Thoughts Along the Way - Meditations on the Stations of the Cross

Thoughts Along the Way

Meditations on the Stations of the Cross

The First Station

JESUS CARRIES HIS CROSS

As I meditate on the First Station of the Cross, where Pilate condemns Jesus to death, the expression, "Judge, jury and executioner" comes to mind. That's what Pontius Pilate was - the judge who presided over the trial that the Sanhedrin brought to him; the jury who decided Jesus' fate; and the executioner whose hands could not be washed clean of the blood of Jesus.

I started to wonder; do I ever do the same? Do I ever judge who is worthy of my love, my friendship, my forgiveness, my compassion? Am I ever the jury who decides who should be forgiven or receive a verdict of guilt? Am I the executioner who imposes a life sentence of scorn, of silence, of imprisonment in a cell of isolation?

What about you?

The Second Station

JESUS CARRIES THE CROSS

More than any of the other stations, this one goes by varying titles: "Jesus Carries the Cross," or "The Cross is Laid on Jesus." But the title I prefer, the one that I think is most accurate is this: "Jesus ACCEPTS the Cross."

The former two could imply a passive Jesus, as the cross is imposed upon him. People often say they are ‘accepting fate’ when they are sorrowfully resigning themselves to a chain of events that they do not want to happen. And it might be tempting to think that that is what Jesus is doing. But that paints too passive a picture of what we are to understand of Jesus here: true acceptance does not need to be about resignation or defeatism, nor about passive reception. Jesus is not bowing his head in passive defeat: he can truly accept the cross because he knows what it means, that it is the beginning of something. The beginning of the end? No! The necessary beginning of redemption, salvation, resurrection, eternal life!

Maybe from now on this Station should be called, "Jesus EMBRACES His Cross." To embrace is to caress with love. Isn't that what Jesus is doing? Embracing the cross out of love for US?

The Third Station

JESUS FALLS THE FIRST TIME

I walk with a cane most of the time now. I've become very unsteady on my feet and I fear falling. Two years ago, I fell outside my apartment, and it was a sad and unwelcomed reality check that suddenly I had become the woman in the television commercial who says, "I've fallen and I can't get up!"

Children fall, and it's so easy for them to pick themselves up again. The older you get, the weaker you become, and the more you fall, the more difficult it becomes to get back up. Maybe the same thing can be said about sin. The more we fall into sin, the more difficult it sometimes is to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again (as the old song says). Sometimes, like a physical fall, it's so much easier to just lie there and not to make the effort to upright ourselves, to stand on our two feet again, to take a step, and to move on.

It took Jesus a lot of strength, a lot of willpower, resolve, perseverance and grit to pick himself up from beneath the cross he was carrying, to steady himself, and to continue his journey to the cross. But it wasn't just to the cross he was walking ... but to the tomb ... and to resurrection.

As I reflect on this station, I realized the same could be said about me, if I, like Jesus, am determined to pick myself up when I trip over my sinfulness and fall flat on my face. The question is: Will I? Will you?

The Fourth Station

JESUS MEETS HIS SORROWFUL MOTHER

I remember many years ago the mother of one of my students passed away. After class, another student came to me and said that the boy who lost his mom was a good friend and that he felt so bad for him, but he didn't know if he was going to go to the wake, that he hated wakes and he just didn't know what to say to his friend to console him. I told him that what he said or didn't say wasn't important; that the boy who lost his mother was probably so filled with grief that, in the long run, he wouldn't remember what he said. But he would remember that he was there. Sometimes presence - just being there - says it all.

That memory came to mind as I was meditating on the Fourth Station of the Cross: Jesus Meets His Sorrowful Mother. Were there any words exchanged in that moment between Jesus and Mary? Probably not. But there didn't need to be. Just being there said it all.

The Fifth Station

SIMON OF CYRENE HELPS JESUS CARRY THE CROSS

In the Passion Narratives of the gospels, we're presented with a Tale of the Two Simons - Simon Peter and Simon of Cyrene. One Simon was a follower, an Apostle, a friend, one who was with Jesus day in and day out for three years, one who was being groomed for leadership. The other Simon was a stranger, a pilgrim to Jerusalem, a passer-by. One abandons Jesus in his need. He runs away from the cross. The other runs toward Jesus and, in His need, lifts the cross from Jesus' shoulders. This Lent, and as we approach Holy Week, a question to meditate on is this: Do I avoid the cross at any cost? Do I fail to take up someone else's cross because the one I carry is heavy enough? Am I a Simon Peter or a Simon of Cyrene? Which one are you? 

Thank you to those who have been a Simon of Cyrene for me and have helped me bear the burdens I carry.

The Sixth Station

VERONICA WIPES THE FACE OF JESUS

Each year, when I was teaching high school, I would make my students an offer. I gave them this assignment: go home and look through the gospels, and the first student who emails me the book, chapter and verse where the story of Veronica wiping the face of Jesus as He carried His cross is found will win ten dollars. The students were excited by the challenge, anxious to beat out their classmates to receive the assignment's incentive. But I never paid up. I never had to. The competition was rigged. How? Because, although the story of Veronica is known by just about every Catholic, and her image is in every Catholic church, and movies about the life of Jesus usually include her, the fact of the matter is, the story of Veronica and her selfless act of wiping Jesus face with her veil is nowhere to be found in Scripture.

The name Veronica is made up of two Latin words: "vera" (meaning true) and "icon" (meaning image). True image. Supposedly, in the Vatican, is Veronica's veil with the image of Jesus' face on it. But in reality, Veronica, herself, was the "true image" of Jesus.

As I was meditating of this Station, I wondered, could people say the same thing about me? Could they say it about you?

The Seventh Station

JESUS FALLS THE SECOND TIME

In my old age, I've developed tinnitus, a constant ringing in my ears. For me, it's not so much a ringing but a swooshing or hissing sound. It's funny ... I don't notice it so much when there are other sounds I'm listing to - conversation, music, TV, etc. But it's a very evident annoyance in silence. There's nothing I can do to drown it out. It just won't go away.

In a sense, I wonder if that's what Jesus experienced as He fell a second time on the way to the cross. Sprawled on the ground, face in the dirt, cross on his back, I wonder if all he heard was the sound of laughter, the sound of mockery, the sound of curses. Oh, how He wished once again to hear proclamations of faith, of love, of praise, of gratitude! But their absence from his ears, and probably from his memory, made the vile words of contempt, scorn, and mockery, a persistent part of the passion he endured. There was no relief. Even as He prayed, He couldn't drown them out. They just wouldn't go away.

I wonder if ever my lack of words of kindness, of support, of compassion, of understanding, of forgiveness have left others with a kind of tinnitus where all they hear within themselves is the constant din of self-recrimination, of self-hatred, of unworthiness, of shame, of blame. Has your silence ever done the same?

The Eighth Station

JESUS MEETS THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM

Have you ever experienced this? Sometimes I've noticed that there are some people who say that they've called me to see how I'm doing, but they never give me a chance to tell them. Almost immediately, the conversation becomes about them - what they've been going through, their physical or emotional pains, their heartache, their loneliness. Sometimes they ask my advice, or they'll ask for my prayers. And without requesting it, they're hoping for a listening ear, a word of hope, a word of compassion.

I wonder if that's what went on when Jesus met the women of Jerusalem on the road to Calvary. These women are not idol spectators. They are women with a purpose. Their intentions are praiseworthy, yet futile. Their grief chocked words of love, kindness, appreciation, sympathy for all that He was going through are drowned in the ocean of their tears. But He, in the midst of the pain, the overwhelming sense of betrayal and abandonment, offers compassion to them, "Do not weep for me, but for yourselves and for your children"

Today, we live in the world of social media. Sadly, I think we've regressed as a society, back to our primitive origins. We let images on our cave walls do the talking for us. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but we take it to the extreme. We communicate through pictures and emojis on our Facebook and Instagram pages and in our text messages, or limit what we want to say on X (Twitter) to 280 characters ... and words, and looks, and touches ... things that express true emotion, true compassion, true joy, true friendship, true love are lost, replaced by quickly sent images of sterile convenience. We bear the cross of time - there's never enough ... we're always rushed ... always on the go ... too busy. But Jesus wasn't. In the midst of the work of redemption and the agonizing pain he was experiencing, he took the time to offer a few words, to look deeply into the eyes of the women on the side of the road. Maybe we need to do the same.

The Ninth Station

JESUS FALLS THE THIRD TIME

All you have to do is look at me to know I'm not much of an athlete, and I never was. When I was a boy, I loved baseball and played on Little League teams. But, to tell you the truth, I wasn't very good. In my neighborhood growing up we used to play stick ball in the street. I was the kid that was the last one picked when choosing up sides. But to this day, I still love baseball and, as discouraging as it sometimes is, I never give up on my Mets.

With all the changes that have come to the game in recent years, like the pitch clock and the Automatic Balls and Strikes Challenge System (ABS), a lot of the rules haven't changed and will never change. One of them is. "Three strikes and you're out."

We have a God who hit rock bottom. Jesus fell three times, but He wasn't out. He stood up, picked up His cross, and continued along the way to the place of execution. He didn't give up. He didn't take the easy way out. He didn't say, "I've had enough." He didn't leave half done or undone the work of salvation. He was determine to see it through to the finish. He got up. And He got up again. And He got up again.

What about me? When discouragements, defeats, depression knock me down, do I get up, as painful (physically, emotionally, psychologically) as that might be, and shake it off, steady myself, and move on to the unknown ... to a place I might be hurt again ... to a place that might be worse than where I lay now ... BUT maybe also to a place of healing ... to a place of renewed life ... of new life. How about you?

Dear Jesus, as I lie on the ground, knocked down and beaten, let me look to you as my inspiration and hope. Give me the courage and strength to deal with wherever my next steps might take me.

The Tenth Station

JESUS IS STRIPPED OF HIS GARMENTS

Did you ever wonder what the greatest sin is? Jesus told us that the greatest commandment is to love God, and the second, to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. But did He ever reveal to us what the greatest sin was ... which sin was punishable by an eternity in hell?

You might be surprised to learn that He did. He said:

"I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, a stranger and you gave me no welcome, naked and you gave me no clothing, ill and in prison, and you did not care for me.’ Then they will answer and say, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or ill or in prison, and not minister to your needs?’ He will answer them, ‘Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me.’ And these will go off to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

At this Station of the Cross we remember that Jesus was stripped of his garments. But let us also remember all those who are naked because they have been stripped ... stripped of their reputation because of gossip, false allegations, or the “sins” of their past.

From the cross, Jesus said, "I thirst." Let us also remember all those who thirst for a kind word or for acceptance.

As we meditate on this Station, let us also not forget those that are hungry ... hungry for a compliment, hungry for friendship, hungry for love.

And also all those that are strangers ... the ones who are always around but we fail to pay attention to them because they’re quiet, or awkward, deemed a loser, or have a difficult time fitting in.

Nor let us forget those who are sick ... sick and tired of today being no different than the day before and the day before that, and live without hope.

And also those who are imprisoned, not so much because they are locked in, but locked out: out of our lives, out of our circle of friends because they're “different”: different interests, different personality, different economic status, different race, different religion, different ethnicity, different sexual orientation.

Lord, you were stripped, you were hungry and thirsted, you were a stranger and sick, you were a prisoner. And you still are. May we not be guilty of being blind to you because we're indifferent to the needs and hurts of others.

The Eleventh Station

JESUS IS NAILED TO THE CROSS

"O my people, what have I done to you? In what way have I offended you? Answer me."

As you probably know, those words are from the Good Friday "Reproaches." They pose a rhetorical question ... a question for which there is no answer.

There is no answer, for Jesus did nothing to deserve His fate. But we did and do. The pure and innocent one, the good and holy Son of God, the One who took on human flesh, who took on all human struggles, the one who preached a message of wisdom, of love, of mercy, the One who demonstrated His power and His compassion by restoring sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, strength to the crippled, healing to the sick, and life to the dead, endured a most torturous death when His only crime was loving us, for taking upon Himself our sins.

Here lies a great paradox: In the Garden of Eden, the fruit of a tree brought death through sin. And on a hill outside Jerusalem, the fruit of the tree of the cross brings life eternal.

Each Good Friday we sing:

"Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

Oh, sometimes it causes me to treble, tremble, tremble.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

Were you there? Was I? Maybe we weren't ... But our sins were.

The Twelfth Station

JESUS DIES ON THE CROSS

When I was in college, once a month, on a Friday evening, the school would host a film festival. A movie would be shown, followed by a speaker. Most times, the speaker would be Fr. Robert Lauder, author and film critic, who was a member of our faculty. Other times, another member of the faculty would speak. One memorable time, Margaret Hamilton, the Wicked Witch of the West, spoke after a viewing of "The Wizard of Oz." And one very unmemorable time, I spoke on a film by Ingmar Bergman, a film I never saw beforehand and didn't understand.

But of all of these "Friday Nights at the Movies," the one that has most stayed with me is the time "It's a Wonderful Life" was shown, and the speaker was legendary filmmaker Frank Capra. To see my favorite movie, and to hear from its producer/director about its inception, stories about its filming, its stars, etc., well it doesn't get much better than that!

Mr. Capra, a devout Roman Catholic, shared how George Bailey, the principal character, was a Christ figure, and gave examples from the movie to flesh that out. Mr. Capra's presentation was met with interest and enthusiasm by the students and outside guests who attended. But there was total silence and uneasiness when the filmmaker said this: "The death and resurrection of Jesus is the greatest comedy in the history of the world."

Sensing that he had lost his audience, there was a pregnant pause. And then, Capra said, "You don't understand the nature of comedy. Comedy occurs when something totally unexpected happens; something totally contrary to what the audience is anticipating; something so different than the way things usually are. The death of Jesus is the greatest comedy because Jesus pulled one over on death. He played the supreme practical joke on Satan. The anticipated ending is a tragedy ... Jesus dies. End of story? No! Because Jesus lives! He conquers death! He resurrects from the tomb!"

Each Good Friday, I shed tears for all Jesus endured in His Passion out of love for me. But just maybe, after my tears of sorrow subside, I'll have a good laugh ... because I know the real ending of the story.

The Thirteenth Station

JESUS IS TAKEN DOWN FROM THE CROSS

I've never been to the Vatican, but I have been to Flushing, NY. What does one have to do with the other? In 1964 and 1965, Michelangelo's masterpiece sculpture, the Pieta, took up residence in the Vatican Pavilion at the New York World's Fair in Flushing Meadows Park, Queens.

Loaned by Pope John XXIll, it was protected by bulletproof plexiglass and was illuminated against a dark blue background to emphasize the sculpture, creating a deeply moving, focused experience. It was viewed by over 27 million people via a moving walkway.

Other than the Unisphere sculpture which still stands in the park, and almost fainting while standing in line in the very hot summer sun, the Pieta is the only thing I remember of the World's Fair. What an impression it left on me!

The solemn, grieving, yet brave countenance of Mary on the statue is a sharp contrast to actress Olivia Hussey's portrayal of Mary as Jesus' body rests in her lap after He's taken down from the cross in the miniseries, "Jesus of Nazareth." She wails loudly in inconsolable grief, her tears, cascading from her eyes, are as great as the torrents of rain that fall from the sky.

Two different images of the same event, the same mother. And, perhaps, both are valid when we, too, rest on Mary's lap and in her arms after we have been crucified on a cross of sin, or a cross of illness, or a cross of depression, or a cross of addiction, or a cross of public opinion. She is our mother, given to the beloved disciple, and given to us by Jesus from the cross. This mother grieves for us, sheds tears for us yet remains brave and strong for us in the "deaths" we experience in our lives.

"Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother." 

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

The Fourteenth Station

JESUS IS LAID IN THE TOMB

We've all experienced a death in our lives - the death of a parent, a sibling, a spouse, a child, a friend. With their death, a little part of ourselves also dies. We've probably all experienced other "deaths" in our lives, as well - the death of a dream, a marriage, a relationship, a job, our own self-esteem, our sense of self-worth, our love for ourselves. And we find ourselves in tombs, dark places that are devoid of the light of hope.

I found myself in such a place a few years ago. I felt alone, cut off from the world and the people I loved so much. I was in a situation that I just couldn't foresee a positive resolution. No hope. No favorable outcome. No future to look forward to.

One dark night, in tears I prayed, "Dear Lord, I don't know what to do! I don't know how to make this better." And I heard a small, still voice say to me, "I know you don't. But I do. I am Wisdom, the All-knowing One." And then I cried, "I just don't know if I have the strength to go on, to endure more than I already have." And that small, still voice responded, "Bruce, you don't. But I do. I am Mighty, the All-powerful One."

And what God said to me, He says to you in whatever tomb you may find yourself. But don't just take my word for it. Take His:

"O my people, I will open your graves, and have you rise from them, and I will bring you back to your land. Then you shall know that I am the Lord. O my people! I will put my spirit in you that you may live. You shall know then that I am the Lord. I have promised it, and I will do it, says the Lord." (Ezechiel 37, 12-14)

Emmanuel - A Christmas Reflection

 

God with Us 

A Christmas Reflection

Each December, our homes and hearts are filled with festive carols joyfully proclaiming the approaching Christmas season. We sing of decking the halls, trimming the tree, and exchanging gifts with loved ones. And as followers of Christ, we find our greatest joy in songs proclaiming the First Noel, of the babe who sleeps Away in a Manger, of the Little Town of Bethlehem, of a Midnight Clear, a Silent Night, a Holy Night, of Angels We Have Heard On High, proclaiming Joy to the World. And although “O Come All Ye Faithful” has replaced “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” as an opening song at our liturgies during the Christmas Season, I have to admit, the latter is a hymn I still sing, not just during Advent, and not just at Christmas, but continually throughout the year, because it is my deepest prayer, my most profound pleading: “O Come, O Come Emmanuel … Come into my life. Be present to me. Open my eyes to see you at work in my world and in my life. Touch me, love me, heal me, show mercy to me, be gracious to me.”

Emmanuel means “God with us.” It means Christ is near to us in our struggles and accomplishments, in our happiness and pain. This is truly the “good news of great joy” that the angels proclaimed to the shepherds keeping the night watch over their flocks on the first Christmas night. Our Savior and Redeemer, the King of the Universe, came to live among us as a child, to begin a life of taking upon himself all the joys and sorrows of humanity. Having walked this earth as one of us, he understands what it is to be human. That choice to make himself known to us in so relatable a manner is the mystery of the Incarnation, the miracle we celebrate each Christmas.

Among all the titles that we use to proclaim our faith in Jesus, Emmauel is the most meaningful one for me. There are only a handful of names in scripture that define, not just who Jesus is, but how He loves. And the one used by the prophet Isaiah about 2,700 years ago to refer to the savior promised to Adam, to Abraham, and to all the Jews awaiting the redemption of Israel, the one that the angel tells Joseph that the child Mary carries will be called, is for me the greatest demonstration of this.

It is a title. A promise. A declaration about the character of God. Before Jesus touched a single leper, before He calmed a single storm, before He taught a single sermon on a hillside, the message had already been revealed: God is not distant. God is not a watching spectator. God is not removed from human experience. God is with us. God is not God above us. Not God beyond us. Not God observing us. He is God with us. In homes. In hospitals. At weddings. At funerals. In laughter. In brokenness. In moments of questioning. In ordinary days that suddenly turn sacred. And God is with us, perfectly and fully with us, in Jesus.

Emmanuel is not confined to Christmas. He is not trapped in nativity scenes. He is not chained to ancient stories. He is here. Now. Still. He doesn’t always part the sea. He doesn’t always calm the storm. He doesn’t always stop the tragedy. But He never, ever, leaves us alone in it. He comes in word, in sacrament, in prayer, and when two or three are gathered in his name. He comes in “God Winks,” those coincidences that really aren’t coincidences. He comes as presence. He comes as comfort. He comes as promises whispered by the Spirit. He comes as the quiet strength to take another step, as promptings that enter our minds with unmistakable clarity, as peace that settles in at the very moment fear threatens to overwhelm, in Scripture verses that feel tailor-made for our need, in dreams that we just know have deeper meaning than mere sleep-induced memories or fantasies. He comes as the reminder that this life is not the whole story.

Emmanuel – God with us. It’s a truth that God does not want us to forget. It’s the first truth that began Matthew’s gospel with the angel’s annunciation to Joseph. It’s the final truth that ends his gospel - Jesus’ final words to his Apostles, and to us: “I will be with you always, until the end of the age” (Mt 28:20).

But there is another way in which Christ is Emmanuel; another way he is “God with us.” It’s a way that is often forgotten, overlooked, dismissed, minimized, or at least unappreciated. At least, until very recently, it was by me. And that reality is that Christ is present in his Church, the People of God. When we think of “Church,” often we think of the institution, the building, the hierarchy of the pope, the bishops, the priests, religious brothers and sisters, of religious practices, of doctrine, of laws and regulations. And we forget the great truth that St. Paul spoke of over and over again in his Letters – in 1 Corinthians, in Ephesians, in Colossians, in Romans – that the Church is the mystical Body of Christ, the physical manifestation of Christ in the world today.

Some realities are heard, are taught, are learned, and then stored away somewhere in our mind. And that’s where they remain. But sometimes, we are blessed that what was merely theological jargon becomes an experienced reality, felt, - when love fills in the gaps that doctrine cannot always reach.

Existentialist philosopher, Jean-Paul Satre, wrote in his play No Exit that “Hell is other people.” But I have found the truth to be just the opposite … that CHRIST is other people – when the gospel is proclaimed, not by words, but by action, by attitudes of concern, kindness, generosity, compassion, inclusion, mercy, selflessness, justice, self-sacrifice, sincerity, and prayer that is other centered.

Three or four years ago, I started a new Christmas tradition. On Christmas Eve, I sit in front of my Nativity and speak to Baby Jesus. Out loud. Sometimes I’ll read to him something I’ve written. Sometimes, I actually sing to him. I’ll thank him for his blessings, for answered prayers, and for the people he has put in my life. But the majority of my time with him is spent thanking him for being Emmanuel and recounting all the times I was keenly aware of his presence in my life since the last Christmas. Prayer, as you know is conversation, a dialogue. We talk, but we also listen. So, often, I’ll keep a pen and pad of paper nearby in case there’s something he inspires me to write down, something he wants me to know and remember. These are the words he put into my mind and heart this year:

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the nod from the passerby who acknowledges my presence when it seems that all others have forgotten me.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the mind and soul of the one that remembers to offer a prayer for me.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the eyes of a friend which tears up at my sorrows and sees goodness in me even when I can't.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the shoulders that carry me through rough times when my own legs can't bear the weight of all that I carry.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the arms of acceptance that embrace me, despite my wretchedness.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the gentle voice of reassurance that God loves me ... and that they do too.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the infectious smile whose warmth and brilliance melts the frigid insensitivity of the world.

Emmanuel, God with us ... 

In the heart whose every beat pulsates overwhelming compassion, mercy, and generosity.

Emmanuel, God with us.

St. Teresa of Avila once wrote,

Christ has no body now, but yours.

No hands, no feet on earth but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which

Christ looks compassion into the world.

Yours are the feet through which

Christ walks to do good.

Yours are the hands through which

Christ blesses the world.

Thank you to all of you who have been the hands, the feet, the eyes, the very heart of Christ to me this year.

Emmanuel … God with us.
Emmanuel … God with me.

A Rose Tossed from Heaven - A Centennial Tribute to My Mom

A Rose Tossed from Heaven

 A Centennial Tribute to My Mom

Though the gift be small and simple,

if the wish is wide,

Just the simple gift of giving

makes you warm inside.

Though the thought is ever fleeting,

if a thought at all,

Remember all the mighty big things

started out as small.

So if you've a gift worth giving

let it be your smile.

Let it be a kindly word

that makes the stranger stop awhile.

Let it be a simple gift then

if the wish is wide.

Just the simple gift of giving

makes you warm inside.

When I heard those lyrics to the song, "Simple Gifts" a while ago, I immediately thought of my Mom.

Today would be my Mom's 100th birthday. Born in 1925 in the Gerritsen Beach section of Brooklyn, there was a bit of controversy between her parents on what her name would be. Her father wanted her to be called "Mildred," but her mother wanted her to be named "Theresa" after St. Theresa of Lisieux, who was canonized earlier that year. A compromise was reached - she would be called Mildred by her family, but to the rest of the world, she would be Theresa (or Terry). This was confusing to my Dad when he first met my Mom's family. Later that night he asked her, "Who's this Mildred they keep talking about?"

Life wasn’t easy for her and her family. Her father passed away when she was 5 years old, leaving her mother to raise seven children during the Great Depression. Her father's family, wealthy German Protestants, did not approve of their son marrying a poor French Catholic, and shunned them. An onion sandwich for dinner was sometimes a luxury, and there were years when the family couldn’t even afford a Christmas tree. My Mom fondly recalled the story that one year, she and her family were invited to spend Christmas with her Aunt Mary. Her two brothers disappeared from Christmas dinner early and went to a lot and helped themselves to an unsold Christmas tree to surprise the family when they got home.

Although she possessed great wisdom, my Mom never graduated high school, choosing to leave school and go to work to help support her family. One of those jobs was at Nabisco, where she met a returning WWII GI. They fell in love and were married in 1947. They had three sons, Bob, Al, and, ummm, some other kid whose name escapes me.

I can’t relate to you the great accomplishments of my Mom because there are none. To the world - a simple woman, a simple housewife, a simple mother, a simple friend, a simple parishioner of her parish church. But what distinguishes her and where her true greatness lies is in the mastery of her “simple gifts” - generosity to a fault, undeterred cheerfulness, tireless dedication to her family, a heart that brimmed over with love, kindness, thoughtfulness, sensitivity, and most of all, faith.

It's the “simple gifts” - making sure that the garage door was open so my father didn’t have to get out of the car to open it after a long day’s work, made longer by a Long Island rush hour commute. In later years, having fresh water in my Dad’s denture cup with an Efferdent tablet beside it so he wouldn’t have to do it for himself. Christmas shopping to the point of exhaustion. Meticulously cleaning the house for an impending visit by my brothers and their families at Thanksgiving. Getting excited about the Mets, not that she had any interest in baseball, but only because I did. Tears shed in sadness; tears shed in happiness because of the depth of her empathy. The smile. The hello. The unending stream of Hallmark cards she would send for any occasion or no occasion at all, simply because someone had found his or her way into her heart. Simple Gifts.

And me, I was the beneficiary of so many of those “simple gifts.” On this, her birthday, my mind is flooded with so many beautiful memories – the two of us laughing so hard and so long over something silly that the tears would roll down our cheeks. The knock on the living room window every year as I was hanging Christmas lights outside to tell me to come in and get warm, and the ham and Swiss cheese sandwich and cup of tea that would be waiting for me when I came inside. Putting the gifts around the Christmas tree together after Midnight Mass and then sharing a cup of hot chocolate and some fresh baked Toll House cookies before we said goodnight, And each and every night, the “good night” kiss and the “I love you” before retiring, and, in the last few years of her life, the warm, tight hug that would follow – so warm and tight that I can still feel it to this day. But most of all, the sharing of faith, because my Mom’s true greatness lies in her deep faith and devotion to our Lord and His Mother. Going to Mass together. Praying together. Just talking about our faith and religion together. “Oh woman, great is your faith!” Simple gifts.

I mentioned above that my Mom was named for St. Theresa of Lisieux, and she had a lifelong devotion to her. And, I believe, that St. Theresa had a devotedness to her for the 72 years of her life, as well.

St. Theresa desired to become great in the eyes of God but realized that she was not destined to be someone who would perform great deeds. St. Theresa said that what matters in life is “not great deeds, but great love.” And so, she aspired to heaven by doing the little things of daily routine all for the honor and glory of God. To do ordinary things with great love - that is exactly how Mom lived her life. Not great deeds, but through her love, all things became great. St. Therese said that, after she died, she would send a shower of roses from heaven. My Mom was one of the roses tossed from heaven that brought so much beauty, grace, joy, and love to me, to my family, and to every person who ever knew her. 

Funny, people remember the small things. It touches me when I, to this day, meet a parishioner from St. Therese, and they say to me, “You know, I still remember your Mom  ...”

You would think after all this time it would be easier. You would think after all these years I would miss her less. But it doesn't. And I don't.

When you're young you can't wait to be independent . . . To show the world you don't need anyone . . . That you can make it on your own. But you're not. And you do. And you can't.

My generation didn't have mobile phones to take snapshots of every moment of life. But snapshots fade or get deleted. I have MURALS . . . CANVASES . . . WORKS OF ART, in my mind and in my heart, that are there forever. Unfading. Permanent.

I wish I could show them all to you! I wish you could see all the joy, some of the pain, that tells me, to this day, that I was loved. Totally. Unreservedly. Unconditionally.

You would think after all this time it would be easier. You would think after all these years I would miss her less. But it doesn't. And I don't. And although the male ego is loath to admit it, an adult male is nothing but a graying, balding boy - A boy who still misses, loves, needs his Mom.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Touched By an Angel

Touched By an Angel

A Reflection on the Feast of the Guardian Angels

What's your earliest memory and how old were you when the event you remember occurred? Is the memory happy or sad? Who is part of that memory? And why do you think that memory has stayed with you all these years?

My family was always amazed at my ability to recall things long forgotten by them. In conversations, I would mention something, and in a tone of awe, they would ask, "How do you remember that???"

Most of my earliest memories are happy ones which, I guess, attests to the happy childhood I enjoyed. And yes, there are the remembrances of things from later on in life that share space with the joys that I've experienced that aren't as blissful and still haunt me - of hurts and disappointments, the emotional scars that linger of things that happened, words that were spoken, of my overly sensitive heart being wounded, of my fragile self-image taking a hit, memories of regrets - opportunities not taken and choices made that have made me wish I could turn back the clock, re-live and fix.

I don't know if the following is my first memory, but it is among the earliest. It goes back to when I was around four years old, and if you're not already convinced that I'm crazy, this might do the trick.

In my early childhood, I can recall frequently being in the presence of one who was pure light, and whereas I say this memory is of when I was four years of age, in reality, this being of light had always been present with me. I can't really describe what it looked like, the facial features or form, but only that it was pure light. It would talk to me, play with me, encourage me, correct me. And being in its presence always brought me incredible joy and an overwhelming sense of being loved.

But then, a day came when it knelt beside me, held me close, and told me that I would no longer be able to see him, but to always remember that he loved me and wanted me to always be a good boy. And then ... he vanished, disappeared, was gone, and I never saw him again. I remember looking for him, searching rooms and closets and hiding places, but he wasn't there. As hard and as often as I tried, I couldn't find him. And the little boy that I was felt something he never felt before - profound loss.

Over the many years of my life, I've gone back to that memory and have tried to make sense of it. My practical self has tried to convince me that all children have imaginary friends, and that's all that this memory really recalls - a playmate of my own creation. But an imaginary friend is always someone like the child himself, and is often the scapegoat, the one the child blames for his own naughtiness. But this being, was not like me, not of a child's form, shape, or appearance. And rather than being the one that got me into trouble, he was the one who gently corrected me when I did.

For a time, I considered that what I experienced was a ghost, one that had either attached itself to my house or to me. But if this were so, whose ghost was it? Don't ghosts haunt? Aren’t they supposed to be frightening? And why was it seen only by me and not by the rest of my family?

Why did the truth of my experience evade me for so long? Why did it take so long for faith and experience to align? I don't recall what caused the grace-filled revelation, but sometime in my twenties, I came to the realization that what I had experienced was no made-up playmate and was no ghost. What I had experienced was my Guardian Angel. I am still convinced of it ... for me, there is no other explanation. And that is why this memory has remained so vivid and so cherished even after over sixty years. And that is why, to this day, this memory fills me with peace and joy.

Fantasy? Delusion? Wishful thinking? Nope. Why shouldn't it be so? Belief in angels is now, and has been since the beginning of the Church, one of our beliefs. The Catechism of the Catholic Church says, "Beside each believer stands an angel as protector and shepherd leading him to life" (#203). The scriptures have numerous accounts of angels. In Psalm 91: 11-12 we hear "For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone." Again, in Exodus 23:20 we read "See, I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared." In the New Testament, the affirmation of the existence of angels continues in Matthew 18:10 "Beware that you don't look down on any of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels are always in the presence of my Heavenly Father." In Hebrews 1:14 we hear "Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?" Hebrews 13:2 adds "Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have, shown hospitality to angels without knowing it." The Bible is rich in its accounts of angels visiting the likes Abraham, Hagar, Lot, Gideon, Samson's parents, Zechariah, Mary, Joseph, the shepherds in Bethlehem, Peter, Paul, Philip, and Cornelius. And even in the desert at the beginning of his ministry, and in the Garden of Gethsemane the night before he died, an angel appeared to Jesus himself.

I know that I need my Guardian angel now, more than ever, because there is an invisible world of principalities and powers, demonic realities, that are after our souls. And God, in His goodness, has given each one of us a companion who will guard and protect us from the seemingly increasing and cunning assaults of satan. I need my Guardian Angel to watch over me when I sleep; to console me when I’m sad; to lift me up when I fall; to avert the dangers that threaten me; to prepare me for the future; to withdraw me from evil and excite me to good.

Have I experienced my Guardian Angel again since my early childhood? Not in the way and the consistency that I did then. But angels can take on human form, and I do believe that at times when I really needed him, my angel appeared to me as a stranger out of the blue, to lift my spirits, to encourage me, to affirm me. And it's always only after the fact that I realize that, once again, heaven has touched earth, and that God loves me so much that, in my need, He has sent my angel to reveal himself to me. But those stories are for another time.

And what about you? If you dust off memory's cobwebs, is there something mysterious, unnatural, out of the ordinary, that you've never dared to believe is anything more than a dream, a fantasy, something too good to be true? Give it some more thought. Pray about it. Just maybe, you too, have been touched by an angel.

O Angel of God, my guardian dear, 

to whom God's love commits me here. 

Ever this day be at my side, 

to light, to guard, to rule, and guide. 

Amen.

Corpus Christi Sunday

The Lady in Black

A Memory for Corpus Christi Sunday

It's funny how, as you get older, a memory can surface in your mind that you haven't thought about in years, or maybe even, one that you never thought of again since the incident occurred. I had such a memory today.

I grew up in East Meadow, NY and attended St. Raphael Church, and was a student at St. Raphael School. I lived just short of a mile from the school, and so, didn't have the luxury of a bus transporting me to and from school every day. In sunshine, in rain, in snow, in warm weather or in cold, I, along with my friends Ricky and Glenn, walked.

On one extremely cold winter morning when I was ten years old, as Ricky, Glen and I began our daily hike, we were greeted by someone we had never seen before. She was a woman, perhaps in her sixties, bundled up in a long black coat, sporting a black ski mask that covered her entire head and neck, save for an opening that revealed her face. As she walked, the beads of her rosary passed, one by one, through her thumb and index finger, kept warm from winter's bite by the black woolen gloves she was wearing.

She walked briskly, out pacing us. But as she passed, she greeted us with a cheery benediction and ecstatically proclaimed to us the awesome beauty of God's creation, evident even in the bitter cold and snow.

When I got home that afternoon, and my Mom asked me her usual after-school question of how my day had been, I told her all the details about my encounter with the woman in black that morning.

"Oh," she said. " That was Mrs. Pritchard. She was just released from a psychiatric hospital. She thinks she's a nun. Sometimes she hides in the church before they lock it up and spends all night there."

I never spoke to Mrs. Pritchard again; never again saw the black shadow of her appearance rush past me, dressed in her makeshift habit, rosary in hand, on her way to church. For about a month or so, I would see her attending daily mass. But then, she disappeared, gone from church, gone from the neighborhood. One day, I asked my mom where was she, what had happened to her? She told me that Mrs. Pritchard had been committed again to the hospital, that, once again, she had been caught staying all night in church.

I recall Mrs. Pritchard today, on this Corpus Christi Sunday. And I wonder, was she really crazy for recognizing the true presence of Christ in the Eucharist to the extent that she wanted to spend all night with Him? Or are we the crazy ones for not?

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph: Introduction

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

Introduction

I suppose, to some, the title of this series of reflections, Praying the "Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph,” must seem confusing, maybe even odd. How can St. Joseph be spoken about in the same breath as the Stations of the Cross when there is nothing, neither in Sacred Scripture nor in the tradition of the Church, that would lead us to believe that St. Joseph was a witness to the events of Jesus’ passion and crucifixion? Joseph is not mentioned, even by reference, in the Passion Narratives of any of the four Gospels, nor does he even seem to be a presence at all in the last three years of our Lord’s life when He engaged in His public ministry of teaching and healing. Since Joseph is only an active presence in the Infancy Narratives and the one, seemingly out-of-place event when he and Mary took Jesus, at age twelve, to Jerusalem for the Passover celebration, it has long been assumed that he must have died sometime prior to Jesus shuttering the carpenter shop in Nazareth and emerging from relative obscurity to engage in His public ministry. Even more so, Joseph is silent in words (although “noisy” in deeds) in the Gospels. There is not one of his words recorded. How then can Joseph “accompany” us on our praying of the stations, when he didn’t accompany Jesus? And how can we “pray” with him when we have none of his words?

But, in a sense, I believe St. Joseph did accompany our Lord from condemnation to entombment. I know, beyond a doubt, that my parents are with me still, even though they are deceased. They make their presence known to me in many ways - sometimes subtly and sometimes dramatically - especially at times when I need them most. During the times when I have suffered in body or in mind or in spirit, I felt their presence and guidance; I “heard” their words of encouragement, wisdom and consolation. I knew that, even in death, they had not abandoned me and their love for me was just as strong, perhaps even stronger, as it was when they were with me in time and space. “For us, life has not ended, but merely changed.” Would Jesus have not experienced the same thing when He needed Joseph the most?

Furthermore, it seems to me, that a role Joseph played in the Infancy Narratives was to direct others to the babe lying in the manger. When the shepherds arrived at the stable in Bethlehem, would it not have been St. Joseph who greeted them and pointed toward Jesus? Upon the arrival of the Magi, would it not have been he who personally escorted them to his son? And so, is it a stretch of the imagination that St. Joseph does the same thing for us when we arrive on the scene to encounter our Lord, even to the cross?

As we pray the Stations of the Cross, Joseph is as he was in Scripture – silent. And that’s okay – because we are not. And so, as we pray the Stations of the Cross, our words are united to his heart . . . our prayers become his intercession for us.

So, come now . . . let us pray the Stations of the Cross, asking Joseph to accompany us, to lead us, not only to the cross, but to a deeper appreciation and a more profound love for Jesus. And as our Spiritual Father, may he guide, counsel, and strengthen us as we pick up our own crosses daily.

 

Praying The Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph - The First Station

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

The First Station - Jesus is Condemned

He came to his native place and taught the people in their synagogue. “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” He said, “because he has anointed me to bring glad tidings to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and to proclaim a year acceptable to the Lord . . . “Today this scripture passage is fulfilled in your hearing.” And they took offense at him.

Is this not the son of Joseph?

The high priest said to him, “I order you to tell us under oath before the living God whether you are the Messiah, the Son of God.” Jesus said to him in reply, “You have said so. But I tell you: From now on you will see ‘the Son of Man seated at the right hand of the Power’ and ‘coming on the clouds of heaven.’” Then the high priest tore his robes and said, “He has blasphemed! What further need have we of witnesses? You have now heard the blasphemy; what is your opinion?” They said in reply, “He deserves to die!”

But is this not the son of Joseph?

Pilate asked him, “Are you the king of the Jews?” He said to him in reply, “You say I am a king. For this I was born and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Pilate said to him, “What is truth?” In the end, Pilate had him handed over to them to be crucified,

But is this not the son of Joseph?

Yes, he is the carpenter’s son, the son of Joseph. But He is so much more: Son of God ... Messiah ...  King of the Jews. Rejected and condemned for who He is. Rejected and condemned for speaking the truth. But it is the truth that has set us free.

Let us pray ... St. Joseph, your son, Jesus, was condemned and crucified by the authorities for speaking the truth ... the truth about them and the truth about Him. The truth about love and the truth about mercy. The truth about freedom and the truth about inner peace. The truth about accepting others and the truth about how cherished we are in the eyes of God. The truth about who and what is righteous in the eyes of God, and the truth that we need to turn away from sin and repent. O righteous Joseph, teach me to always see Jesus as the way, the truth and the life.

St. Joseph, foster father of the Son of God, pray for us.

Praying The Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph - The Second Station

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

The Second Station - Jesus Accepts the Cross

Hands ... a child’s hands that grew to become the strong hands of an adult ... shape, mold, caress the wood in his father’s carpenter shop. Raw wood – cut, sawed, sanded, transformed, by His hands, to become a table, a chair, a chest, a house – things of the living.

Shoulders ... a carpenter’s shoulders, strong, muscular, broad ... accept the rough, course, splintery beam. Shoulders ... lately scourged, stinging with pain from open, bloody wounds. A wooden beam ... imposed, yet somehow also accepted – a thing of death.

Yet, it is not just a beam of wood he carries in those hands and on those shoulders. But the world ... all of us, and all of our sins.

The hands, the shoulders, of the carpenter’s son ... full of strength, power, glory, grace, and redemption.

Let us pray .... Oh St. Joseph, you used the talents of your craft for good. Through the work of your hands, you brought joy into the lives of so many by making for them the things they wanted, the things they needed. It saddens and baffles me that others, who were given the same God given talents, used them, not to be co-creators with Him and bring joy and beauty to the world, but rather to inflect pain and death to Jesus. St. Joseph, help me to see my talents, my intellect, my personality, my wit, for what they are, gifts to be shared to give glory to God and benefit to all.

St. Joseph, model of artisans, pray for us.

Praying The Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph - The Third Station

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

 

The Third Station - Jesus Falls the First Time

God said to the prophet Jeremiah: "It is I who by my great power and my outstretched arm have made the earth, with the men and the animals that are on the earth, and I give it to whomever it seems right to me."

But now, the Creator falls to the very earth He created. A misstep ... His knees buckle ... He stumbles .... His body crashes to the ground.

The boy fell taking his first steps. Perhaps a skinned knee. Perhaps a tear. But always with the resolve to pick himself up and go on. And now the man, taking his last steps, sprawls to the ground. The well-trod dirt of the road touches his lips ... the scent of animal dung fills his nose ... the angry, hateful words of mockery, ridicule, and cursing drown out the hosannas from his ears. Yet the man, like the boy, is filled with resolve and picks himself up and goes on.

How can this be? God answers us through the words of His prophet, Isaiah: "Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is God from of old, creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary, and his knowledge is beyond scrutiny."

Let us pray ... St. Joseph, I stumble and fall. I sin. I like to think how strong I am, yet I am often so weak, and I stumble under the weight of the evil I choose. And after I stumble and fall, it is often difficult for me to muster the strength to stand and admit I was wrong and begin walking along a new path - the way of goodness, grace, purity, and righteousness. I also like to make excuses for myself, shrugging my shoulders, justifying and minimalizing what I do by saying, “Hey, I’m only human!” Dear Joseph, you whom Scripture calls “righteous,” assist me to strive to always be the person God created me to be - good and in His image.

St. Joseph, Most Prudent, pray for us.

Praying The Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph - The Fourth Station

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

 

The Fourth Station - Jesus Meets His Mother

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes the eyes say it all. And there, on that road, as son meets mother, eyes speak for a pierced heart. Eyes speak for a broken body.

He tried to form words. But his pain and his exhaustion, his parched lips and his tongue that clung to the roof of his mouth muted the words. Her tear-filled eyes squinted and looked deeply, lovingly into his. “Don’t, my son,” they said. “I know.”

She recalled the words He spoke to her when she and Joseph searched everywhere to find their twelve-year-old son, only to discover Him among the elders in the Temple. “Why were you searching for me,” he asked. “Did you not know I must be about my Father's business?” And today, carrying the cross towards his tragic destination, He is about His Father’s business. It is the business of complete, unearned, underserved, unconditional love. It is about having no greater love than to lay down His life for those who are beloved. It is about fulfilling a promise first made in the Garden of Eden and reiterated, time and time again by the prophets to make right the sin of Adam. It is about redemption. It is about eternal life.

Sometimes there are no words. How do you really say, “I love you” and convey the depth, intensity and sincerity of that love through words. Words betray us in the moments we most could use them, and the eyes say it all. Jesus and Mary’s eyes met, and the “I love you” need not be spoken. They knew.

As the soldier, roughly and contemptuously separated mother from son and forced Jesus to continue the slow, pain-filled journey to the site of His crucifixion, a word finally came to Mary’s lips. It was the same word she spoke to the angel in accepting God’s will to become the mother of the Son of God. Did she whisper it to herself, or did she scream it out for her son to hear? “FIAT!!!” “Let it be!”

Let us pray ... St. Joseph, when you and Mary brought Jesus to be presented in the Temple when He was an infant, Simeon prophesied that a sword would pierce Mary so that the thoughts of many hearts would be revealed. But a sword pierced your heart, too, having already died, you could not protect Jesus from the torturous pain He endured in His passion, nor the piercing sorrow in Mary’s heart as she witnessed the cruelty inflected upon Him. O Sacred Heart of Jesus, O Immaculate Heart of Mary, O most Chaste Heart of Joseph, protect me from all danger, from all that would injure my body and my soul, my heart and my spirit. Unite my breaking heart to yours.

St. Joseph, Husband of Mary and Protector of Virgins, pray for us.

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph - The Fifth Station

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

The Fifth Station - Simon of Cyrene Helps Jesus Carry the Cross 

He came from Cyrene, a town in northern Africa. With his two sons, Alexander and Rufus, he made his way from the country fields that fateful Friday morning, through the city gates, and into the heart of Jerusalem. He jostled through the narrow, crowded streets and the jeering mob, seeking a safe place for him and his sons to witnesses the spectacle of a condemned criminal shouldering the burden of that which would be the means of His execution - the cross on which he would hang. “His name is Jesus,” someone said in a whisper.

Something drew Simon to that particular place, something more than two sons of an age, when a gory crucifixion was a sight not to be missed. But what was it that drew him into being an unwitting participant in the drama he was witnessing? Was it his height and physique? Was it, being from Cyrene, his darker skin color? Did Jesus stumble beneath the weight of the wood right in front of him? Did he instinctively, stretch out his arm to help or mutter a word of protest against the violent way Caesar’s centurions were keeping the Peace of Rome? Or was he simply at the wrong place at the right time? Whatever the reason, soon the wood marked a groove on Simon’s shoulder as he was compelled to share the weight of the cross.

“You! Take the cross!” commanded the centurion. And Simon stepped out of the crowd, and out of anonymity, and balanced the timber against his shoulder. Were there words exchanged between Jesus and Simon, or perhaps just a look and a nod? But whatever transpired between them, the experience was enough to change Simon’s life forever. He became the first, in a line of millions, who have heeded Jesus’ invitation, “If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

Let us pray ... O St. Joseph, bless the Simon of Cyrenes in my life – those who lift the cross from my back through a helping hand, a kind word, a smile, or simply by their presence. And help me, also, to be someone who takes on the burdens of others when they are crushed by the weight of the world with all its disappointments, sorrows, struggles and pain, even when it’s not convenient, even when it’s not really what I want to do, even when taking up their cross will make heavier my own. Help me to be there, to support and to firm the steps of others, because it is not they who are asking, but your Son.

St. Joseph, Most Obedient, pray for us.

 

Praying The Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph - The Sixth Station

Praying the Stations of the Cross with St. Joseph

 

The Sixth Station - Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus

There was something about that face. Rugged and strong ... the face of a carpenter that had known the fatigue of a hard day’s work and was not unaccustomed to struggles, and worries, and disappointments  ... yet it also reflected the serenity of one who appreciated the beauty of His Father’s creation - the sun glistening on the Sea of Galilee, the scent of the wildflowers growing in the fields, and the patches of Aleppo pine trees that grew in the forests. It was a gentle face, one that beckoned both the righteous and the sinner to come and see, to hear and listen, to discover and be transformed. His was a gentle face, that reassured woman and children, the outcast and the poor, the sick and the brokenhearted, that He had come for them too, and that they had a place in His kingdom. There were laugh lines on His face which revealed that He laughed heartily and often, but there were also furrows on his brow which were windows to an inner sadness, a depth of thought, and a seriousness in His nature. And those eyes! Those eyes that were beacons of his love, his compassion, and his mercy ... but above all, the depth of his soul.

All of this was the imprint that was captured on the cloth that the woman named Veronica pressed against Jesus’ face as she bravely, compassionately, broke from the crowd and pushed her way to Him amidst insults, shouts, curses and threats. But there was more, so much more, that the streams of blood, sweat and spit which dripped copiously from the condemned man’s face could not hide, that also became part of that imprint. Yes, pain and exhaustion, but more than that ... courage - beyond that which is humanly possible; determination – a resolve to see this through to the end; a serenity that comes from the knowledge that, through it all, he has been true to Himself and true to the will of His Father; a sense of purpose - that all of this is not in vain, and He is accomplishing everything that He was born to fulfill, all that had been promised to humankind since Man first ate of the fruit of sin; and holiness - “For it was indeed fitting that we should have such a high priest, holy, innocent, unstained, separate from sinners, and exalted above the heavens.” (Hebrews 7:26).

All of that was captured on the cloth of the woman named Veronica, let we ever forget.

Let us pray ... St. Joseph, in ancient Israel, people gave great thought to the name they gave to a child. Names were often translatable, and so, the name spoke of a virtue or quality they wished their child to possess, or something they hoped the child would accomplish. In recalling the passion of your son, we remember the brave and compassionate woman who pushed through the crowd to offer a simple act of kindness to Jesus by wiping his dirty, bloody, sweat-filled face. Her name, Veronica, means “true image” - a fitting name, not so much because of the imprint of His face left on her veil, but because. in her compassion, she, herself, became the “true image” of Jesus. St. Joseph, assist me to so reflect your son to others - by the warmth of my smile, the compassion and love in my eyes, and the kindness of my actions - that I, too, might be the “true image” of Jesus, so that when they see me, they see Him.

St. Joseph, Most Faithful, pray for us.