With less than a year (God-willing!!) until my ordination to the Diaconate, I have been reflecting on the promises that I will make during the liturgy when I stand before a genuine successor to the Apostles and offer my life to God in a definitive way. In the Rite of Ordination, the bishop asks, “Do you promise respect and obedience to your Ordinary?” If the seminarian isn’t looking for an extraordinarily awkward public conversation, he replies, “I do!” This promise is repeated again at his ordination to the priesthood, and it must be made individually before the bishop.
One of the most important documents of the Second Vatican Council contains a beautiful reflection on the relationship of the priest and the bishop: “By reason of [the] sharing in the priesthood and mission of the bishop the priests should see in [the bishop] a true father and obey him with all respect. The bishop, on his side, should treat the priests, his helpers, as his sons and friends, just as Christ calls his disciples no longer servants but friends” (Lumen Gentium §28). The priest is the son of the bishop, the brother of the bishop in the priesthood of Jesus Christ, and the friend of the bishop in the same way that redemption has made us friends of Jesus. If we take this document seriously, the relationship of the priest and the bishop should be quite familial, and it behooves both the bishop and the priest (or seminarian) to strive toward that ideal. After all, respect and obedience are a lot easier and more satisfying when the parties involved have a strong relationship. (Read more)
The North American College is back in session, classes have resumed, and the long transition period when the seminarians are in Rome but without a regular schedule has been replaced by the day-in day-out rhythm of life. After a hiatus from writing, conditioned primarily by the haphazardness of my own availability, Led Into the Truth is entering a new phase. I am less than one year from my ordination to the transitional diaconate, God-willing, and suddenly the place to which I am being led is emerging from the misty haze of an uncertain future and is becoming more concrete each day.
I have so very many things to write about and I will hopefully cover all of them in the coming weeks, but as my third year of theological study begins (my fifth year of study in total), I would like to reflect on two recent experiences that tie into the anticipation and excitement of what awaits me at the end of this year.
At the end of my summer in Atlanta, a wonderful experience that refreshed and refocused my outlook, I had the opportunity to travel to Dallas to catch up with a priest friend who has been assigned there. I met Fr. Michael in Jerusalem during the summer of 2008. He was assigned to help with a summer camp run for Palestinian Christian boys that took place over the course of a week. He was only in Jerusalem for three weeks, and for one of those reasons known only to God, we hit it off well. In fact, as my Archbishop would say, we became as “thick as thieves.” (Read more)
A few weeks ago, the Atlanta seminarians gathered for a retreat. My favorite activity was sitting with friends on the porch engrossed in deep conversation. One topic that came up was the nature of the vocation to the married life. A group of five or six of us reflected on our own family lives growing up. Several of us (me included) had divorced parents, and all of us know people who never met their father. We were trying to understand the necessary grace involved in the married life and its difficulty in our modern culture. It was a powerful conversation.
About two weeks later at the parish, I was invited to a party at the Knights of Columbus hall for a couple who were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. I did not know the couple, but as I walked into the tastefully decorated hall, I saw familiar faces, all happily enjoying the abundantly provided fare. I was introduced to many new people and greeted others I had already met. At some point I noticed a slide show that was continuously cycling on the back wall. A quick glance revealed to me that it consisted of photographs of the anniversary couple from their entire life. I glanced at it but paid it no mind. (Read more)
One year ago this week, I was deep into my summer pastoral assignment at the Pontifical Notre Dame Center in Jerusalem, Israel. That summer was absolutely incredible—any who read my column regularly will know that I have an exceeding fondness for the Holy Land. I met friends there with whom I continue to be close; our shared experiences of the holiness of the place and the magnificence of the people formed a bond that has lasted. I simply cannot recommend it enough.
My experience of Israel was supercharged beyond my wildest imagination, however, I will never forget August 12, 2008 when a young man wandered into Notre Dame. I’m not really sure he knew what he was searching for, but he found a hint of it in Mass one Sunday evening, and the next day I was speaking with Joshua about Christianity and the Catholic faith. (Read more)
My mother returned to the Lord just months before I entered Mount St. Mary’s Seminary in August 2005. She had fought a long battle with a physically debilitating disease and succumbed to an infection the previous May. Both my brother and I were given the grace to be there by her bed as she took her last breath, an image now burned into my mind. Perhaps because of the decision I had finally made to enter seminary or perhaps just because I was a little older, her passing and the funeral events that transpired after were occasions of great grace for me—moments I can still recall perfectly and in which I can still experience the love of God, who was closer to me then than at any other time in my life.
My father had passed away some eleven years earlier. His death was sudden, and coming as it did in my last year of high school, the shock value was infinitely more traumatic, and I cannot say that I recall the event as a grace-filled encounter with God, though I trust that even those memories will in time and with circumstance be purified. (Read more)
In my home diocese of Atlanta, all of the seminarians gather on Wednesday evenings for Mass and dinner, which is an opportunity to meet new men and to renew existing friendships. This gathering is especially important for those of us who study in Rome, since we are more separated from the diocese during the year. For the last two weeks, we have been treated to something truly wonderful: newly ordained priests have been celebrating our Mass and then joining us for the evening.
On June 27, the Archdiocese of Atlanta ordained eight men to the priesthood of Jesus Christ. I had arrived back in Atlanta from Rome only 36 hours earlier, so I was suffering the effects of jet lag, but I was asked to serve in the ordination. I had the good fortune of being the crosier bearer for the bishop, the principle perk of which is a good seat. I have attended many ordinations in the diocese, but this was the first one I had ever seen up close: the seminarians serve the Mass in one way or another and can see only a small bit of the ceremony. (Read more)
Each of us has a different experience of what it means to be part of a parish. For some people, their parish is something geographically close to them and nothing more—a place where they reluctantly trudge for Mass on Sunday. For others, it is a center for their life—a place to encounter God sacramentally and in other people, to make friends, and to sustain their strength in the daily struggle to follow Christ.
For diocesan seminarians, our parish experience is even more complicated than ordinary working folks. I have a home parish—St. Theresa Catholic Church—in a town outside of Atlanta. It is the parish to which I belonged before I became a seminarian; it is the place where I met many friends who support me with their daily prayers, and it is the place where the priest who facilitated my movement into seminary is pastor. While I have been in seminary, my home parish has continued to grow and to change, so when I return from time to time, the place can seem quite foreign. (Read more)
A few days ago, I was in St. Mary Major, one of the four major basilicas in Rome. I had some friends in town, and we decided to see one of the famous displays in the city—the Bone Church—where hundreds of Capuchin monks are buried and their bones integrated into the decoration of the crypt chapels, the point being to remind the living of the proximity of death. After that experience—feeling a little shaken—we decided to head over to Mary Major because we heard that there was a Forty Hours Devotion going on for the feast of Corpus Christi.
Corpus Christi, the Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ, has its origins in a medieval miracle that occurred in a small Italian town called Bolsena. A priest who doubted in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist found that at the elevation, the host had bled onto the corporal that covers the altar during the consecration. This corporal was kept and is now on display in Orvieto, a little hill town about 20 minutes away from Bolsena. Each year, there is a grand procession of the corporal and the Eucharist in a beautiful monstrance through the streets of the medieval town. Last year, I had the privilege of participating in this procession, both in Orvieto and in Bolsena, and both were among the most memorable experiences I have had in Italy. (Read more)
Every Sunday, thousands of people gather in St. Peter’s Square. Their faces are filled with anticipation, excitement, and joy. More often than not, a vibrant band is playing music and drums are thumping to various beats. Banners are waving, flags are unfurled. Dispersed throughout the square are numerous wildly attired groups practicing chants. Laypeople, priests, religious, random tourists, souvenir hawkers, roving journalists—all of them are making their preparations, glancing furtively up into the air, hoping to see a flash of white pass in the miniscule blackness that has opened its windows to the world. The anticipation builds; one can sense that the crowd is about to erupt. Suddenly, there is movement in the window; a curtain is rustled, and all at once the deafening roar of a delighted people can be heard throughout Rome, for our Holy Father has just appeared to lead the faithful in prayer.
I know it sounds a bit absurd, but the moment you first spot that flash of white in the window, it’s as if all of your worries disappear. Even the most skeptical and reluctant among those assembled find themselves thunderously clapping and shouting, tears in their eyes. He is surprisingly far away; his body barely filling a quarter of the enormous frame. He is nothing more than a white dot in the window, but he is our Holy Father, the Successor of St. Peter, the Vicar of Christ, and the leader of the Universal Church. And he is right there! (Read more)
I remember watching anxiously on television while Pope John Paul II was dying. He had been the only Pope I ever knew; his face was the face of the Church for me. I remember feeling such joy for him when he died, because it was the vigil of Divine Mercy Sunday, the feast he so loved.
Of course, I never quite understood the idea of Divine Mercy Sunday. We make it through the 40-day period of Lenten prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, cap it off with the Sacred Triduum, and then we enter into the celebratory Easter Season. So important is Easter that it extends for eight days—eight days celebrating the resurrection and the victory over sin and death. But then suddenly our liturgical cycle calls us once again to repentance, to confession, to meditating on Divine Mercy pouring forth from the pierced side of Christ on the Cross. We were just celebrating the Resurrection, and suddenly we return to Calvary. This is a little confusing to me. Perhaps last Sunday you were confused too. (Read more)
