Stigmata - A Lenten Reflection

STIGMATA

A Lenten Reflection

by Deacon Bruce Olsen

 

Stigmata – Wounds…Bleeding wounds…Painful wounds…Wounds on the hands…Wounds on the feet…A wound on the side of the chest. Miraculously appearing wounds. Christ’s wounds, which have become the wounds of those who have chosen, in a radical way, to take up the cross and follow Him. To suffer as He suffered. To be a visible reminder to the world of sacrificial wounds, of love-endured pain, in the name of mercy…in the name of redemption. And so, the stigmatist bleeds, he suffers, he offers his pain, he offers his disfigurement, to unite his own blood and his own suffering to the blood shed and the agony endured, to the ultimate sin atonement, to the unconditional, underserved, unwarranted love-embrace of a Man, of a God, two thousand years ago on a hill called Golgotha. For you…For me. Stigmata.

Twelfth century mystic, St. Bernard of Clairvoix, had the spiritual gift of locution – he could converse with Jesus on a deeper level than we do when we pray. Whereas, in prayer, we are able to hear the whispers of Jesus deep within us, St. Bernard could hear the actual audible voice of Christ speaking to him. One day, in conversation with our Lord, he asked Him which of the wounds He suffered in His Passion caused Him the greatest pain. Was it the wounds from the nails that were driven into His hands and feet? Was it the wounds from the crown of thorns that punctured the flesh on His head? Or was it, perhaps, the gaping wound left by the lance thrust into His side? Our Lord responded to him, “I had on My shoulder as I bore My cross on the Way of Sorrows, a grievous wound that was more painful than the others, which is not recorded by men.”

If the truth of Jesus’ words to St Bernard needed to be verified, in April 1948, Fr. Karol Wojtyla visited Padre Pio, who bore the wounds of Christ on his body for fifty years. The future St. Pope John Paul II asked the stigmatist which of his wounds caused the most pain, expecting that Padre Pio would say it was the chest wound. But instead, Padre Pio replied, “It is my shoulder wound, which no one knows about and has never been cured or treated.”

In the history of the Church, there have been about three hundred cases of individuals who bore stigmata on their bodies. Most, if any, of us will ever bear the wounds and know the pain of Christ on our hands and feet, forehead and side the way the stigmatists have. But, in a sense, all those who have accepted Jesus’ command to pick up our crosses daily and follow Him are stigmatists.

The prophet Isaiah, wrote, “It was our weaknesses that he carried, our sufferings that he endured…He was pierced for our offences, crushed for our sins.” (Isaiah 53: 4-5). And in the First Letter of Peter, we read, “He himself bore our sins in his body upon the cross…By his wounds you have been healed. (1 Peter 2:24). And so, there is a great reciprocity in picking up our crosses daily, for, in uniting our sufferings to His, we bear the wounds Christ bore for us.

The stigmata that many of us bear is the shoulder wound, for we have felt, live with, that jutting, intense, raw, unrelenting, merciless, down to the bone pain that has cut deep into us from the crosses that have been thrust upon our shoulders. That wound takes on different shapes: It might be the intense pain of illness…or the still bleeding, oozing wound of a failed marriage or relationship…Maybe it’s the prolonged and nagging hurt from the death of someone we love…It could be the relentless, torturous pain of addiction…or the unbearable pang of depression and hopelessness…the stinging pain of unemployment…or the chronic wound of guilt, self-hatred, horrific memories that we can’t let go of, or the sins of our past that we can’t forgive ourselves of. Stigmata.

Our cross, valiantly born, united to Jesus, becomes the cross He bore. And so, the pain we bear is truly His. Our pains, our wounds, often well hid from others, but always felt by ourselves, is the deep, cutting, bloody, infected, torturous, unrelenting wound on Jesus’ shoulder. But like Him, when Jesus commands us to take up our cross and follow Him, our journey doesn’t end on a Friday, at Golgotha, in pain, death and defeat. It ends at an empty tomb, on a Sunday, in resurrection, in healing, in new life. And although the scar may remain, it has been transformed into a badge of victory!

Wounds…Jesus’ wounds…Wounds on His hands…Wounds on His feet…Wounds which surrounded His head…A wound in His side…A wound on His shoulder. But there is another wound from which Jesus suffered. It is the wound He endured the longest, from Thursday night to Friday afternoon. From Gethsemane to Golgotha. From a blood-sweat prayer of “Not my will but Your will be done,” to a prayer of victorious surrender, “Father, into Your hands I commend my Spirit.”

It is a wound not visible to the human eye. One not evident to those who witnessed His Passion; one few, even to this day, recognize. Yet it was a wound as gruesome and as agonizing as any inflicted upon His Body. It is the interior wound of loneliness, abandonment, and rejection. Unseen by others, but oh so excruciatingly felt by Him.

It is the pain He felt in the Garden of Gethsemane, when the Apostles, those closest in His heart, those who were with Him day in and day out for three years, lie but yards away from Him, yet are so totally unaware and insensitive to the sheer terror that He feels that they even fall asleep.

It is the pain of having someone, called by Jesus to intimacy, betray Him through the charade of a kiss.

It is the pain of His closest friends running away, abandoning Him when He needed them most.

It is the pain of someone loved, trusted, favored, not only distancing himself from Him, but denying he even knows Him.

It is the pain of courts of judgement, the Sanhedrin and the Roman Procurator, those for whom it is easier to condemn than to understand, scrutinizing, twisting, and misinterpreting everything He said, everything He did.

It is the pain, as He carried the cross, of seeing familiar faces, those He taught and touched and healed – those who shouted “Hosanna to the Son of David” the previous Sunday, who now cry out, “Crucify Him;” those that were once sightless, who now are blind to who He really is, and see, instead, only one who is guilty, one who deserves a wretched fate; those that were once mute, whose mouths now form words of taunt, and mockery and scorn; those whose hearing He restored, whose ears are now deaf to His cries of anguish and pain; those who were once lame, whose hearts are now paralyzed by insensitivity for the very one who lifted them from their stretchers; those who He brought back to life, whose hearts have become stone and no longer beat with love for the One who loved them first, with a love greater than they had ever known.

It is the pain of, after being followed by thousands throughout Galilee and Judea, dying all alone in the world, save four who faithfully keep vigil at His cross.

It is the pain of the fear, the wondering, if even God, His Father, has now abandoned Him.

It is a pain, not of a lance-punctured heart, but of a broken heart.

A wound, hidden to those who see things only on the surface. A wound visible only to those who possess eyes of love, of sensitivity, of compassion which probe deeper, beyond flesh and bones, muscle and sinew, to see the heart.

The wound of loneliness, abandonment, rejection. This is Jesus’ wound I have been asked to bear. Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to share in Your Passion. Thank you, Lord, for sharing in mine. Stigmata.

Christmas

 What Child is This?

A Meditation at the Manger

“What Child is this, who, laid to rest,

On Mary's lap is sleeping?”

Who are you, little one,

wrapped in rags,

whose birth was heralded by angels,

and visited by the lowly and the mighty,

by shepherds and by kings?

Who are you, little one?

It is a question that will be asked again and again down through the centuries . . .

A question posed by a voice crying out in the wilderness . . . 

By kinsmen and neighbors in a Nazareth synagogue . . .

By those who will choose to follow you . . .

By those who will reject you . . .

By pharisee and scribe . . .

By royal governor . . .

And by me.

Who are you, little one?

It is the most profound question that will ever be asked in the history of the world;

for it is a question whose answer will not only define you,

but us,

but me.

You are innocence, purity and promise,

and your face radiates all that is beautiful, holy and good

to the sinful world you came to save.

You, who now are dependent, will become

the one on whom the whole world depends.

You, powerless babe, threat to Herod,

will forever be a threat to kings and rulers,

to all those who grasp for the power of the world.

You, who now rests in a bed of hay,

will someday have nowhere to lay his head.

You are the one whose infant coos mask, for now,

the words of eternal life,

and whose tearful cry pierces the silent night

and already sobs God's compassion for those who hurt . . .

all those whose prayers you already hear,

echoing to you from past, present and future.

You are the one whose tiny hand, wrapped around your mother's finger,

is the one whose hand created the world,

the hand that will reach out and touch and heal and feed and bless;

the hand that will one day be pierced by nails . . .

by the sins of humanity.

You are the one whose feet kick the straw in the manger in which you lay,

the same feet that will kick up the dust from the dirt-covered roads

of Galilee and Judea;

feet that will walk up a hill called Calvary and out of a sepulcher;

feet that still walk our earth today.

Who are you, newborn child

to whom shepherds stare in awe and Kings kneel to adore?

You are the Son of the Living God.

You are the Savior of the World.

You are Mighty God and Prince of Peace.

You are Resurrection and Life, Light and Way,

Shepherd of Souls, Gate to the Father,

True Vine who feeds us by your fruit of word and sacrament.

Come, then, Lord,

this hour, this day, this year, this lifetime.

Come, Lord, with your presence, with your love, with your compassion,

with your graciousness, with your mercy, with your peace.

Come, Lord Jesus, fill me with light, with life, with truth, with grace.

Come, Lord Jesus, and bless me with the right hand of your righteousness

and grant me the holiness, virtue and purity I seek.

Who are you?

You are the Word Made Flesh,

flesh that becomes the Bread of Life.

You are Emmanuel,

God With Us,

the God who stays,

born that we might never be alone.

“So bring Him incense, gold, and myrrh

Come peasant, king to own Him

The King of Kings salvation brings

Let loving hearts enthrone Him”

Deacon Bruce Olsen: 2023

My Prayer of Contrition & Resolve

My Prayer of Contrition and Resolve 

by Deacon Bruce Olsen

O my God,

I kneel before You in humility seeking Your 

abundant, abiding and absolute 

love, mercy, goodness and strength, 

acknowledging that I am powerless without Your help.

You know all things, 

and You do not just see my actions and hear my words, 

but You listen to the sincerity of a contrite heart. 

Sinner though I am, I desire to be

 holy, righteous, virtuous, pure and chaste.

Although I have sinned so miserably, and offended all that is 

loving, good, true, holy, noble and beautiful in your Divine Self, 

I seek Your strength to avoid sin and all 

the deceit, false promises and allure of Satan, 

to become the man, 

the deacon, 

You created me to be - 

perfect as you are perfect - 

a reflection of Your divine image.

Do not just hear my words, O Lord, 

but recognize the sincerity and resolve of my heart and soul 

to always hunger and thirst for righteousness, 

until, by your grace, 

I, indeed, become righteous. 

I pledge to you to live a life of virtue.

Through the intercession of the Most Chaste Heart of St. Joseph, 

may my thoughts, my desires, my words and every movement of my body and soul, 

reflect his purity, his goodness, his love for You and his total dedication to Your holy will.

Through his protection, may I avoid all sins

 and especially those that would violate chastity. 

May my imitation of him be so complete, 

that I reflect holy Joseph to the extent that 

I, like your Son, Jesus, 

may be known as the Carpenter’s Son.

May this prayer of contrition and resolve rise up to you, O Lord, like burning incense. 

May its sweet aroma please you. 

May I be forgiven of my past sins 

and receive the grace and strength I seek

 to be sinless for the rest of my days in this earthly life,

 so that I may enjoy all the days of eternal life with you in heaven.

Amen.

There Are Some Dreams You Just Never Forget

There Are Some Dreams You Just Never Forget

A Memory

by Deacon Bruce Olsen

Doctors who specialize in such things tell us that the average person has over 1,460 dreams a year, which is about four dreams every night. Most dreams are immediately or quickly forgotten. But there are some dreams that you just never forget. Maybe the dream was so outrageous or funny that you actually wake up laughing, and thinking about it years later still makes you chuckle. Some dreams frighten us, and even after we wake from them, these nightmares still terrorize us. And even, years later, when they're recalled, they still have the power to give us the chills. But some dreams are memorable because of their beauty and because of the significance and meaning they've brought to our lives. The dream holds a very special place in our memory and can be recalled in vivid detail. 

I had such a dream in May of 1985. The dream began fancifully, perhaps even ridiculously comical. I was on a street corner in the Bronx, and a man near me kept assaulting everyone who passed by with a taser. I shouted at the man to stop being so annoying, but I guess, even in my dreams, I’m not a very intimidating person, because my command did nothing to stop him. Soon afterward, giant pods began to descend from the sky, and once reaching the ground, they transformed into earthly shapes. So astonished I was at this, that I immediately, for some reason, decided that I needed to seek out the bishop to inform him of this remarkable occurrence.

The dream continued for a considerable time and involved my quest to reach the bishop. Individuals, gangs and armies violently thwarted my every move, and ultimately, I gave up my attempts and decided to return to the Bronx street corner where my adventure first began.

But when I got there, no longer was it the bustling urban setting of crowds and cars, of tasers and pods; it had been transformed into the most beautiful garden imaginable. Every tree, bush and flower was in full bloom. I turned to my left and saw a wall, high and long, made up entirely of flowers. As I surveyed this breathtaking sight, I was amazed to discover a tabernacle in the middle of the flower-wall. After pausing to take in this wonderful and wonder-filled scene, something moving caught my eye to my right. And when I turned, I saw a vast exquisite green meadow. And there, floating above the meadow, was Mary, the Blessed Mother. She appeared as she did in Fatima, in a dazzling white mantle and veil, but with one exception. The veil she wore, which cascaded from her head to her feet, had golden roses decorating its edge. These roses were not imprinted on the fabric, nor were they embroidered or appliqués, but were actual, real, live gold roses.

Mary floated for some time above the meadow, and gradually came nearer and nearer to me. Her beauty cannot be described, and I stood speechless at the apparition I was beholding. Then, slowly, she began to move away. I thought to myself, "Bruce! This is the Mother of the Son of God!! Say SOMETHING!!!" And I shouted out to her, "Don't forget to send the children to me!" And she chuckled and said, “Oh, don't worry, I won't forget." She then faded into the mist of the meadow.

I stood mesmerized for some time, still staring into the meadow in utter amazement of what I had just witnessed. Then, something caught my eye. It was a man kneeling on the ground to my right. At first glance, I thought it was a gardener, until he looked up at me. "You're St. Joseph!" I shouted in excitement. And, once the recognition was made, he, too, disappeared and my dream ended.

"Don't forget to send the children to me!" What did that mean? I was just finishing three months as a long-term substitute teacher in one school and then six months in another. And as the school year was ending, I didn’t have a position lined up for the next year. So my request to Mary was a plea to be able to work with children, and, hopefully, to have a positive impact on them.

"Oh, don’t worry. I won’t forget!" And she didn’t. For thirty-seven years I had the privilege of ministering to the children she sent me as a teacher and deacon - students, altar servers, Confirmation candidates, Knights of Columbus Squires, and those who participated in Youth Ministry. I only hope I did Mary proud, and those she sent me, I sent back to her, more faith filled, more dedicated to, and more in love with her and her Son.

And although I'm no longer teaching, and currently away from my diaconate ministry, Mary is ever faithful to her promise; she is still sending the children to me. She has sent me Blessed Carlo Acutis, Blessed Rolando Rivi, and Venerable Matteo Farina to be present to me, to inspire me, to comfort me, to pray for me. Three teenagers, all from Italy. One 14, another 15, the other 18. One died of leukemia, one of brain cancer, the other was martyred - shot in the head and heart. How did these boys get it right at such an early age? These were teenagers with normal teenage interests - friends and soccer and music, and computers and travel, yet they made God paramount in their lives; and the Mass, the Eucharist, the Rosary, Confession, prayer, and virtues such as compassion, charity, chastity, and service to others, became their passion. Each one knew suffering, yet each one united their pain to the Cross, and transformed their suffering into redemptive suffering, offering it as gift to God and gift for others. It is these three that Mary has sent to me. Think of it, an adult (ever young at heart but technically a senior citizen) admiring to the point of desiring to emulate the life, the faith, the example of three teenage boys. What a reversal! In the past, Mary sent children to me for me to be their teacher; she has sent Carlo, Rolando and Matteo to me for me to be their student! What lessons they have taught me! But more than just my teachers, they have become my friends. We have a reciprocal relationship - I pray for their canonization and they intercede to God for me. And in the acute solitude that has become my life in the past year and a half, together with Jesus, Mary and Joseph, St. Therese, Padre Pio, St. Jude and my Guardian Angel, they have become great company for me. Sometimes my living room is so crowded that it's hard to find a place to sit down!

Yes, there are some dreams you just never forget, and I thank God to have been so blessed to have had this one. There are some dreams you just never forget - the memory is kept alive because a Mother, thirty-eight years later, is still faithful to her promise.

A Prayer of Praise & Thanksgiving to St. Joseph

 

I Sing of Joseph

A Prayer of Praise and Thanksgiving to St. Joseph 

by Deacon Bruce Olsen

Hail, O holy St. Joseph,

my spiritual father, my model, my inspiration, my guide, my teacher.

Protector on earth. Advocate in heaven. My friend!

You, spouse of the sinless Mother of the Word Made Flesh,

and Virgin Father of the Son of God, have loved me with a father’s heart.

You have listened to my sighs; you have heard my pleas;

and have taken me into your heart.

I come to offer you my sincere praise and thanksgiving.

Thank you, St. Joseph, for simply being who you are:

Man of grace, man of virtue, faithful servant of God.

Man hand-chosen by the Father from the foundation of the world

to be the loving father, wise mentor, of the Son of God.

Loving and faithful spouse, ever respectful protector of the virginity of Mary.

Diligent provider and valiant defender

of those who the Father entrusted to your safekeeping.

Man of prayer, ever attentive to the promptings of God, even in your dreams.

Joseph, meek and humble. Joseph, brave and courageous.

Joseph, strong and powerful against the forces of evil, natural and supernatural.

Joseph, who spoke by action and example rather than by words.

Joseph, whose fatherly love is a reflection of God's love for His Only Begotten Son

and for all His children.

And who am I that the eyes that beheld the Son of God and the Queen

of both heaven and earth, have also been cast upon me?

How is it that the ears which heard their sweet conversations, their laughter, their singing, have also been attentive to my cries, my prayers, my pleading?

And how is it that the arms that once held Godly perfection

now embraces a sinner such as me?

You, who loved the son of your heart, love me!

You, who received the One who was not flesh of your flesh as your son,

now accepts me as your child!

You, who protected the Word Made Flesh and His Holy and Immaculate Mother,

has thrown the cloak of your protection over me!

You who provided for the needs of those closest to your heart

have heard and answered my prayers!

You who taught the one who is the Way, the Truth and the Life,

teaches me by example to listen, to hear, to discern, to obey the Will of the Father!

You teach me the value of silence, to be still;

and in the stillness, to discover Emmanuel, the God who is with us.

You have done for me what you did for shepherds and kings at the stable in Bethlehem; 

you, in humility, point me to Jesus and Mary,

and take me to them.

You see past my faults to the person God created me to be,

and see good in me even when the world cannot.

You love me even when I find it difficult to love myself.

You have heard my desperate cries and have not abandoned me.

You have dried my tears and restored my hope.

You have used the mighty power given to you by the Eternal Father

to slay the demons that have threatened my soul.

You have responded to my needs with a Father's love and compassion, 

and have taken my prayer to your son, as my advocate, 

pleading for His mercy, 

interceding for the graces and blessings 

of which I so desperately need.

Thank you, O St. Joseph, for being my father, my spiritual guide.

Thank you for taking into your most chaste heart my prayers, my hopes, my hurts.

Thank you for blessing me with your presence, with your patience,

with your goodness, and with your love.

Thank you for knowing all that I am, all that I’ve done, and for loving me anyway.

Thank you for understanding my weaknesses, yet still seeing all that I can be.

Thank you for drawing me close within the intimacy of your holy cloak when so many others have abandoned me.

Thank you for prayers answered and miracles rendered.

Thank you for your example and virtues that inspire me.

I desire to be just like you and make you proud.

I pray that someday when people see me,

they can say, as they did about Jesus,

"Is he not the carpenter's son?"

Sometimes human language is limiting.

Sometimes things like “I love you” and “thank you” aren’t expressed with the sincerity

and eloquence that we hope to convey.

But Joseph, do not just hear the feeble syllables that I utter,

but listen, instead, to the song in my heart.

Forever I will sing of you, St. Joseph.

I sing a song of praise, a song of thanks, a song of love.

Forever I will shout to the world of your kind benevolence,

of your grace, of your power, and of your love.

Forever I will tell of your glories and of all your blessings to me.

Mine, is but one voice among the choir of angels and saints,

and the great chorus of humanity,

that sings a love song to you, Joseph.

It is not the loudest, the strongest, nor the most beautiful.

Sometimes off-key, often not melodic.

And although the song I sing isn’t the anthem you deserve,

nor the hymn I hoped it would be,

since you, yourself, have left us none of your own words in Scripture,

perhaps you will understand and accept the inadequacy

and imperfection of my words,

but look, instead, at the love of the singer

and the passion with which he chants his simple tune.

May the name of Joseph be praised and loved by me and by the world,

both now and forever!

Amen.

Litany of Resignation to the Will of God

Litany of Resignation to the Will of God

℣. Lord, have mercy on me,

℟. Christ, have mercy on me.

℣. Lord, have mercy on me. Jesus, hear me.

℟. Jesus, graciously hear me.

℣. God the Father, Who has created me,

℟. Hallowed be Your Will.

℣. God the Son, Who has redeemed me,

℟. Not my will but Your Will be done.

℣. God the Holy Spirit, Who offers me sanctification,

℟. Make the Holy Will of God be holy to me. 

℣. You alone O Lord, are all-knowing of what has been, of what is now and of what will yet be,

℟. Have mercy on me and keep my past, my present and my future in Your perfect will.

℣. You alone, O Lord, govern and guide all things,

℟. Have mercy on me and guide me by the governance of Your Holy Will.

℣. God, You who, according to Your inscrutable designs, does effect all things in a wonderful manner,

℟. Have mercy on me.

℣. You alone, O Lord, allow evil only in order to serve and strengthen the salvation of those who believe and those yet to believe.

℟. Have mercy on us and save us all by Your holy will.

℣. In all things and through all things,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In all situations and circumstances,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In all graces and disgraces,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In my state in life and in my ministry,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In all my thoughts, attitudes, desires and actions, 

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In health and in strength,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In sickness and in weakness,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In my body and in my soul,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In my life, in my living  and in my death,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In all men and all angels,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In all creatures,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. In all parts of the earth,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. At all times,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. For all eternity, 

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Though my weak nature complains,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Though my sinful nature shall be tempted,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Though the world shall by its pleasures and promises entice me,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Though it may require the loss of myself and earthly satisfaction,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Solely and only through Your love for me and by my love for You,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℟. Because You alone are God - Father Son and Holy Spirit,

℟. I ask You, I pray You, I implore You, Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℟. Because You alone are eternal, all-knowing, unchanging and omnipresent,

℟. I ask You, I pray You, I implore You, Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℟. Because Your Will is always holy, loving, good, just, merciful, gracious, noble and true,

℟. I ask You, I pray You, I implore You, Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Because You are Infinite Perfection, I proclaim with all the saints in Heaven, and with the Blessed Virgin Mary,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. I pray as Jesus did in the Garden of Gethsemane,

℟. Your Holy Will be done, O Lord, my God.

℣. Let Us Pray.

Grant me Your grace, O Father, that perfect resignation to Your Holy Will may be with me, and labor with me, and continue with me to the end. Grant me always to desire and to will that which is most acceptable to You and which pleases You best. Let Your Will be mine, and let my will always follow Yours and agree perfectly with it.

℟. Amen.

℣. Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.

℟. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

℣. May the most amiable will of God be done in all things.

May it be praised and magnified forever!

℟.  Amen.

Take Up Your Cross & Follow Me

 

Take Up Your Cross & Follow Me

A Holy Week Reflection

O my God,

I thank You for this cross You’ve allowed me to carry.

Please give me the strength and faith to persevere so that I may bring glory to Your Name,

all the while withstanding the burden of its weight.

Thank You for offering me a share in Your suffering.

I know You have always been,

are now,

and ever will be

at my side every step of the way.

Thank You also for every “Simon” You have sent to help me bear this cross.

I’ve prayed so often that this thorn in my flesh would be removed,

but I trust that Your grace is sufficient.

Change my heart’s troubled cry of:

“How long Lord?”

into words of trust:

“However long, O Lord.”

May I seek only to do Your will, and to unite my sufferings with Your passion.

Help me to not get lost in my own self-concerns,

but that I may find in these trials

a way to greater virtue,

a call to prayer,

and a path to trust in You alone.

Permit me not to waste my pain,

but to make of all these struggles a sacrificial offering for others, Lord.

When I am weary and I fall,

exhausted under the weight of this cross,

please give me the courage to press on as You did.

Lord Jesus, I embrace with love my cross, as a share in Your own.

By Your grace, may I carry it all the way to the vision of Your glory.

I abandon myself totally to Your will.

Christ Jesus, I trust in You.

Amen.