogether? Is not creation waiting for this last and highest evolutionary leap, for the union of the finite with the infinite, for the union of man and God, for the conquest of death? 

My friends: Something strange is happening; something strange and new, but real nonetheless. God has died in the flesh, but He is risen—and hell trembles with fear.

Photo by Jonny Gios on Unsplash

Imagine listening to a Bach fugue in which one of the opening voices introduces the theme but never returns. The subject is stated, the music unfolds, the harmony advances—yet a register of the composition seems strangely incomplete. The structure of a fugue depends on voices entering and reentering, echoing and developing the original motif until the full harmony of the piece becomes clear.

For much of my spiritual life, Mary occupied precisely that absent register.

Raised in an Italian Catholic world where la Madonna quietly inhabited the rhythm of family and church life, I later moved through Protestant and evangelical traditions where Mary remained in the biblical text but largely disappeared from theological reflection. Only gradually did I realize that the Gospel narrative itself contains a Marian line woven into the Incarnation story.

She appears first in the infancy narrative—an opening voice that introduces the mystery of God entering human history—and then reappears at decisive moments: the Nativity, Cana, Calvary, and the prayer of the early Church. Each entry deepens the harmony of the Incarnation. Christ remains the central subject of the symphony, but Mary’s presence forms one of the human voices through which the theme first enters the world (see Caryll Houselander, The Reed of God, Ave Maria Press, 2020).

Mary in Sacred Scripture

The primary motif of this sacred fugue is Scripture.

Luke’s Gospel begins the Marian voice with the angel’s greeting: chaire, kecharitōmenē—“Rejoice, one who has been filled with grace” (Lk. 1:28, NRSV-CE). The Greek participle kecharitōmenē suggests not a momentary favor but a completed and abiding state of grace. Elizabeth then recognizes Mary’s role with the words mētēr tou Kyriou mou—“the mother of my Lord” (Lk. 1:43). Mary herself responds with the Magnificat, announcing that “all generations will call me blessed” (Lk. 1:48).

The Evangelists return to her repeatedly. She treasures the mysteries of Christ’s life in her heart (Lk. 2:19). She stands at Cana where her quiet instruction—“Do whatever he tells you”—precedes Jesus’ first sign (Jn. 2:5). She remains faithful beneath the Cross when most disciples scatter (Jn. 19:25–27). And she is present in prayer among the first believers awaiting the Holy Spirit (Acts 1:14).

The Gospel narrative does not elevate Mary above Christ, but it repeatedly situates her in the closest proximity to the decisive moments of His mission. In the structure of the fugue, her voice enters whenever the Incarnation theme is most clearly heard.

Protestant readers often point to passages that appear to diminish Mary’s significance. When told that His mother and brothers are looking for Him, Jesus asks, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” before declaring that those who do the will of God are His true family (Mt. 12:48–50; Mk. 3:31–35).

Yet the wording clarifies the point: “Whoever does the will of my Father” (Mt. 12:50). Far from excluding Mary, this description perfectly captures her role in the Annunciation. She is the first person in the Gospel narrative to accept the divine will with complete trust: “Behold the servant of the Lord; let it be done to me according to your word” (Lk. 1:38).

The Church therefore reads this passage not as a dismissal of Mary but as the universalization of the obedience she already embodies. She becomes the model disciple—the one who hears the Word and receives it fully (Lk. 11:27–28).

A fair discussion must also acknowledge the questions Protestants raise regarding certain Marian doctrines. Matthew records that Joseph “knew her not until she had borne a son” (Mt. 1:25). Many Protestant interpreters read the phrase as implying that Mary and Joseph later lived a normal married life.

Catholic theology interprets the passage differently, noting that the Greek word heōs (“until”) often describes what happens up to a point without implying a change afterward. As biblical scholar Brant J. Pitre explains in Jesus and The Jewish Roots of Mary (Image Books, 2018), the expression functions similarly elsewhere in Scripture and does not necessarily indicate a later reversal. Early Christian writers overwhelmingly affirmed Mary’s perpetual virginity, yet the biblical text itself leaves room for interpretive discussion. Recognizing that tension allows a more balanced conversation between traditions.

The Catholic claim is not that every Marian doctrine is explicitly spelled out in Scripture, but that these teachings grow organically from the biblical witness when read within the living tradition of the Church.

Mary in Sacred Tradition

This leads to the secondary motif of the fugue: tradition.

From the earliest centuries, Christians recognized that Mary’s identity was inseparable from Christology. When the Council of Ephesus affirmed the title Theotokos—“God-bearer”—in 431, the intention was not to elevate Mary independently but to protect the truth that the child she bore is fully divine (see John McGuckin, Saint Cyril of Alexandria and the Christological Controversy, St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2004).

As theological reflection deepened, Marian doctrine developed around this central mystery. The Catechism of the Catholic Church explains: “The Virgin Mary’s role in the Church is inseparable from her union with Christ and flows directly from it” (964). It also describes her as the Church’s “preeminent and wholly unique member” (967).

In other words, Marian doctrine does not compete with Christ’s role. It reflects on the human context through which the Incarnation entered history.

In a fugue, the beauty of the music appears when the voices converge—subject and counterpoint woven together into a final harmony. Scripture and tradition function in precisely this way within Christianity. The New Testament itself urges believers to “stand firm and hold to the traditions” handed down by the apostles (2 Thes. 2:15).

The real question is not whether Christians interpret Scripture through tradition, but which tradition best preserves the fullness of the Gospel narrative.

From my own vantage point—after revisiting the question through Protestant theology, biblical scholarship, and Catholic reflection—Mary’s voice continued to return like the subject of a fugue. Each reappearance revealed how inseparable she is from the story of Christ: present at His birth, attentive at the beginning of His ministry, steadfast at the Cross, and prayerful at the birth of the Church (see Joseph Ratzinger and Hans Urs von Balthasar, Mary: The Church at the Source, Ignatius Press, 2005).

The symphony of salvation history does not revolve around Mary. Yet without her, the harmony is incomplete. The Gospel’s music resolves most clearly when every voice—including hers—enters the composition.

Image from Wikimedia Commons

“There are among us so many who are poor and elderly, in need of our understanding, respect, love and compassion, especially if they are sick, handicapped, helpless or alone.” – Mother Teresa

As I sat down to write this article, I had an interesting realization. In my 40+ years as a Catholic, I had never seen a single person in my parish with a disability. No parishioners with Down syndrome. None with cerebral palsy. I’d never even seen a child in a wheelchair in Mass. Although my home parish is in a very small, rural community, I realized the same held true for the large city parishes I attended while in college. Even as an adult, it is still very rare for me, personally, to encounter someone with a disability at Mass.

I found myself wondering, why isn’t my church home to more of our brothers and sisters living with disabilities? After all, the Gospel teaches inclusion, love, and acceptance. Even the saints had disabilities—namely, St. Margaret of Castello (dwarfism), Blessed Hermann of Reichenau (cerebral palsy), and St. Joseph of Cupertino (learning disabilities).

With a wide range of diagnoses affecting American children, including ADHD, autism, and mental illness, “challenges” is an understatement when it comes to what families face when seeking support. Furthermore, with one-fifth of Americans reportedly living with some type of disability, it is evident that the Church has a difficult task at hand to nurture this growing population.

Perhaps you’ve watched your child or loved one with a disability go through a negative experience at church. Maybe you felt devastated when they were denied communion based on a misunderstanding. Or maybe you found church downright stressful rather than peaceful and fulfilling, all because of a disability. What should be an abundance of grace, love, and understanding is sometimes a source of unnecessary heartbreak and additional weight to carry.

So how do we counter these negative experiences?

Charleen Katra, Executive Director of the National Catholic Partnership on Disability (NCPD), has nearly 3 decades of experience supporting dioceses and parishes in ministering Catholics who have disabilities. Although the organization has been around since 1982, and awareness is increasing, there is still a lot of work to be done with changing perceptions. And in some ways, she says, it comes down to looking inwardly.

“Those who can’t see past a disability—who really has the disability?” says Charleen. “The one who is pure love, pure joy? Who couldn’t do harm if they wanted? These are the gifts that someone with a disability has. I see them as gifts. They have a closer connection with Christ. Blessed, broken, and given.”

The NCPD is focused on helping “parishes see barriers that may be invisible—even attitudinal—and removing them,” says Charleen. It’s about helping Catholics understand how to better respond and include our fellow parishioners who might walk, talk, or act differently than us.

“How you perceive someone changes how you receive someone,” Charleen says. It’s about seeing Christ in everyone, regardless of diagnoses.

In addition, she advocates for parishes to have “creative outreach” through collaboration with secular organizations. Churches might be surprised to find Catholics with disabilities who are in need of support when they partner with non-Catholic groups. Especially because millions of Americans live with “invisible” disabilities, such as mental and neurological disorders, that aren’t visibly obvious to others.

Something as simple as assistive listening devices can support parishioners who are hearing impaired. Charleen tells the story of attending Mass with her father, a devout Catholic and father of seven, who, with the help of an assistive listening device, was able to hear the homily for the first time in years.

Charleen and the staff of NCPD work diligently to ensure that support and resources are available nationwide in the Church for persons living with a wide range of disabilities or diagnoses. From a free course on Responding to Suicide to Faith Formation Strategies for Learners with Disabilities, NCPD offers a growing library of online courses and numerous other resources to help parishes and schools support the disability community.

“Families can get very discouraged in the Catholic Church,” says Charleen. “But I wish they could see the other side of the coin, sometimes. There are so many people who are working so hard to advance this ministry of belonging.”

With accessibility and awareness growing, even Masses are evolving to be more inclusive.

Fr. Sam Citero, O. Carm., is a priest at St. Thérèse of Lisieux parish in Cresskill, New Jersey. He’s been at St. Thérèse’s for 20 of his 41 years as a Carmelite priest. Fr. Citero is passionate about making Mass more accessible and welcoming for people with disabilities. His parish hosts a special Mass once a month.

Fr. Citero says that persons with special needs are not a burden, but a gift to the Church. “The gift that I’ve received is I’ve gotten to know some of these folks,” says Fr. Sam. “And it’s amazing how deeply spiritual and holy they are; even if they are nonverbal, they emanate something special.”

Every year since 2014, Fr. Sam and a group from the American Special Children’s Pilgrimage Group have been traveling to Lourdes during Easter week. The event includes a Trust Mass at the end of the week where attendees wear some type of representation of their country.

“All different nations come together dressed in their colors,” says Fr. Sam. “Kids paint their faces with flags.”

Uncle Sam and the Statue of Liberty are just a couple examples of the attire worn during the Trust Mass.

In an effort to bring the spirit of this pilgrimage back to Newark, Fr. Sam started the monthly Mass where everything from altar servers to lectors is done by parishioners with disabilities. What started as a Mass with about 25 attendees has grown to approximately 90. “People took to it very quickly,” says Fr. Sam.

Mass is followed by hospitality that is often themed based on a monthly holiday, such as St. Valentine’s Day or St. Patrick’s Day.

“This,” Fr. Citero says, “takes the liturgy into another phase of agape,” where the parishioners are “sharing and having fun together.”

Parishioners won’t find a cry room at this church either. Fr. Citero aims to create an environment of acceptance, love, and fun and requests that parents not take crying babies out of church. This, he says, is how they pray. Similarly, those with disabilities are not shushed if they cry out or need to move around during Mass. The atmosphere dissolves any worry of unwanted stares or judgment.

It is through this type of ministry that we welcome all God’s children into the Church, regardless of diagnoses or abilities. It is the works of persons like Charleen and Fr. Citero where we truly begin to feel what it means to be the Body of Christ. And every day that we are fortunate enough to stand alongside our brothers and sisters with disabilities in Mass is a blessing that brings all of us closer to Christ.

Author’s Note: If you are interested in expanding this outreach in your own parish, you can find more information here and here.

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

“If you don’t remember anything else, remember this one thing!”

A parent may use these words to emphasize an essential piece of advice given to a child. An employer may do the same when entrusting an employee with an important project. The implication: if this one thing is overlooked, no matter what else is accomplished, the goal is missed; the project failed. On the other hand, if you do just this one thing, success is assured.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could know the “one thing” in the spiritual life which would assure spiritual “success”—holiness and eternal life, our life’s mission fulfilled? In fact, we can. And Jesus Himself told us what it is.

ONE THING TO RULE THEM ALL

The scene is set. Jesus has been welcomed into the home of Martha and Mary. Ever the diligent hostess, Martha anxiously dashes about serving the Lord and her other guests. Meanwhile, Mary sits quietly at Jesus’ feet, enraptured, hanging on His every word—and appearing to Martha to be slacking off.

Martha’s patience runs out. She determines to enlist Jesus’ help to rouse her inconsiderate sister: “Tell her…to help me!” (Lk. 10:40). But Our Lord responds: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things: one thing is needful. Mary had chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her” (Lk. 10:41-42). Although the correction is gentle, Martha is stunned into silence. Jesus’ words reverberate in her mind: “Only one thing is needful.”

Some might argue the point. Aren’t there other necessities in life, such as eating and drinking?! Yes, of course. But Jesus is emphasizing that “man shall not live by bread alone but by every world that proceeds from the mouth of God” (Mt. 4:4). God is our life. Everything flows from him, even our most basic needs. Apart from him, we are lifeless, withered branches (cf. Jn. 15:5).

The “one thing” upon which our life depends is preserving our “connection” with Jesus, the true Vine. Imitating Mary, we must turn the central part of our being, our very heart, toward the Lord with loving attention. As we wait and listen, treasuring His presence, He shares His life with us. And if we consistently choose this “good portion,” we’ll be able to say to Jesus “…[even] in life’s noisiest hour, there whispers still the ceaseless love of thee” (Samuel Taylor Coleridge).

In his book Saint Mary Magdalene: Prophetess of Eucharistic Love, Fr. Sean Davidson comments: “Mary has discovered the one thing that is really necessary or needful…the one thing indispensable or essential for anyone, namely, to contemplate and love the Lord.” Do this and your life will be a success in the eyes of God because your fellowship with Him will lead to loving obedience and inner transformation. It will open your heart to all He wants to do in and through you. And abiding firmly in the Vine, you will eventually, inevitably, bear much fruit (cf. Jn. 15:5).

If we miss this one necessary thing, we’ve missed everything.

I NEVER KNEW YOU

In the highly regarded book endorsed by Raymond Cardinal Burke, In Sinu Jesus, a Benedictine monk reports that he learned this same lesson from Our Lord:

Seminarians are taught many things, some useful, others less so, but are they taught to love Me [Jesus], to give Me their hearts, to remain in My presence, to seek My Face, and to listen to My voice? If they are not taught these things, they will have learned nothing useful, and all their efforts will remain shallow and sterile. Woe to those who allow men to pass through their institutions without teaching them the one thing necessary!

This admonition applies not only to seminarians but to every disciple of Christ—and those who guide and teach them. If we don’t make it a priority to give our hearts to Jesus, to seek His presence and to listen to His voice, our lives will “remain shallow and sterile.” Worse, if we deliberately disregard the call to an intimate relationship with Jesus, we risk hearing those chilling words: “I never knew you” (Mt. 7:23).

Thankfully, those who choose “the good portion”—quality time with Jesus—never have to hear those distressing words. So, practically speaking, how can we do this?

IN HIS PRESENCE

We may be tempted to envy Mary. How we would love to have Jesus come to our home! We forget, He is always with us. How can we become more aware of His presence—and become more present to Him?

Remember: Jesus is truly with you. St. Teresa of Avila said the most common mistake we make in prayer is failing to recognize we are addressing a living Person who’s right with us. In her book Miracles Do Happen, Sr. Briege McKenna says: “We forget, sometimes, that Jesus is a living person who waits for us.” The commitment we make to pray is not to “a project, but to a living person, that living person is Jesus who is always there.”

We experience Jesus’ presence most profoundly in the Blessed Sacrament. These are precious times. But what if we are unable to be in His Eucharistic Presence as often as we’d like, due to health conditions or other circumstances of life?

If the outward expression of your love for the Lord is hindered in this way, be assured that your love is not hindered. As Jesus explained to Venerable Consolata Bertrone: “When one desires only to love, then everything that obstructs that love becomes meritorious.” Jesus promises to transform these hindrances “into graces and blessings for souls” (Jesus Speaks to the World).

Furthermore, the Benedictine monk previously mentioned offers great encouragement, reportedly given to him by Our Lord: “If you cannot come before My Eucharistic Face, you can be transported there spiritually by an act of desire coming from the depths of the soul. Ask Me to transport you to those tabernacles in the world where I am most forgotten. …I will transport your soul into My presence…” (In Sinu Jesu).

Similarly, St. Pio of Pietrelcina advised those who couldn’t get to a church to: “Fly with your spirit to the tabernacle…embrace the Beloved of our souls, even more than if you had been permitted to receive Him sacramentally.”

Finally, remember to enter the tabernacle of your own soul where Jesus—in fact, the Most Holy Trinity—dwells. Fr. Dominic M. Hoffman, O.P., writes: “On the altar He [Jesus] is before us. In the soul He is within us. In both cases it is the same one true God” (The Life Within: The Prayer of Union).

So, let us enter the sacred enclosure of our hearts and meet Jesus there, knowing that we are doing what matters most in life, “the one thing necessary.”  

Image from Wikimedia Commons

In a previous article, I wrote about moral perfection in this life, but I focused on contrasting mortal and venial sins for the purposes of helping us to remove sin from our lives and grow in holiness. In that article, which you can find by clicking here, I briefly mentioned deification, of which eradicating sin from one’s life is a part.

When studying deification, you will sometimes read or hear the words theosis and divinization, but all three words mean the same thing—to make one divine by grace. Generally, Eastern Christians use the Greek word theosis, while Western Christians use deification or divinization. Please note that by becoming divine, we share in God’s divinity by way of His grace; we do not become objects of worship.

In this article, I would like to delve deeper into deification to provide a better understanding of complete sanctification and holiness. This process involves cooperating with grace not only to root out sin but also to do the good works that God creates us to do and to do them joyfully out of love for Him. By doing this, we dispose our souls to more grace until we reach that perfection of holiness to which God calls us (see Hebrews 12:14).

Theologians traditionally teach three stages of deification, and we should familiarize ourselves with each as they will help us better imagine our journeys with God.

Stages of Deification

God created Adam and Eve full of sanctifying grace (click here for more). They had no inclinations to sin, which means they had no impediments to grace in their souls. And God interacted with Adam and Eve (see Genesis 1:28-30 and 2:16-23), which means that He somehow revealed Himself to them while they were in this state of complete holiness. In this life, God gives us power to return to this state and even move beyond it (click here to read how).

This is not to say that we absolutely cannot fall into sin or that temptations will cease. In this life, temptations are sure to come (Lk. 17:1). Rather, interior and exterior temptations will no longer attract us; they will have no power over us. Imagine a sin that holds no sway over you. Then, imagine all sins being like this one. This is what grace and our cooperation with it accomplishes in the first stage of deification.

By cooperating with grace, grace will purify our minds and bodies. This is the purgative stage of deification. Eastern Christians, especially Greek Catholics (Byzantines) and Greek Orthodox, call this stage katharsis, which means purification.

The next stage of deification is the illuminative stage, what the Eastern Christians call theoria. Theoria means contemplating or viewing. In this stage, God periodically illuminates our minds with His wisdom. This happens directly rather than indirectly, such as when we read Scripture or theology. It is akin to God interacting with Adam and Eve and giving them revelations.

The last stage is the unitive stage, what the Eastern Christians refer to as theosis. Here, God gives us a habitual and perceptible union with Him. This is not something we know by faith alone. Rather, God unites us to Him in such a way that we perceive His immanent presence in our souls continuously. He not only illuminates our minds, but He also fills us with His burning love in such a way that we are aware of His presence. At this point, we become fully human the way God intended. The image is now “like” God (see Genesis 1:26). The Catechism of the Ukrainian Catholic Church (paragraphs 850-855) states:

For the Holy Fathers, spiritual struggle is the primary path to divinization. The first (“purgative”) stage of this spiritual asceticism is purification from passions and passionate intentions through the power and grace of the Holy Spirit. The second (“illuminative”) stage is the illumination of the mind and contemplation or vision of God. The third (“unitive”) stage is the actual attainment of divinization.

A few paragraphs later, it explains the unitive stage in terms of divine love:

Divine love, which is the summit of the virtuous life, is also the force that accompanies our divinization. In his love for humankind, God became one of us, and through our love for God we grow toward divinization. In divinization, the human mind becomes illumined and enraptured by divine light. The human person becomes a partaker of divine love, and their entire being is transfigured: the person becomes a god by grace.

Please note that deification does not consist of clearly delineated stages. Rather, God may give a person illuminations before the purgative stage is complete, and He may fully unite the person to Himself while giving illuminations. We would better understand these stages as signs along a highway. The stages help us to know that we are on the right path as we journey with God.

Passive Purgation

Additionally, between the first and second stages (purgative and illuminative), God temporarily deprives one of sensible consolations such as those feelings of progress and satisfaction that one experiences during prayer and study. He does this because the person becomes too sure of himself too quickly and loves the consolations too much. The person becomes more enamored with the consolations than with God.

Similarly, between the second and third stages (illuminative and unitive), God temporarily deprives one of both sensible and spiritual consolations such as supernatural insights on the mysteries of salvation, eager desires for them, ease of learning these mysteries, and ease of preaching and teaching, for which the soul had felt a secret pride and complacency (Fr. Garrigou Lagrange).  

These deprivations are called passive purgations, and God uses them to purify the soul before it moves on to a higher stage. By removing consolations, the person has a decision to make: Do I despair and eventually turn away from God, or do I rely on God with even greater fervor, trusting that He will increase my faith and help me to cooperate with grace without the delight of consolations? When spiritual maturity arrives, the person is ready for the next stage of deification.

Caution

A word of caution: We must not view deification as a list of things to complete to move from one stage to the next. In doing so, we would bring deification down to the realm of the purely natural. Instead, we must simply cooperate with grace and recognize the path that God is helping us to walk. It is an exercise in humility, love, fervent prayer, and cooperation with grace, rather than forced self-exertion that results in frustrations at one’s failures. This approach will maintain the supernatural order of deification.

Also, falls from perfection (i.e., venial sins) can help us to recognize our own weaknesses and develop the habit or virtue of humility. St. Thomas Aquinas wrote, “Grace does not destroy nature, but perfects it.” Accordingly, we allow grace to work within us to perfect us, to humble us, and to make our souls ready for the divine light mentioned above.

Finally, we must not haughtily expect illuminations and deification. Instead, we must simply allow God to bestow His gifts upon us if He chooses.

Author’s Note: For deeper treatment of this subject, please read the longer version of this article by clicking here. Click here to read about how suffering can help one grow in grace. On how we can merit additional grace, please click here. To better understand the necessity of setting our morality standards high, please read this article.

The Homiletic and Pastoral Review originally published a longer version of this article in its January 2026 edition under the title “Theosis: Becoming Gods in this Life.”

Photo by Dewang Gupta on Unsplash

There is a homily in the garden, if we still ourselves enough to hear it.

It is the kind not preached with words, but received in the rhythms of sowing and reaping, in the new growth of spring and the dying of fall. In the garden, time ceases to be something dictated by the clock, and becomes something greater: a sacramental sign of grace in the cycles of dying and rising.

When we tend the garden, we absorb the lessons of the seasons. In this seasonal living, the soul finds a rhythm of prayer deepened by habit, embodied in the work of the moment. We learn to pray not instead of digging or weeding, but through it.

Spring: The Liturgy of Hope

Spring is the season of audacity. It dares us to believe in beginnings even before they look like anything. We press unimpressive seeds, small and dry as dust, into the soil. We water, and we wait. Spring teaches the gardener to trust.

There is a particular vulnerability in planting. You cannot force growth. You can only prepare the soil, bury the seed, and surrender. In this way, spring becomes a living act of faith—a reminder that God works imperceptibly and in His own time. Some seeds germinate only in darkness.

For the soul weary from winters of waiting, the garden in spring whispers: “Behold, I make all things new.” A faithful gardener hopes for the future, even when nothing has sprouted yet.

And so, we sow—not just lettuce and peas, but prayers: for children, for healing, for clarity, for the slow blooming of what we cannot yet name. Each seed planted is a fiat: let it be done according to Your will.

Summer: The Discipline of Stewardship

Where spring gives us the joy of newness, summer gives us the grind. The heat is relentless. The weeds are faster than the beans. When the thrill of planting has passed, the garden demands the steady work of diligence: watering, pruning, guarding from pests.

In summer, the garden teaches perseverance. It teaches us dedication beyond excitement and faithfulness to what’s entrusted to us. Simply, it is ours to tend.

Summer in the garden is a season of fidelity, a reminder that what we tend daily—even imperfectly—will bear fruit in due time. It’s not glamourous work, but something better: a testament to the sanctification of the work of our hands, labor offered in imitation of the Creator who gave us life from the dust.   

Autumn: The Abundance of Gratitude and the Surrender of Letting Go

With autumn comes the harvest: crisp mornings, basketsful of pumpkins and apples—the dizzying bounty of what the earth has given. Autumn is the time to give thanks.

It is also the time to learn to let go.

There is no keeping a harvest forever. The basil goes to seed. The squash vines wither. The garden browns. Autumn teaches us that abundance is not meant to be hoarded but shared, preserved, and released. The spiritual life echoes this in its call to surrender gifts back to God: the children we raise, the work we love, even our very selves. As Robert Frost reminds us, “Nothing gold can stay.”

To pray in autumn is to pray with open hands. “Thank You,” we say. “And now, take what must be taken. Let die what must die.”

It is a Eucharistic season—where the harvest is gathered, broken, and given away.

Winter: The Hidden Life of Rest

As the days grow shorter, the garden sleeps beneath a blanket of snow.

At first, it feels like loss: empty beds, barren branches, and silence when the birds used to sing. But winter is not always death. Often, it is merely dormancy. Beneath the frost, the soil restores itself while roots deepen. Chill hours transform barren branches to bear fruit in due season. Winter speaks to us of the gift of Sabbath: rest, too, is holy.

So too in prayer. In the absence of sweet fruits, we feel that God has withdrawn. If we rest in the stillness, we can recognize desolation as deeper invitation to love God not for His sweetness, but for God alone.

In winter, we are called to watch the snow fall, to rest alongside the garden, and to trust that spring—and new life—will come again.

Seasons as Sacred Teachers

There is no rushing the harvest. The garden teaches us to imitate our God who is patient, who delights in small things, who ordained that all of life should move in cycles—birth, growth, death, rebirth.

To garden is to participate in the liturgy of creation, a calendar older and wiser than our own. It asks us to meet God both in morning prayer, and in the slow turning of compost.

As Wendell Berry reflects, “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.” When we faithfully tend our garden, it becomes a sacred place, one that blesses us beyond the food that nourishes; it nourishes our very souls.

Author’s Note: If you enjoyed this reflection, you might also like my book, Grow Where You’re Planted: Reclaiming Eden in Your Own Backyard, a family guide to seasonal abundance and self-sufficient living wherever you are.

Photo by Faith Crabtree on Unsplash

For those of us who celebrated the Easter Vigil—with its nine readings and eight psalms, its celebrations of Pascal fire and light and water, its sacraments of baptism and Eucharist, lasting late into the night—“rising again” Easter morning can sometimes be less than glorious. If anything, Easter morning seems rather anticlimactic.

The First Easter

In the struggle to sustain sentiments of joy and glory, it is helpful to remember that the disciples also awoke on Easter morning feeling anything but glorious. If you bring to mind the most profound grief you ever experienced and combine that with the most agonizing guilt, the most palpitating fear, and the most utter confusion, it would still be a far cry from the ruin in the disciples’ hearts that morning: Jesus had been crucified the evening before last, and (with the exception of John) they hadn’t even been there at the end. They had utterly failed.

And now the sun was rising on another day, the first of many long, empty days before them. The Holy City was still full of pilgrims; the festive week of Unleavened Bread was still underway. But their life as disciples of the Messiah was over. What reason did they even have to stay together, aside from their common sense of loss? Why even get out of bed, except that their dreams were probably just as painful as their waking thoughts? “O my God, I cry by day, but thou dost not answer; and by night, but find no rest” (Ps. 22:2).

As if all this weren’t enough, now there was some commotion about the tomb—the tomb sealed and watched by a guard of soldiers. The women had this crazy idea that they were going to be allowed to enter the tomb and anoint the body of Jesus. They had been working on preparing spices since the sun went down yesterday. It was dangerous and pointless, but they wouldn’t listen to reason. In any case, it seems to have all come to nothing; here they are back again quite early.

But what is this Mary Magdalene is saying? “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him” (Jn. 20:2). Who are they? Lowlife certainly, but also powerful—if they are in league with the chief priests and the guards. Why would they want the body? Was it too late to stop them, whatever their intentions were?

And so the Easter morning race to the tomb begins… By noon, everyone is in total confusion. The women say they have seen Him alive (Mt. 28:9-10), but Peter and John saw nothing at the tomb except the burial linens. Maybe it is better just to get out of Jerusalem and leave all these broken dreams behind. Clopas says he is going home after lunch, and maybe he is right. “We had hoped…”

The Touchstones of Our Easter Experience

We won’t necessarily feel risen with Christ just because He is risen, and how we feel doesn’t affect the facts one way or another. Feeling is not the measure of faith. Most of us won’t be given an apparition to jolt us into the joy of the Resurrection, but there are several other ways to access the mystery, and we are invited to make them the touchstones of our resurrection experience this Easter.

The Empty Tomb

The first is the empty tomb. Peter sees the empty tomb and burial cloths and goes home perplexed, but John sees and goes home believing. If the tomb and linens are a sign for John, it is because John is keenly aware of how the tomb used to be. He had been there when the shattered body of Jesus was bound and laid in just that position. Now Jesus has passed through death to life without even disturbing the position of the linens that enveloped Him.

In each of our lives there are empty spaces and burial places that we know all too well. Things that have ended in brokenness—and no matter how much we wish, we cannot change them now. They are lying in the dust of death, most likely forgotten by everyone except ourselves, and something of our life with the Lord is bound and buried with them. But then, to our amazement, once we have truly surrendered them, we look again to “see the place where he lay”—the tomb is still there and the burial cloths, but “he is not here, for he has risen as he said” (Mt. 28:6) and, with Him, our hearts have passed from death to life.

The Word of God

A second powerful “sacrament” of the Resurrection is the living word of God. As the Risen Lord walks alongside Clopas and the other disciple on the road to Emmaus, and later that evening with the apostles, he “interpreted to them in all the scriptures the things concerning himself” (Lk. 24:27). In the light of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms (Lk. 24:44), the event of the Resurrection speaks to them from within in the language of their fathers: “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the scriptures?” (Lk. 24:32).

Listening to and meditating on the word of God, whether quietly in our homes or in two-by-two conversation, or in the communal celebration of the liturgy, the Risen Christ is there in our midst, opening our hearts to understand. “When therefore he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word which Jesus had spoken” (Jn. 2:22).

The Breaking of the Bread

For the disciples on the road to Emmaus, however, it takes yet another sacrament of Resurrection to finally open their eyes to the Risen One in their midst: the Eucharist. It is when he “took the bread and blessed, and broke it, and gave it to them” (Lk. 24:30) that they suddenly recognize Him. Whether or not this was a eucharistic meal is unclear. But the symbolism is unmistakable.

In the unforgettable words of Pope St. John Paul II:

Those who feed on Christ in the Eucharist need not wait until the hereafter to receive eternal life: they already possess it on earth, as the first-fruits of a future fullness which will embrace man in his totality. For in the Eucharist we also receive the pledge of our bodily resurrection at the end of the world: “He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day” (Jn. 6:54). This pledge of the future resurrection comes from the fact that the flesh of the Son of man, given as food, is his body in its glorious state after the resurrection. With the Eucharist we digest, as it were, the “secret” of the resurrection. (Ecclesia de Eucharistia 18)

Awakening to the Resurrection

The empty tomb, the word of God, and the breaking of the bread are three obvious places where the Resurrection overtakes us if we allow it to. There are others as well. For Mary Magdalene, it is hearing the Lord call her by name (Jn. 20:16). For most of the apostles, it is the testimony of Peter that awakens their faith: “The Lord has risen indeed, and has appeared to Simon!” (Lk. 24:34).

But one apostle seems impervious to all this and persists in his unbelief the entire week of Easter: Thomas. He was the only one not there when Jesus appeared on Easter evening, and all week long he struggles, remaining outside the Easter joy that grips the others. For Thomas, nothing short of touching the wounds of Jesus will convince him of the Resurrection: “Unless I place my hand in his side, I will not believe” (Jn. 20:24).

In a beautiful way, Jesus’ wounded heart is the alpha and the omega of the resurrection experience—His and ours. Unlike the wounds in Jesus’ hands and feet, inflicted in agony on the Cross and now transfigured in glory, the wound to His side is something He experiences only in the glory of the Resurrection, because it was inflicted after His death (Jn. 19:33-34).

Even if the Resurrection itself surpasses all that we can imagine, the image of a mortally wounded yet beating heart is an eloquent one. It gives an approximation of what the first intimate experience of rising from the dead must have been like in the holy humanity of Christ and tells us what our daily resurrections can be expected to resemble. In short, the resurrection—Christ’s and ours—is an experience of “standing as it were slain” (Rev. 5:6, Douay-Rheims). (Arise, 2025, p. 123)

The wounds in our hearts do not disappear. But contrary to what we might think, they are not experiences of death; they are experiences of resurrection. Laying down one’s lives for one’s friends also means taking them up again, to continue loving in and through the wounds. “We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He who does not love remains in death” (1 Jn. 3:14).

Author’s Note: Drawing from patriarchs and prophets, psalms and parables, teachings and miracles of resurrection, Arise: A 50 Day Journey into the Mystery of the Resurrectionreveals the progressive unfolding of resurrection faith throughout salvation history, culminating in Christ’s own ministry and mystery of resurrection: “I AM the Resurrection.” Accessible and powerful, Arise is divided into fifty short chapters—perfect for daily prayer, retreat, or group study. Each section includes Scripture references, reflection questions, and a reading plan, making it an ideal companion for the Easter season or any time of year when faith needs rekindling.

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Drop everything and read. Sounds daunting, doesn’t it? Drop everything and read? Is it possible?

Yes. Well, at least in 3rd grade.

“DEAR” time has easily become my favorite part of our day. It is the only part of the day where it is completely quiet. After recess, my students come back into the classroom expecting this time to quiet their hearts and minds, find a spot in the classroom, use the restroom, fill their water bottles, and read a book. Fifteen to twenty minutes is all it takes. Do they read the whole time? Mostly. Even if they aren’t, they are still in a quiet, calm space, looking at words in a book. Much better than, say, the gleaming light from an iPad.

That small taste of quiet opened up a deeper question for me, one that had been brewing especially as I read John Mark Comer’s The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry:

What is all this rushing doing to my soul?

Comer argues that hurry is not just a scheduling problem or a personality quirk; it is fundamentally a spiritual sickness. It’s the water we swim in without noticing, a cultural current pushing us along so swiftly that we lose awareness of who we are becoming. He writes that hurry is incompatible with the spiritual life because the spiritual life can only be lived at the speed of love, and love is never rushed.

The more I sat with that, the more I realized how deeply hurry had woven itself into my days. Not just when I was late or behind schedule, but in quieter, more subtle ways: the way I jumped mentally from task to task, the way I felt compelled to be productive even while praying, the way rest sometimes felt like something to “fit in, if possible.”

Hurry wasn’t just around me. It was in me.

Comer names this honestly. He says that hurry forms us. It shapes our attention, our desires, our capacity to be present. And presence, he reminds us, is the foundation of relationship with God, with others, with ourselves. When we’re hurried, we’re not truly seeing. Not truly listening. Not truly receiving.

That truth hit me closer to the heart than I expected.

I began noticing how quickly I moved through conversations, how easily I let my mind race ahead while someone else was talking. I noticed how often I approached prayer like I was squeezing it into a packed schedule, wanting God to speak but leaving Him little room to do so.

Comer describes this as the restlessness beneath the restlessness, the internal velocity that stays with us even when we stop moving. And that’s what I recognized in myself. Even when physically still, my soul was rushing.

Slowing down, then, isn’t just about adjusting a calendar. It’s about retraining the heart.

When I think about spiritual practices, prayer, Scripture, silence, Sabbath, they are all, in their own ways, invitations into unhurried presence. They force us to confront our own pace and ask whether it matches the pace of Christ…and Christ usually moves slower than we do.

Jesus is rarely in a rush in the Gospels. He moves with holy attentiveness. He pauses. He notices. He lingers. He has time for interruptions, for questions, for people who approach Him with needs that don’t fit neatly into a schedule. His slowness isn’t inefficiency; it is love embodied.

Comer challenges us to let that slowness confront the way we live. To ask ourselves:

What am I missing because I am moving too fast?
What is God saying that I’m too hurried to hear?
What kind of person am I becoming through my pace?

These questions began to take root in me. I realized that prayer requires the same posture as reading: a slowing of the mind, an openness to receive rather than produce. You cannot skim your way through prayer. You cannot multitask your way into communion. You cannot hurry your way into peace.

For me, Eucharistic Adoration is where this truth finally sank in. Sitting before Jesus in the quiet taught me something that nothing else had: God is found in the stillness, not the speed. When I drop everything, my distractions, my thoughts, my self-imposed urgency, I finally create space to encounter Him.

And in that space, something in me softens. The restless, hurried parts settle. My heart becomes more spacious, more attentive, more able to listen.

That, I think, is what Comer is inviting all of us into: a way of being that makes room for God again. A life where our interior pace begins to match His. A life where our souls have time to breathe.

So, while DEAR time in my classroom is just a momentary pause in the day, it has become, for me, a gentle reminder of something much larger: the spiritual importance of stopping. Of letting myself be unhurried. Of remembering that love and hurry cannot coexist.

If my students can drop everything and read for a few minutes each day, surely I can learn to drop everything and be with God.

Photo by Ioana Ye on Unsplash

I clean up before the cleaners come.

I know how that sounds. But there it is. Two nice ladies show up every couple of weeks to do a job I’m grateful someone else will do, and every time—without fail—I spend the hour before they arrive picking up, straightening, making the place look less like what it actually is. I don’t want them to think I’m a slob.

They’re there to clean my house. And I hide the mess before they arrive.

I thought about that when I tried to understand why I hesitated at the door.

The door I saw while praying.

My front door.

I wasn’t locked out. I wasn’t standing in the cold, trying to find my way in. I was inside—at least that’s what it looked like as I prayed—going about whatever it is I go about, when I became aware of someone waiting on the other side of the front door.

Not knocking. Just there. Forever patient, waiting for me to decide.

I knew who it was before I reached the handle.

So I opened it. That part came quickly because I wanted to open the door. I wanted to see Him standing there. And He was. The Lord. Waiting with the particular patience of someone who has been waiting a long time and made peace with it.

I propped the door open with my arm and stood in the center of the threshold.

Not to hold Him at bay. No, that’s not what it was. I wanted the door open. I wanted to talk to Him, to be near Him, to have Him close. But I didn’t immediately say come in.

I’ve been sitting with that ever since. Trying to be honest about why I didn’t rush Him inside.

And what I came back to was the cleaning ladies.

My house was a mess.

Not disaster—not filth, not really—but lived-in. The kind of mess that accumulates when life refuses to stay organized. Pots and dishes in the sink. Laundry that had been clean for three days and was now just a pile on a chair that I kept meaning to fold. Mail on the counter. A messy bed. The particular disorder of a man who is mostly functional and occasionally overwhelmed.

He could see all of it from the doorway.

And I knew He saw.

That was the thing I couldn’t get past. He was standing right there. And the light coming in from behind Him was reaching into the corners of every room.

I know this doesn’t make theological sense. The Lord already knows every room. He’s seen every corner of the place long before I opened the door. My hesitation wasn’t protecting Him from something He didn’t know. It was protecting me from something I wasn’t ready to face.

Being fully seen.

I wanted to say: just give me a minute. Let me straighten up. Then come in.

He didn’t give me the chance, and pointed to my arm holding open the door.

Wouldn’t it be better if something else kept the door open?

He gestured to the floor.

That’s when I looked down and saw a door stopper. A cheap one at first: thin, brittle wood that wouldn’t hold against much. Then it thickened. Oak. Then bronze, catching the light through the doorway. Then iron, replaced by steel. Something serious.

The door stopper is your faith, He told me. Strengthened by My grace. The stronger your faith, the stronger the stopper.

I understood that. My faith has done exactly that—hardened, then corroded, then hardened again. I know what feeds it, and I know what starves it.

But then He shifted the frame entirely. But what if the door wasn’t there at all? He asked. He pointed to the jamb then to the screws.

What if you removed those, and there was no door?

I looked at them, those screws embedded deep into the frame. Then at my empty hands.

“How, Lord? I don’t have a screwdriver.”

A beat.

Then use your fingernails.

He wasn’t being cruel. He wasn’t pretending it wouldn’t cost something to take a door off its hinges with your bare hands, bleeding your fingertips down to nothing on hardware that doesn’t want to move.

He was saying: the tools don’t have to be elegant. Willingness is its own instrument. No matter how long it takes. This is a task you must begin.

After sitting with this long enough, I heard Him say:

You don’t need to clean up first. That’s not how this works. I didn’t come for the clean house.

We spend so much energy fortifying the door stopper. Strengthening faith so we can hold the door open wider, keep it from swinging shut, maintain the gap. And that matters. But the better prayer, the harder, more honest prayer is: “Lord, help me remove the door.”

Not because I’ve finally gotten the place in order. Because I’ve stopped pretending that’s the condition.

He came inside anyway. I don’t remember the exact moment. That’s how grace works sometimes; you’re on one side of a threshold alone, and then you’re not.

He sat at my table. A golden aura surrounded Him, soft at the edges, like the inside of a soap bubble held completely still. He had this kind of peace that doesn’t announce itself. It simply is.

Because I was nearby, His aura reached me too.

I didn’t deserve that. But there it was.

And then—I can’t tell you exactly why—I turned my gaze away from Him, back toward the door.

It was still wide open. But outside, a maelstrom raged. Wind tore at the trees. Rain came sideways. A small river formed at the threshold, water creeping over the sill and across the floor, filled with debris of all shapes and sizes.

The storm carried in everything I’d been dreading. Adding to the mess already present.

I turned back to Him.

“Should I close the door?”

Why?

I gestured at the floor. The spreading water. The garbage settling in the corners. None of it touching him or me while I was inside His aura.

Still, I said, “This—this ‘stuff’ is coming inside.”

He shook His head. Once. Slowly.

And when He sighed, I heard the disappointment. Not anger. This was the disappointment of someone who loves you and thought you’d understood by now.

You have Me—He paused—your Lord Jesus Christ, sitting at your table. And you’re worried about some water and garbage.

Then I was shown something else.

Another home. A long time ago. In Bethany.

Two sisters. One sat at the feet of Jesus. She was just present, content to be near Him and let that be enough.

The other sister was in the kitchen, doing everything that needed doing. Quietly furious that she was the only one who seemed to understand that guests required effort and someone had to keep the place from falling apart.

Martha didn’t have bad intentions. I want to be fair to Martha, because I am Martha, who was convinced that the right way to honor the Lord’s presence was to make everything presentable first. To clean before the cleaner comes.

“Mary has chosen the better part,” Jesus told her. “And it will not be taken from her.”

The better part wasn’t laziness or ignoring what needed doing. Rather, it was understanding what needed doing most. It was sitting down in a messy house with the Lord at the table and letting that be enough. It was resisting the urge to manage the impression.

It was leaving the door off its hinges and letting Him enter and see every room.

The door is still open.

I haven’t closed it. I don’t think I’m supposed to. Because the storm isn’t the problem. Neither is the mess. The problem was never the condition of the interior of my house.

It was the belief that I had to fix the condition before I could let Him in.

The screws are still in the jamb. I’m working on them too. Slowly, with my fingernails and a willingness to bleed a little.

It turns out that’s enough to start.

Photo by Josue Michel on Unsplash

While some Christians may be unaware that the Sacred Heart of Christ was pierced by a Roman centurion during the Crucifixion (Jn. 19:32-34)—and many who are aware assume it was merely an outrageous act of desecration by a sadistic soldier—the piercing was arguably one of the most cosmically consequential acts in salvation history. In fact, the symbolic emanations and supernatural ramifications of St. Longinus opening the Heart of Jesus resound throughout salvation history with tectonic reverberations.

Part of God’s Saving Plan

This was no random act; it was the way God chose to redeem humanity and renew the face of the earth. We know that it was no random act thanks to many Old Testament prophecies of the piercing and its effects that came to fulfillment.

Even St. John, the inspired Gospel writer, thought it was so important that he stepped out of his narrator’s role to emphatically emphasize, “He who saw it has borne witness—his testimony is true, and he knows that he tells the truth—that you also may believe” (Jn. 19:34). This would be an incredibly odd overstatement if this posthumous piercing was merely a meaningless, merciless act of Roman brutality.     

When all but one of Jesus’ apostles denied, betrayed, or otherwise abandoned Him, one Roman centurion stepped up, at the highlight of human history, and stood in their stead to perform a supernaturally significant sacrificial function ordained by God: draining all the precious Blood from this Divine Victim. Amazingly, God chose a man of war to perform a most violent and visceral act through which He brings about unimaginable good for unfaithful, unworthy humanity.

An Act Necessary for Our Salvation

Within this underappreciated act, opening the side and piercing the Heart of the Son of God, are many aspects central to our Faith which are helpful, even necessary, for our salvation.

One such aspect is how the pierced Heart and divine outpouring gave rise to the Sacred Heart and Divine Mercy devotions, which have been more fully unveiled in these latter times.

Another aspect, according to the Church Fathers, is that the Blood and Water which gushed forth from the Heart of the Savior is the supernatural source of our seven sacraments. St. Augustine said that from the pierced side of Christ “flowed forth the sacraments of the Church, without which there is no entrance to the life which is the true life” (St. Augustine, Tractates on John 120.2, ca. 406 A.D).

Yet another of the many ramifications to ponder—and a critical one—Jesus speaks of in His final, painful, utterance: Consummatum est (Jn. 19:30, Douay Rheims). Think about it. If Jesus’ last words were “It is consummated,” to what is He referring? And when and how was it accomplished?

The Wedding Feast of the Lamb

The Crucifixion, and the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass which flows from it, is a foretaste of the Wedding Supper of the Lamb which will occur in heaven, when God will fully and forever be united with His people, in fulfillment of the Scriptures.

If Calvary is where the Wedding Supper of the Lamb would occur on earth, then only a sinless virgin without spot or wrinkle would be a bride worthy of the Son of God. Mary needed to be beneath the “marriage bed of the Cross” (as Blessed Fulton Sheen called it), so that the Mystical Body of Christ could be spiritually conceived in her pierced and open heart through the supernatural substances of Blood and Water which gushed forth from the Heart of Christ.

This is why the Blessed Mother needed to be present and participating in the Passion of her Beloved. It was not because God wanted to inflict unspeakable suffering upon the most faithful, sinless disciple.

The Conception of the Church from the Cross

The Church rightly holds that the Body of Christ (the Church) was born on Pentecost, but it was conceived from the Cross, and Mary is its mother. The Blessed Mother, known for carrying things in her heart (Lk. 2:19, 2:51), carried the embryonic Church in her Immaculate Heart, which was mystically rent open by the centurion, from the Cross to the Upper Room, delivering it in the presence of her divine spouse, the Holy Spirit.

Because the life is in the blood (Lev. 17:11), Jesus gave up His divine/human life by pouring out the last drops of His precious Blood and Water so that His Church might have His life (Eph. 5:25). St. John Chrysostom wrote that the Blood and Water from the Heart of the Savior conceived the Church:

For from His side, when pierced, there flowed forth blood and water, that you might know that these are no common things, but that from them the Church is established. (Homilies on the Gospel of John)

Pope Benedict, in more recent times, confirms this lesser-known teaching: “The Lord’s opened side is the source from which spring forth both the Church and the sacraments that build up the Church” (Joseph Ratzinger, Collected Works Theology of the Liturgy, 261, Ignatius Press, 2014).

Mary needed to be present and give her fiat to become the Mother of the Church, just as she had to be present and give her permission to become the Mother of God, thirty-three years earlier.

The Connection Between Christ’s Conception and Crucifixion

Some claim that the conception and crucifixion of Christ occurred on the same day. Supernatural support for this claim can be found in a church in Andria, Italy, which possesses a relic from the crown of thorns. This holy relic bleeds only when Good Friday occurs on March 25^th, the feast of the Annunciation and the conception of Christ.

The belief that the conception of Christ and His crucifixion coincided on March 25^th is found as early as the 2^nd century, in the writings of St. Irenaeus. Many other Church Fathers, including St. Augustine, also held this belief: “For Christ is believed to have been conceived on the 25^th of March, upon which day also he suffered.”

In the Roman Martyrology, both the Annunciation and the Feast of the Good Thief were assigned March 25^th, as it was known to be the date of the good thief’s crucifixion. Such an occurrence would be consistent with the ancient Jewish belief that true prophets died on the date they were conceived. The bleeding of the thorn seems to be divine confirmation that Jesus was a true prophet, that He took on Flesh and offered it up on the same day, thirty-three years apart.

Mary, the Offeror of the Sacrifice

Our Blessed Mother needed to be present to offer this salvific sacrifice, for as His mother, she alone had the standing to do so. Mary, as the faithful Daughter of Zion, was able to offer the Divine Victim on behalf of Israel, and as the New Eve she was able to do so on behalf of all humanity. Remember, every sacrifice has a priest, a victim, and an offeror, one who offers up the sacrificial victim taken from among his or her possessions. The Jewish leaders and the crowd had no standing to offer this salvific sacrifice even if they wanted to, which they didn’t. Mary, as the sinless representative of Israel and the Church, willingly did so for our sins and for our salvation, because she alone was sinless and saved in advance at her Immaculate Conception.

The excruciating sacrifice of Jesus made her final fiat much more painful and costly than her first, but she willingly did so, remaining perfectly obedient to the will of God.

St. Longinus as Proto-Priest

With his spear, the centurion opened access for mankind to the sanctuary of the Sacred Heart, unleashing the fecund fluids of Blood and Water which conceived the Body of Christ and remains the source of her sacraments. At that moment, in a mystical way, he also unwittingly opened the Immaculate Heart of Mary, fulfilling the prophecy of Simeon at the Presentation, enabling this spiritual consummation to occur and bear fruit.

In doing so, the future St. Longinus unknowingly participated as a proto-priest in the once-for-all sacrifice from which all Masses subsist, re-present, and draw their power. His later ordination by the apostles as priest and then bishop officially confirmed the supernatural reality of the sacerdotal acts the centurion-saint was prompted to perform on Calvary.

It must be noted that the audacious act of piercing the Heart of God was accomplished according to the will of God and in defiance of a direct order from his superior to break Jesus’ legs. Then, as the divine elements of Blood and Water he released poured out upon him, the centurion, as the ranking Roman authority at Golgotha, publicly proclaimed on behalf of all nations that this dead Galilean, not the living Caesar, was the true Son of God.

Author’s Note: To delve far deeper into this great mystery and to explore other aspects and emanations of the piercing, please consider reading: Rise of the Centurion: Reclamation of a Mystical Masculine Theology, published by Sophia Institute Press.

Image titled “It Is Finished” by Armand Serrano

Easter Sunday’s Gospel describes an absence that confounds the disciples but prepares them for the Presence their hearts so deeply desire.

Gospel (Read Jn. 20:1-9)

On Palm Sunday, the narrative of Our Lord’s Passion ended with these words:  “So they [the chief priests and Pharisees] went and secured the tomb by fixing a seal to the stone and setting the guard” (Mt. 27:66).  Jesus’ dead Body had been quickly prepared for burial (because the Sabbath sundown approached), and He was laid in the fresh tomb of a rich man.  Then, for His followers, there was silence and utter desolation.  We can only imagine how much “rest” they got on what must have been the longest Sabbath day of their lives.

Here, St. John tells us, “On the first day of the week, Mary of Magdala came to the tomb early in the morning, while it was still dark” (Jn. 20:1).  Now that the Sabbath was over, she was coming to finish the burial anointing.  Why did she arrive so early, before dawn?  Anyone who has grieved over the death of a loved one knows the answer to this question.  The finality of death, even for those prepared for its arrival, is literally un-believable.  We cannot bear the thought of not seeing this dear one again.  Mary had the opportunity to be near Jesus once more, to see and touch Him.  Even in death, He drew her to Him with an irresistible force.

Mary saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb.  Shock!  We can feel her eagerness to be with Jesus again, yet He was not in the tomb.  St. John wants us to see that the followers of Jesus were slow to understand what He had told them many times:  He would rise from the dead.  Mary believed that someone had taken the Lord and put Him elsewhere.  Imagine this for a moment:  profound grief was compounded by profound horror.  For Mary, the empty tomb was not a source of joy.  It was an agonizing twist in what was becoming a nightmare.

Peter and John (“the other disciple whom Jesus loved”) ran to the tomb with Mary’s news.  They, too, were drawn to the Lord in this energetic race.  John arrived first, but notice his deference to Peter, the Lord’s own appointed leader of the apostles.  Once inside, they quickly realized that grave robbers were not responsible for the absence of Jesus.  The burial cloths (fine, expensive linen) would never have been left behind by robbers this way.  No, something big was underway. 

St. John tells us that when he entered the tomb and saw the burial cloths, “…he believed” (Jn. 20:8).  What did he believe?  Only that Jesus was really gone from the tomb—itself a great mystery.  He goes on to make that clear: “For they did not yet understand the Scripture that He had to rise from the dead” (Jn. 20:9).

So, on Easter Sunday, the Gospel reading leaves us with only clues.  How interesting!  There is not, as we might expect, the boundless joy of the disciples seeing Jesus alive again.  Instead, we spend time with His followers in their longing, anxiety, sadness, and utter confusion.  We, of course, know what’s going on, but they don’t yet. 

St. John wants us to linger for a spell in the very human reactions to an astounding miracle.  He helps us feel deeply the question that boggled the disciples:  What has happened to Jesus?  It is only by entering fully into this human dilemma that we are truly prepared for the answer:  Jesus has conquered Death.  The worst thing that has ever happened in human history (men killed the “Author of life,” Acts 3:15) has become the best thing that has ever happened in human history, and man’s history has been changed forever.

Possible response:  Lord Jesus, sometimes I am shocked that You don’t seem to be where I expect You.  Help me believe that what I feel is Your absence will always lead to Your Presence.

First Reading (Read Acts 10:34a, 37-43)

If we think about what we have seen of Peter in the readings for Holy Week, this passage from Acts might leave us asking a question:  What has happened to Peter?  We remember him on Palm Sunday, denying the Lord three times and fleeing when Jesus was crucified. 

This Sunday’s Gospel tells us that Mary Magdalene had to go fetch Peter with her news, because he and the other apostles were hiding “for fear of the Jews” (Jn. 20:19).  Yet here we see him boldly preaching the Good News (to the same Jews who had terrified him) that death could not hold Jesus.  We see the effects in him of the Resurrection—more clues to its reality.  Peter testifies not only to “Jesus of Nazareth,” Who “went about doing good” (Acts 10:38), but also to the fact that he “ate and drank with Him after He rose from the dead” (Acts 10:41).  

The commission he and the other apostles received from the Risen Jesus, confirmed by the anointing of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, turned Peter inside out.  What a transformation from the befuddlement of the empty tomb!  Freed from his cowardice and fear, he wanted the world to know that Jesus is alive and that “everyone who believes in Him will receive forgiveness of sins through His Name” (Acts 10:43).

Possible response:  Lord, this Easter season, please loosen my tongue to bear witness to Your empty tomb and to the meal we still eat and drink with You in the Mass.

Psalm (Read Ps. 118:1-2, 16-17, 22-23)

The psalmist announces:  “This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad.”  Great joy like this might make us wonder about its cause:  What has happened to the psalmist?  If we read the entire psalm, we see he describes a time of unthinkable reversal in his life, when he was in terrible distress, and his enemies surrounded him “like bees” that “blazed like a fire of thorns” (Ps. 118:12).  He recounts that he was “pushed hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me” (Ps. 118:13).  In fact, the LORD’s deliverance sprung him from death:  “I shall not die but live, and declare the works of the LORD” (Ps. 118:17). 

Yet what really seems to fuel the psalmist’s elation is that “the stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone” (Ps. 118:22).  The psalmist’s enemies had rejected him, but God upset their plans to be rid of him, and, instead, set him like a cornerstone, a rock of solid strength.  

Now we understand the joy of the psalmist, and why we are using his words to rejoice on Resurrection Sunday.  The reversal he experienced from God’s mighty hand ignited his heart to sing God’s praises on the day of his deliverance and victory.  His words help us re-live this Day the exquisite joy of Jesus’ victory over sin and death, our most feared enemies.  When the meaning of the empty tomb washes over us, we will echo the psalmist’s awe:  “By the LORD has this been done; it is wonderful in our eyes!” (Ps. 118:23)

Possible response:  The psalm is, itself, a response to our other readings.  Read it again prayerfully to make it your own.

Second Reading (Read Col 3:1-4)

In his epistle, St. Paul writes a most remarkable exhortation to his Christian friends (and to us):  “Think of what is above, not of what is on earth” (Col. 3:2).  Why should we, earthbound creatures that we are, be seeking what is above?  What has happened to us?  

St. Paul tells us that the death and Resurrection of Jesus, our focal point all during Holy Week, has happened to us, too.  In baptism, we died with Christ and rose again with Him into a brand new life.  The power that raised Jesus from the dead has seated us with Christ:  “Your life is hidden with Christ in God” (Col. 3:3).  What a transformation for us!  The empty tomb of the first Easter has reverberated all the way out to us now, in the 21^st century.  Its meaning is not only historical but personal.  In Christ, we are forgiven our sins, released from death, and destined for glory:  “When Christ your life appears, then you will appear with Him in glory” (Col. 3:4).  Allelulia!

Possible response:  Father, forgive me when I try to make life on this earth my only goal.  Help me to set my mind on heaven.

Photo by Cody Hiscox on Unsplash