Holy Cross Reflections

from

The Cross, Our Only Hope:
Daily Reflections in the Holy Cross Tradition,
edited by Andrew Gawrych, C.S.C.,
and Kevin Grove, C.S.C. 
(Ave Maria Press, 2008)

From The Cross, Our Only Hope: Daily Reflections in the Holy Cross
 Tradition, ed. by Andrew Gawrych, C.S.C., and Kevin Grove, C.S.C. Copyright © 2008 by Priests of Holy Cross, Indiana Province. Used
with permission of Ave Maria Press (www.avemariapress.com).

While I was greeting my parishioners after the noon Mass on Ash Wednesday, a joyful woman with dust on her forehead gleefully smiled at me and clutched my hand as she was leaving. I quickly questioned her, “Why are you so joyful? There is no smiling in Lent.” Pulling me closer, she simply stated, “My birthday was last week, and I don’t have to fast anymore. I’m too old.” With that, she kissed me and hurried down the steps of the church.

Knowing this woman as I do, I delighted in her spirit. She is a typical “church lady” who always arrives thirty minutes before Mass to recite her prayers and light her votive candle. A widow, she lives alone with her cats in a small house one block away from the parish. I know for a fact she is in her eighties and has been well beyond the recommended age for fasting for quite some time. Her Lenten fast is a fast that continues throughout the year. She has given herself completely over to God by denying herself the pleasures of family, status, and material possessions. She embraces life with a smile and kiss because she has never abandoned her hope in the promise of the resurrection. Her Lenten fast is a lifestyle that reflects a sincere devotion to and dependence on God. Lent for us, too, is something we ought to embrace rather than endure. How powerful this season can be—in its fasting, prayer, and almsgiving—when we don’t merely choose to live it, but live to choose it.

Michael C. Matthews, C.S.C

So often I wish that life itself was not a great Way of the Cross, that discipleship and the Cross were not so intimately related. I prefer, like most, to flee from suffering, difficulty, and hardship. I prefer a God whose love saves me from sin, death, and the suffering that links them.

And yet, each day I find the invitation to take up the Cross—in the boredom of life’s everyday tasks, in the neighbor whose very presence is an affront to my serenity, in a news item that details the suffering of another, in unrequited love, in tasks beyond talents, in the realization of my own pettiness, and in the battles that persist within. At times, I find myself taking up the Cross in spite of myself; it is hoisted upon my shoulders before I realize it. Love—not simply being human—requires it. At times, I run from it, only to fall exhausted into bed, the Cross nestled beside me preventing me from falling asleep. Other times, I willingly take it up, my heart moved by a love beyond my own loving.

And so, I do not have to find a church to go through the different stations, for I am aware that I walk with him already; rather, he walks with me. I am accompanied by Love itself, a love that has born my infirmities and guilt, a love that saves me from sin and death. I am aware that the Cross, and its daily way, though not my preference, is my salvation. As the Cross is offered to me each day, I beg for the grace to echo the prayer of Jesus, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will.”

Thomas P. Looney, C.S.C.

In his Incarnation, Jesus crosses borders of every sort to meet us where we are. He empties himself in order to take on our humanity and give us his life.

Since the moment of the Incarnation, a crossing of borders has been essential to the mission of Jesus’ disciples. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, the priest and the Levite remain on their side of the road, but the Samaritan crosses over to meet the wounded man where he is and to care for him. As followers of Jesus, we, too, cross over to meet people where they are, to embrace and understand their realities, their cultures. In the crossing over, there is a dying to self. We imitate the One who crossed over first out of love for us. Paul calls us to have the same attitude as Jesus, who “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness” (Phil 2:6–8).

Sometimes the crossing over is a short, but demanding journey into the life of a friend, a spouse, a son or daughter, a parishioner, a neighbor. At other times, the journey is longer and farther, and takes us literally across many borders into a world and a culture that is not our own. Whatever the case, there will be dying to do on our way to the Father, but we are heartened because we know that the farther we go in giving, the more we stand to receive.

Arthur J. Colgan, C.S.C.

Our young men in initial formation in Holy Cross often bring a zeal for ministry and religious life that can help us see more clearly the gift that God has given us in our own vocations. Years of ministry and community life and the habits we form can wear away some of our youthful enthusiasm and dull our spirits. Sacrifices that we were once eager to make can come to feel like, well, sacrifices.

If the Constitutions that are meant to guide our lives—our call, mission, prayer, brotherhood, vows—are allowed to gather dust, we can drift and lose our focus as individuals and as a community. Only by regularly recommitting ourselves to all of what our Constitutions call us to be can we hope to live our religious life in Holy Cross with zeal and generosity.

Similarly, one of the great blessings of parish life is journeying with people seeking initiation into our Catholic faith through our RCIA programs. As they progress and grow in their faith, many of them have an enthusiasm that is apparent and infectious. Their zeal and commitment serve as wonderful reminders of the incredible gift of our faith. The stakes of our lives as Christians are high. Who we are and what we do matters. We live our faith for God and are called as well to offer a witness for God’s people. It is important for us, likewise, to return to scripture and the roots of our faith. In this way we prepare ourselves to renew our commitment, to renew our own baptismal promises once again at Easter.

John Herman, C.S.C.

The story of the Israelites roaming through the desert is one that reminds us how little we human beings change over time. The constant grumbling against God and his messengers has never really ceased. So often, grumbling of any kind occurs when we are hungry. The plaintive cries to God of the Israelites were no doubt imitating the plaintive cries of their stomachs as they searched for food amidst the harsh desert conditions.

Many cries of hunger reverberate throughout the world today. There are still those who cry for the daily nourishment that we tend to take for granted; but in our culture and time, the grumbling, the hunger that we experience more often than not comes from our hearts. The Israelites felt it, too, and God fed their stomachs with manna and their hearts with the knowledge that he would care for them no matter what. Our hearts seek out this same divine nourishment because money, pleasure, and power—the food that our culture so often serves us—fails to satisfy. The deepest grumblings of our hearts still call for manna. They still call for God.

The Eucharist will fill us. The Eucharist will satisfy our hearts and transform them to love like our Savior’s Sacred Heart that loves beyond all telling. It is a feast that God offers us for complete nourishment. Christ draws us to this banquet that we may know his love, be united with his love, and be consumed by his love on the way to eternal life.

Gregory Haake, C.S.C.

Sometimes people outside religious life imagine that everything is always smooth and easy in a religious house. Well, it isn’t so. We are human beings, and human beings are frequently in conflict over one thing or another. One of my brothers in Holy Cross captures this reality perfectly, “Where two or three are gathered, there is conflict.” While his saying is humorous, it states a truth. The challenge is how we deal with conflict.

Our Constitutions speak honestly of the reality of conflict in religious life, reminding us that our disagreements and disputes can and occasionally will unravel the peace in our communities. At the same time, they encourage us to seek frank yet discreet ways to reconcile with one another.

In my own experience, it is rare for me to be in conflict, but it does happen. When it does, I have learned to let the energy and emotion settle a bit before speaking with the other person. Frequently, taking this time and space has revealed to me that the fault is really my own. As a result, whenever I find myself in conflict with another, I go to the person with all the humility I can muster and ask to speak. Often I find that what I thought and what the other person meant were very different. I have never been disappointed when I have sought out my brother or sister in this way.

Alan Harrod, C.S.C.

In times of physical or emotional suffering a kind of relief can come when we focus on the suffering of another. I encountered this on a day-long Stations of the Cross in Canto Grande, Peru. Arriving at the fourth station where Jesus meets his Mother, the people carried an image of Mary out to meet our traveling image of Christ crucified. An outbreak of tears throughout the crowd released countless burdens as the people meditated on the power of a Mother’s sorrow at the suffering of her Son.

In my own life, the contemplation of Mary’s sorrows at the foot of the Cross has many times relieved excruciating physical pain that no medication could alleviate. Fr. Moreau’s prayer, in the midst of all his suffering, frequently took him, as well, to the foot of the Cross of Christ. Yet Fr. Moreau learned over time that he was not merely a bystander at the Cross. Even more than looking through Mary’s eyes, he came to see the Cross through Jesus’ eyes.

By looking through Jesus’ perspective, Fr. Moreau learned that Christ, in his moment of deepest physical, emotional, and spiritual pain, was wholly concerned for us. We, who are so often caught in our own preoccupations, are the focus of his compassion as he gives us his Mother as our own. In the contemplation of this selfless love, our minds and hearts are raised to his sublime love, our burdens lifted, our worries surrendered, our faith increased, and our hope magnified. Indeed, we receive a glimpse of the very kingdom of God.

J. Steele, C.S.C.

Our fundamental sacrament, the Eucharist, is named for Jesus’ acts of thanksgiving at the Last Supper. On one level, Jesus simply did what observant Jews always do before they eat: he thanked God for bread from the earth and fruit of the vine. But the Passover was no ordinary meal, and the Last Supper was no ordinary Passover, for the bread and wine Jesus blessed and shared anticipated his sacrifice on the Cross. Since we offer thanks precisely for gifts, in this meal Jesus first revealed how even the Cross can be borne as a gift.

Just hours later, however, Jesus prayed, asking the Father that this cup might pass from him. Christ himself seemed to want to return the very gifts he had instituted at that first Eucharist. And yet, these two different attitudes—thankfulness and reluctance—reveal the paradoxical truth about suffering. For if we cannot give thanks, we do not bear the Cross as gift. But if we do not acknowledge the reality of our suffering, we do not bear the Cross as gift. Only in reluctance, only in the plea to God for deliverance, do we really bear the Cross. To bear a cross without fear is an act of extreme denial or inhuman stoicism. If God’s gift to us is a real Cross, then our gift back to God is the acceptance of this Cross with our real, unglorified humanity, the very humanity assumed by his Son. For only in light of the eternal Easter will we understand the gift’s true reality; only then can we proclaim with the risen Christ that it was necessary to suffer these things to enter into glory” (Lk 24:26).

Charles McCoy, C.S.C.

Fr. Sorin bids us to be of good will by thinking of others first. But this is difficult to do when we are caught up in our own pain. We simply cannot force ourselves to change our feelings and be bright and cheery when despair barges into our lives. Yet being of good will, and not necessarily of good feeling, can work wonders.

Marietta knows this firsthand. A twenty-six-year-old deranged man abducted her seven-year-old daughter Susie from the family’s tent during a camping trip. He tortured and killed her. Marietta felt intense rage and the need for revenge, but tried hard not to overburden others with her sorrows and struggles. She was being of good will, thinking of others first. Her doing so helped her to carry her unimaginable grief a little more lightly. It also led her to think of what kind of inner torture the perpetrator must have endured to motivate himself to do such a heinous act. With the help of prayer, such consideration led Marietta to have a phone conversation with the man during which she was able to listen caringly and compassionately. This special conversation led the man to reveal inadvertently information that made it possible for the FBI to identify and arrest him.

Continuing to think of others, she succeeded in getting the man a life sentence rather than capital punishment. She did not want to memorialize her daughter’s killing with another death, creating only another victim and another grieving family. Marietta knows that being of good will and thinking of others first heals hearts. She now travels the world, offering workshops on the power of forgiveness made possible by God’s mercy and compassion for all of us.

Bill Faiella, C.S.C.

In times of trial, pain, and disappointment, I have often prayed quietly at the foot of the Cross. Knowing that the Crucifixion is just a moment in time makes me realize that my current suffering soon shall pass. Yet moments of suffering are precisely the ones that bring us hope, provided we keep moving forward on the journey of our lives. This is the point that Fr. Moreau is making when he writes of our need to carry our crosses in imitation of Jesus. Since Jesus is the One who calls us to bear our crosses in hope, he is also the One who leads the way in doing so, giving us strength to follow. We also draw strength from our many brothers and sisters who journey side by side with us, carrying their own crosses up the hill of Calvary. Some have already reached the summit while others follow behind, forming a line of disciples living in imitation of their Lord.

Fr. Moreau, however, distinguishes between our own crosses and the Cross of Christ. There is so much of what we do and who we are that is simply us. That is, so much of our pain and our sin are of our own doing. We cannot deny our own crosses, but Fr. Moreau, like Jesus, says we should deny self. Otherwise, we will focus only on our own suffering, which eventually amounts simply to trying to hold up under the weight of the cross without moving forward. But when we carry the very crosses we create, moving forward in procession with Christ and all our brothers and sisters in him, our crosses lead us to the Cross that brings life.

Richard Gilman, C.S.C.

The procession around our parish church with the Blessed Sacrament led by incense and candles expressed the solemnity of the celebration. When I was old enough to carry the incense, our pastor told me, “Remember that you are giving honor to Jesus present in the Eucharist. Be slow and deliberate as you bless with incense.” And as moving as the procession was, the washing of the feet also stands out in my memory of Holy Thursday. Each year twelve men would take a seat in the sanctuary, and each year there was some uneasiness among them as the ritual began. Like St. Peter, they weren’t sure about why their leader would wash their feet. But each year our pastor was “slow and deliberate” as he carefully and tenderly washed and dried the feet.

In our Holy Cross communities, parishes, and institutions we still celebrate the sacredness of the Eucharist with processions and adoration throughout the year. We, like Fr. Moreau, believe in God’s real presence in the Eucharist—body, blood, soul, and divinity. In its transformative power, we slowly yet deliberately become more like him whom we receive; we become Christ’s sacred vessels, blessing with his presence all those we encounter, slowly and deliberately.

Kevin Russeau, C.S.C.

She was a twenty-three-year-old mother, and this was her firstborn. The child was fine his first two days of life, but within hours of going home he had to return to the hospital, not as a newborn, but as a life-or-death patient. For seven months he continued on the edge of life, and every day his mother was there. On the eleventh day of the seventh month it became obvious that he would not survive. His mother was distraught. Within moments, the doctor came into the room and advised that she withdraw the many tubes that were keeping her beloved son alive.

She looked to me for an answer, but all I could do was grasp her hand and put my arm around her. She wailed, moving back and forth. My heart ached for her. Then, with the calm that only grace and faith can give, she looked at me and then at the doctor and said, “I have had him these seven wonderful months. It is time to give him back to God.” I could hardly control my tears. I walked her to the crib of her firstborn, arms around her shoulders. She reached down, kissed her beloved son, held his hand, and began a slow prayer, silent but more sincere and profound than any prayer I had experienced. Then, as if to confound all who were present, this woman of sorrows quietly uttered, “Into your hands I commend him.” As if previously orchestrated, the tiny body with a full head of hair and tubes protruding, looked directly at his mother, smiled, and breathed himself into the arms of God.

John Gleason, C.S.C.

A number of years ago, a committee in South Bend, Indiana, was looking into the possibility of opening a Dismas House. The Dismas movement helps establish halfway houses where recently released prisoners can come to live for a time with a small, core community of believers. As part of a feasibility study, the group was investigating the possibility of recruiting some of these core community members from among students at the University of Notre Dame. When the committee asked my opinion about this possibility, I responded that I had a reservation that some students, especially those from what might be termed “sheltered” backgrounds, might be drawn to get involved in such a project from an overly romantic idea of what it would be like to live with former convicts. To this, one of the committee members rejoined, “Well, I think that is the way God gets us involved in a lot of things.” And another member, a young, recently married woman, added, “Even love is romantic, until you get into it!”
Fr. Moreau’s words about a trial being the Lord’s choicest grace might suggest to some that he had a simplistic and romanticized view of suffering. This was not the way, however, he lived his own, saintly life. Fr. Moreau most certainly knew there is nothing romantic about suffering. It is painful and can be very destructive. Human suffering is to be relieved, not celebrated. At the same time, Fr. Moreau knew intimately the Incarnate God, who relieves human suffering by freely entering into the depths of it—and there revealing a love that is bigger.

Don Dilg, C.S.C

Within a six-month period, a close friend, a colleague at Kings College, a brother in Holy Cross, and my own brother died, all of them at relatively young ages. My brother’s death was the most devastating because it came without warning just a few hours after we’d spoken on the phone.

Several months later, I sat with lingering grief, praying and waiting for some relief. I reminded God that I’d had enough of loss and of sorrow. Within a few days, a sense of incredible lightness overcame me, dissipating the weight of pain and loss that had accrued over those dark months. Earlier in life I’d realized that letting go of things, such as success, status, and material goods, was necessary on the journey to becoming an honest self. I still needed to understand the deeper sense of letting go, of handing over to God the direction of my life, which lies at the heart of what living in the resurrected Christ really means.

In the midst of all the daily dying to self, of losing and letting go, God’s love beckons for us to lean on him on whom alone we depend. Like the apostles on Easter morning, we cannot fully comprehend the significance of the Paschal Mystery, the passion, death, and empty tomb, until we have lived it more directly. It might be confusing for a time, but when we come to know that all ofourdyings and risings occur in the Lord, we will have recognized Easter’s first light.

Anthony Grasso, C.S.C.

At the foot of Mount Royal in Montreal, there is a statue of St. Joseph that greets the millions of pilgrims who come to St. Joseph’s Oratory every year to pay homage to this glorious saint. On the statue’s pedestal, we read the words: Ite Ad Joseph—Go to Joseph. These words were the mantra of Br. André Bessette, C.S.C., the founder of St. Joseph’s Oratory, whose legendary holiness and healing powers gave him the name, “Miracle Man of Montreal.” Br. André’s stalwart devotion to St. Joseph was partly attributed to the esteemed position that the foster father of Jesus holds in the heart of every Holy Cross religious. It was Fr. Moreau who declared St. Joseph as one of the glorious patrons of his newly formed Congregation of Holy Cross.

But why should we go to Joseph? What is so special about St. Joseph that we, in the spirit of Fr. Moreau and Br. André, should go to him with our aching souls, our hearts’ desires, and our longings for holiness?

The answer is simple. In all of his ordinariness, St. Joseph embodies the religious spirit for which all Christians long—integrity, fortitude, fidelity, and yes, sanctity. In living out his foreboding vocation of being the husband of Mary and the foster father of the Messiah, St. Joseph remained unwavering in his loyalty, faithful to his mission, and unselfishly open to the will of God. St. Joseph did this not out of blind obedience or ignorance; he did it simply out of love.

For those who are discerning their vocation in life and for those who are already living theirs out, St. Joseph remains a model of how to live out our baptismal call to holiness and how to do it well. Fr. Moreau recognized this and encouraged us to seek the intercession of St. Joseph so that we, too, may obtain the grace of sincere esteem of our state of life, deep conviction of its duties, and the strength to manifest these sentiments in all times and places. Through St. Joseph’s example, we see how a vocation to marriage, single life, priesthood, or religious life requires more than just duty, more than just putting in our time and fulfilling our obligations. It requires love, a love for the One who calls us and a love for those we are called to serve. After all, a vocation not rooted in love is a vocation not rooted in God. Fr. Moreau knew this. Br. André knew this.

That is why we need to go to Joseph, and not just with our prayers of intercession and petition. We need to go to him so that we can learn how to live our own vocations well. By deepening our devotion to St. Joseph and learning how to love as he loved, we will be able to embrace more fully the holiness that is integral to our own vocations. In so doing, in the words of Fr. Moreau, we will honor him as he desires. We cannot wait. We must go to Joseph.

Paul Bednarczyk, C.S.C.

Every summer, we in Holy Cross gather to celebrate jubilees of our brothers who are marking twenty-five, forty, fifty, and even more years of vowed life or priestly ministry. These powerful occasions of reminiscing and rejoicing—the joys and sorrows, the achievements and trials, the grace and the sin—invite us to rekindle the dreams of our youth and our hopes to make a difference. For us in Holy Cross, they are dreams and hopes inflamed with the love of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Fr. Moreau chose the feast of the Sacred Heart as the patronal feast of the priests of Holy Cross precisely because of the powerful image of Jesus’ human heart aflame with love for all sinners. We ground our model of priestly love in the Sacred Heart of Jesus—that heart pierced by the soldier’s lance in the final proof that Jesus offered all, every last bit of his life substance, for us. His open heart is a burning center from which flows life-giving blood and water, hope for the world that we strive to embody.

To love in this same way—unreservedly and sacrificially, creatively and redemptively—is a challenge for us each day and draws us into a whole new priestly identity. For those of us who are ordained priests, the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus holds up for us a model of the complete and unconditional love that must be the heart of our ministry of bringing Christ into the world. Yet we are all a priestly people, anointed as priest, prophet, and king in our baptism. There is no room for any of us to hold back, to hesitate, to shrink away in fear. There is no place for self-absorption or self-protection, no way to hide from the costs of such incredible love, no way to make this love self-serving. It must be the total gift of self.

Jesus’ compassionate and merciful love, a fully human love, leads to and builds unity among people. There is room for everyone in the Sacred Heart of Jesus—every sinner and every saint. In his heart the sinner finds forgiveness; the saint finds glory. The sinner is led to conversion; those striving for the perfection of holiness learn the lesson of self-giving. Both in conversion and in self-gift, our hearts will be broken and pierced. But from a broken, contrite heart flows a steadfast spirit and an enduring love.
Jesus indeed brought to the world a truly impossible love. He wanted us to love each other with the same love he experienced in the Divine Trinity, a love that unites all as one. And so our own love must be much more than any natural love of kinship or friends. This love, manifested for religious in obedience to community and for all people in their regard and care for their neighbors, can be costly. It underscores that a total gift of self is precisely a total gift of self for the sake of others. But Love himself draws us from independence and self-sufficiency to interdependence. Inflamed by the Sacred Heart, we live and love, beyond our own capabilities; we become convincing signs that our ultimate destiny is union with one another in Christ.

Wherever two or three are gathered together—in families and in religious communities, with kin and with stranger—there we will find Jesus in our midst, inspiring us all to be imitations of his Sacred Heart—living witnesses of love’s unifying power.

A mother’s love is foundational to the human experience of love. A mother carries her child in her womb, almost as if mother and child were one being. A mother gives birth in suffering, but forgets her pain in the joy of giving birth. A mother watches and encourages the many steps of transformation from infancy into maturity, but no matter how old her child becomes, a mother’s love never ends.

We need to remember this basic human reality whenever we contemplate the role of Mary in the story of our salvation in Christ. Mary was the first to believe in Jesus and the first to receive him into her life. Born of her womb, his face most closely resembled hers. At Cana, Jesus worked his first miracle, revealing his identity as the Son of God, at her confident request. Yet on Good Friday, both her faith and her fiat were tested beyond measure when the prophecies of Simeon were at last fulfilled—this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, a sign that will be rejected.Then speaking directly to her, he had predicted—a sword of sorrow will pierce your heart.

What terrible anxiety Mary must have known when she heard that her Son had been arrested, beaten, and judged by the priesthood of her people and then scourged, mocked, and condemned by the pagans. How immense her suffering must have been when her eyes met his as he carried his Cross. What indescribable agony she felt when she heard the nails being hammered into his hands and feet. She watched the soldiers gamble for the clothing that with such love and care she had woven for her Son. She heard her Son’s words of forgiveness, his words to her and to the beloved disciple, his prayer of desolation, his cry of thirst, and his final words—“It is finished.” When they took him down from the Cross, his few faithful friends laid his tortured body into the same embrace that once had comforted him as a child. How inconsolably she cried out. How deeply she prayed. How many her tears. No human ever loved Jesus as much as Mary or shared more in his suffering. In the beginning of his life, Mary held in her heart all those things that she did not understand. Now at the end, a sword of sorrow pierced that same loving and immaculate heart.

In the religious family named for the Cross of Christ, our saintly founder Fr. Moreau chose as our patroness the same Mother of Sorrows. From its very inception, our congregation was inspired to see Jesus and his holy Cross through the luminous eyes of Mary. Taught by Fr. Moreau, the religious of Holy Cross strive to imitate Mary’s unshakable fidelity and find strength in her maternal love. It is in imitation of Mary, Mother of Sorrows, that all of us who follow her Son might come to know the Cross as our only hope. Then it may be said of us, as has been sung of Mary—by the Cross her station keeping, stood the mournful mother weeping, close to Jesus to the last.