"He Vanished"

The story of the appearance of the Risen Christ to the disciples on the road to Emmaus is well-known – perhaps too well-known!  It’s been used for so many meditations and lessons that you might actually think you’re tired of hearing about it.  But you knew eventually I would have to go there!

And the reason I have to “go there” is because this story is nothing short of completely and utterly remarkable.  It has so much to say to us as “modern Catholics” that I can’t even think of where to start.  (Well, obviously that isn’t really true because I’m about to write about it!)  If you haven’t read the story lately, you will find it at Luke 24:13-35.

Of course the most exciting part of the story comes when Jesus breaks bread with the disciples, and in the midst of that Eucharistic event, their eyes are opened and they finally recognize him.  It’s a big moment.  It’s beautiful!  But…then he vanished from their sight!  Just at the moment when they finally really saw him.  Just at the moment when his words about the Scriptures erupted into an experience of understanding.  Just at the moment when they discover he is risen!  Just at the moment when they recognize Jesus Christ, fully alive, human and divine, present on the road, present in the breaking of bread, present at their table – risen and present and close enough to reach out and touch!  Just at that moment, he vanishes from their sight.  (Stay tuned for next week’s topic:  “God, why do you have to be so mysterious?!”)

Friends, Jesus has vanished from my sight.  So many times.  More than I can count.  I too have been on the road or in Scripture or at table or at Eucharist and caught a glimpse of the Lord, only to have him slip very quickly from the grasp of my mind and heart.  I too have blinked and found him gone.  Does the presence of the Risen Lord permeate my life?  I pray that is so.  But am I always intimately connected with him, close enough to reach out and touch?  Do I live in a state of always seeing and recognizing him?  No, I do not.

And I am not dismayed by this.  In fact, as the years pass I grow ever more content with this natural rhythm of the spiritual life.  The disciples had beautiful moments with Jesus.  They also had times of unknowing and distance, times of slowness of heart or blurred vision.  This experience with the Risen Lord – yes, he vanished from their sight – but they did not fret over it or desperately try to call him back or spend much time suffering over the loss.  No, it seems they were quite filled by the experience – brief as it was.  They ran with joy to tell the others.  But of course you remember the story – their hearts were burning!

Lord, give me eyes to see you and a heart that burns long after you vanish from my sight!

"Supper at Emmaus" by Carl Heinrich Bloch (1834-1890)

Two Retreats for Local Ladies!

I have two Women’s Retreats coming up in May – one in the Archdiocese of Hartford (May 2) and one in the Diocese of Bridgeport (May 30).  In both locations, I will be offering a Day of Reflection entitled “The Rosary of Our Lives” (a note of warning:  This is a retreat I have given several times in the area – I don’t want anyone to unintentionally get a “repeat”!).  We will spend the day reflecting on events from the lives of Jesus and Mary as a way of understanding the Joyful, Luminous, Sorrowful and Glorious mysteries of our own lives.

Sat., May 2, Simsbury, CT – Parish Retreat at St. Mary’s Church (open to the public) – CLICK HERE for Registration and Information Flyer

Sat., May 30, Bridgeport, CT – Diocesan Retreat for all women of the Diocese of Bridgeport – CLICK HERE for Registration and Information Flyer

As always, feel free to respond to this email with any questions!

Paschal Mysteries

“There have been times when, after long on my knees in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled from my mind, and I have looked in and seen the old questions lie folded and in a place by themselves, like the piled grave clothes of love’s risen body.”

 -- R.S. Thomas

A Texan's Tribute to the Long, Hard Winter

Every winter – usually sometime toward the end of February – I begin to ask myself how in the world I ended up in Connecticut.  I meander through my mind and the chain of events that brought me here, and I always come to the same conclusion:  this is where I belong.  But it doesn’t make winter any shorter.

As a native Texan, I doubt that the kind of winters I experience in the Northeast will ever be easy for me.  In fact, I’ve noticed they aren’t even easy for the people who have lived here all their lives.  Just about every year they say, “That was a tough winter!”  Even when tough is normal, it is still tough.

What I like most about winter is the way we all get through it together.  It’s rare to be out shoveling snow alone.  There’s always a neighbor or two out, suffering along with you.  You always have something to discuss with strangers at the store.  We ask each other, “Are we going to make it?” or we just call out across the street some quick word of commiseration as we dash to and from our cars (if you can “dash” across an icy driveway).  I’ll always remember a sweet moment after Mass one Sunday when I saw a priest lean down and encourage one of his elderly parishioners:  “You’ll only need that fleece for about one more week.”

Another thing I like about winter is that it ends.  When the warmth of spring hits, we all find our way outside – to the beach, to the park, or we hit a trail somewhere.  Here we find camaraderie too.  We got through it together.  We did our time, we endured, we never really lost hope that there would indeed come a day when we could leave the fleece jacket at home.  We feel we earned this beautiful day.

Perhaps it is simply my own determination to find some meaning in the personal challenge that winter poses for me, but I find winter to be a profound metaphor for the natural cycles of suffering that we endure in life, and for the Paschal Mystery itself.  Of course this isn’t an original idea – but now that I’ve actually lived through what I can honestly call a “hard winter” – now I really get it. 

I treasure three seasons in Connecticut, and I endure one.  The beauty of the other three seasons is only enhanced by my memories of winter, by the ways winter has influenced and changed me.  And in this I am reminded that the Risen Christ still bore – still bears – the wounds of crucifixion (Lk. 24:39; Jn. 20:25).  The victorious Lamb worshiped in the Book of Revelation is the Lamb who was slain (Rev. 5).  And this is as it should be.  Some wounds, forged in the toughest of times, should never be forgotten – especially those which bring forth new life.  No, we never forget about winter here in the Northeast.  Winter is part of who we are.  But we know and we believe that even the hardest winter leads to spring – always has, always will.  

Good Friday: We Must Do This Too

The word “disciple” means “learner.”  But what makes a disciple different than a student?   A disciple is completely devoted to the teacher.  A disciple walks along with the teacher, listening and changing because of him.  A disciple might say something like, “I want to think like my teacher.  I want to be like my teacher.”  A student departs at the end of the course.  But a disciple remains at the feet of the teacher.

We are not students of Jesus Christ.  We are disciples.  As we follow him today along the Way of Salvation, we should also say, “I want to think like my teacher.  I want to be like my teacher.”  Our teacher will not say much more to us; but he will act, and we will watch.  We will see the greatest love of all, the kind that lays down its life for a friend.  And so as disciples, we will see what we too must do. 

One thing that makes this day so holy and so good is not only what he did, but what he teaches us to do.  As is expected of disciples, we must continue the work of the Master: 

“We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us – and we ought to lay down our lives for one another” (1 Jn. 3:16).