Joseph

Joseph... Worker. Builder. Earthly contractor of Heaven's Plans. A man with feet planted deep in Judean dust, hands gripping tools of earth, you built a home for Heaven's Son. You made a veil to shelter the Holy of Holies with your very life, Joseph.

You, Joseph, heart like a gem set deep in the Heart of God. You, a man, honored the Woman, cradled the Newborn, carried that green wood that would be weathered and one day be fit for a Cross. One day. And that day you missed... or did you?

You, Joseph, watched Him nurse at the breast of your bride.... the image of absolute beauty: a God nourished by His own creature. Humility wrapped in the alabaster arms of the humble virgin, the beloved, the dove, your beautiful one. You saw this, breathed it. Joseph. Sitting on a wooden stool whittling a wooden toy as He suckled at her breast. What thoughts moved you then? What hot tears mingling joy, awe, pain, wrapped in the swaddling clothes of your trembling humanity? Joseph...

Did you know? The sapling you carried, weak as willow wands, so supple, still a boy stretching toward Heaven, would one day be stretched by man's brutality, fixed on the very beams He helped you carry? A boy like any other, seemingly, and walking amidst others with a covered light you knew in more intimate hours that none can know until the Veil lifts: you, Joseph, bathed His tender feet, washed his little hands at day's end from the dust and dirt of His eager apprenticeship.

Those hands that shaped the universe you cradled in the callous tools of your own hands. Did you know, Joseph, the hammer He held for you, with bright eyes watching you work, would one day fall on His palms in pain unspeakable. Ah! How could you bear it? What irony! In His carrying iron nails to you with quickened pace as boys will help their fathers, did you hear the echo of the prophet's verse; "They have pierced my hands and my feet. They have numbered all my bones." How could you know, Joseph, and still work those tools, carry those beams, see that dust shimmer over wooden planks as the sun poured its golden oil over the shop at day's end? And the young Christ there, breathing, sweating, smiling up at you in those early years?

Your heart, then, not a sword must have pierced. But nails.

Change We Can Believe In

We've all heard those dramatic movie trailers that start off in shadowy, ominous tones.... "In a world full of darkness.... in a time of war.... in a city torn by hatred and violence.... ONE MAN stood for justice..." etc etc.

Then we get all fired up watching Mr. Biceps (insert the latest Hollywood toughie) fight the powers that be and WIN, and the moral is once again... "One man can make a difference."

One man, that is, toting a large semi-automatic weapon.

But these remedies in the fight against Evil are always short-lived, aren't they? Lots of explosions and hairpin turns and sweet moves, but only a temporary peace is established.... until.... The Sequel!

I believe one Man did make a difference, once and for all. And He not only changed the exterior, but more importantly, the interior realms of the human heart. After all, that's where all of this wickedness is stemming from, isn't it?

No external structure can save us, let's face it. No economic stimulus is strong enough to stimulate the heart to Goodness. That takes a certain kind of grace. And no Democrat or Republican can save us either, not even one born "on Krypton." (hmmm, that may explain why he's so out of touch with things on earth). It's not a machine or a mechanism or a mortal man that can save us. This job of redemption must be done by the God-Man, Jesus Christ. If sin is an assault on Infinite Love, then it will take an Infinite Love to repair the breach. And Jesus is Infinite Love. He is Divinity united to Humanity. He is, as Pope John Paul II out it, "the human face of God and the Divine face of Man."

These events of Holy Week are both ancient history and present to us at the same time. They are history, and hisstory, and herstory. How is this possible? How is it that the Church in Her liturgy can dwell in a kind of Eternal Now for these three days? The answer is wrapped in the Mystery of the Man Who was God enfleshed; in this God Who gave us His flesh in the Eucharist to be our food, to be one with us, and to give us that grace that can finally change our hearts.

"This is my body, given up for you."

Pope recently said that this Week of Weeks "offers us the opportunity to be immersed in the central events of Redemption, to relive the Paschal Mystery, the great mystery of the faith."

From the Garden of Gethsemane to the hill of Calvary, every step and every drop of precious blood had an infinite merit. And it would merit us greatly to receive its value. The door is open now, the first steps have been taken, and even now He is about to embrace that Cross anew for us, in His timeless act of unselfish love. And in every unselfish act of ours, every moment we become a gift for others, united to Him, we can lighten that load; ease that weight. So let's walk with Him now, like Simon, like Veronica, like John, and Mary, and the countless saints and mystics of ages past.

May His Passion find its sequel in us.

From Palms to Poison - A Flashback Episode

(I've begun watching with my freshmen students at Malvern, The Passion of the Christ, Mel Gibson's blockbuster movie from 2004. The following is a "flashback post" from last year at this time. I'd like to post a couple this week, as well as, I hope, some fresh content.) SNAPSHOT: There's a scene in the movie where Jesus first takes up his Cross, and in those first few steps, surrounded by a swirling, spitting, angry mob, we see his eyes, swollen and bloodied, looking out to see palm branches being laid at his feet. For just a few seconds, we see what he saw just five days before. Palms laid out before a King. Cheers and cloaks and green palms falling before the grey, stiff ears of the colt He's riding. Then, in a flash, we're back to the painful, poisonous glare of the crowds. Five days. Just five short days was all the difference there was between praise and utter rejection. How fickle we can be. "How torturous is the human heart, who can understand it," one of the prophets once wrote.The crowds quickly turn, like leaves in the wind, blowing from one side of the street to the other. No rhyme, no reason. The powers that be, the molders and shapers of the thought of the masses have declared that Jesus is no longer "in." Jesus is "out." And so he is. I wonder if they ever talked to Jesus? Did they ever look for Him for themselves? Actually seek Him out? Or was the connection merely based on hearsay... "They" say he's the Messiah. "They" say he's John the Baptist. He gave us bread and fish and miracles. It's easy to go with the flow, to talk "about" Jesus and the Church at the watercoolers and in the cafeterias of the world. It's harder to talk "to" Jesus. To get beyond the shallow surface. To look him in the eye and ask him "Who are you?" And to wait for the answer. We are too often like animals; we find safety in numbers. We give in to the herd instinct. Afraid of the great dark, cold, alone of standing up for someone, we huddle up in the warmth of compromise and comfortability. We'd rather "read the Times than read the eternities," and trust the most untrustworthy source for giving us the truth about anything (or anyone): the media monster. But there were some in that crowd on that via dolorosa, that Walk that Remade the World, that stood out, and stood up for him. Unlike the faceless, nameless crowd, we remember them... Veronica, Simon, Mary, John. The question for us today is the same as it was then, when the palms that praise are turned to poisonous accusation and bitterness: Where will we stand?