Stigmata - A Lenten Reflection

STIGMATA

A Lenten Reflection

 

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.

Nunc Dimittis

 

Nunc Dimittis

A Reflection on the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord

“Now, Master, you may let your servant go

in peace, according to your word,

for my eyes have seen your salvation,

which you prepared in sight of all the peoples,

a light for revelation to the Gentiles,

and glory for your people Israel.” (Luke 2: 29-32)

Indeed, Master, of your salvation, my eyes have seen, my ears have heard, my soul has felt, and my mouth has tasted.

Yes, I have seen your salvation. I have seen it in the innocence and hope of the young, and in the elderly, whose eyes are beacons of grace. I saw it in the Mother whose own deep and unshakable faith shaped mine and in the example of the Father I regret I did not imitate better. I discovered you in the eye contact, the nod, the smile, the embrace of the few, when the many turned away, hid their glance, shook their head and would not touch the leprous sinner that I became. I have seen you in the hand outstretched to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to cloth the naked; the hand that shakes the hand of the lonely and the stranger; the arms outstretched that embrace the unloved and the sinner, those imprisoned by walls of exclusions, and those who are sick and tired of life as they know it. And I have seen you in those who suffer, those in need, for they are you. I have seen your salvation each time the bread was broken and the cup blessed; in the faces of the two or three, and in the two or three hundred, who have gathered in your name; in the deep faith of those who I see kneeling, sitting, standing, praying, praising, giving and receiving, gathered around your altar - those who have given to me as I feebly attempted to give to them. I have seen it in your subtle and quiet presence when peace and joy and contentment and fullness took away my emptiness, loneliness, self-loathing and fear. And it has widened my eyes and filled them with wonder and awe in times when you revealed your presence to me in the extraordinary, the bold, the miraculous.

Yes, Master, and I have heard your salvation. I have heard your word, the Word of Wisdom and of Truth proclaimed in pulpits, in classrooms, living rooms, during Sunday worship and in everyday conversation. Words that taught me. Words that inspired me. Words that consoled me. Words that challenged me. Words that filled me with peace but Words that also conflicted me. Words which caused me to realize the depth of my guilt, but Words that also welled up deep sorrow, regret and contrition within me. Words of absolution declaring my sin, not only forgiven, but forgotten. Words which have allowed me to experience your mercy, and Words that prompted me to be merciful. Rather than words of bitterness or condemnation, I receive your Words of encouragement that strengthen me whenever I fall to sin. Words of love when I have not deserved it, and Words of chastisement when I did. Words of compassion and hope when that was lacking in the words of others. Words of consolation in my struggles, and Words which offered encouragement amidst the skepticism of others and my own self-doubt. Your Voice - mighty yet gentle, understanding yet challenging. I heard it when it beckoned me to come follow you, and then invited me to wash feet in your name; your Voice that bids me to take up my cross daily - weighing heavily, digging deeply, into my shoulders and back; your Voice which commands me to love as you love, to forgive as you forgive, to serve as you serve. I have heard you in quiet moments of prayer, but also amidst the cacophony of anger, bitterness, division, accusation, violence, hatred, war - your Voice calling out for love and understanding, for compassion, and inclusion, for peace and justice. I have heard your Voice disguised in the words of praise, support, love, comfort in the angels you sent to be my companions on this earthly journey. You have put your words into the mouth of others to be prophets to speak your inspirations, your wisdom, your consolation, your encouragement, your will.

Yes, I have felt your salvation, Master. I have felt your warmth in the summer sun upon my face. Felt your gentleness in an evening breeze. Felt your power in wind and storm. I have experience you in ways which defy language, in ways that words cannot do justice to your overwhelming embrace of peace and love, of inexplicable joy and exhilaration, both in moments of solitude and moments of community. You are, indeed, a God of surprises, whose presence comes when least expected and whose miraculous intervention has broken into my world and into my life. You are Emmanuel, not just "God with us," but God with ME. I have felt your strength in my weakness, your mercy in my guilt, your unconditional love in my wretchedness, your peace in my darkest moments, your presence when everyone else abandoned me, your confidence in me in moments of self-doubt. You have sent your angel to be my companion, guardian and guide on the winding, uneven, torturous roads I have trod. Your saints have sat with me in my solitude to comfort and inspire me. You have sent Simon of Cyrenes to help me carry the weight of the crosses I have born, and good friends too, who have carried me to the housetop, thrown off the roofing planks, and lowered me down before you so that I may experience your forgiveness and your healing. How do I find the words to sing of the gift of your divine presence which has shattered my darkness, my fear and anxiety, my grief and loneliness, my physical, spiritual, emotional, psychological pain? How does one express what it is like to be absorbed in inexplicable mystery, surrounded by pure light and loved with a love that transcends any and all human love? How can I speak of feeling a mercy so deep, so rich, so complete, when the rest of the world struggles to forgive me and when I can't forgive myself?

And Master, I have tasted your salvation. I have tasted the wine of graciousness and the abundant bread of blessing which you have multiplied to excess from mere morsels. I have been nourished by Word and by Sacrament; by the bread of life and the cup of eternal salvation; food and drink that become one with me, that allow me to share in your divinity, you who humbled yourself to share in our humanity. Bread and wine that have been transformed so that I might be transformed. Food that enables my flesh, my blood, my bones, my sinew, my muscles, every cell of my being to become holy as you are holy. Yes, Master, I have eaten and been satiated.

And so, Master, you may let your servant go in peace. For I have seen, I have heard, I have felt and I have tasted. And I yearn to see, to hear, to feel and to taste perfectly and for all eternity in your kingdom which, I pray, awaits me.

Footprints in the Snow

Footprints in the Snow

A Christmas Parable

An oversized hand pushed back the panel of a lace window curtain and two eyes peered out from inside. The eyes bore the marks of age. Wrinkles were their bookends. But there was something else about those eyes. They were childlike, eyes that were beacons of innocence, goodness, awe and wonder.

“A white Christmas!” he exclaimed in a tone that conveyed both giddiness and resignation. “I guess I won’t be making it to Midnight Mass this year; I doubt anyone will,” he said to no one but the solitude that was his companion that Christmas Eve and the eves and days that preceded it for many years. Solitude greeted him in the morning and tucked him into bed at night. It sat across from him for morning coffee, and was his dinner guest each evening. It was the silent listener to his mumblings, to his memories, to his prayers, to the humming of the songs of his youth, and to the sighs and grunts that invariably now accompanied standing, sitting, walking, and just about every movement of his eighty-something year old body. It would be the first Midnight Mass he would miss since the years when “visions of sugarplums danced in his head.” But it had been snowing since early morning and it would be a fool’s mission to be out on the roads that night.

As he fell into the comfort of his armchair, a chair that knew the shape, the contour, every curve of his body, he surveyed the room. It was a large living room in a large house, where there were now more rooms closed off than the three which he presently occupied. It was a house where memories took up more space than furniture. And those memories all came rushing forth out of their usual hiding places that Christmas Eve. He smiled, his eyes became heavy, and his head nodded as his memories became more real to him than the stark reality of being alone.

His brief sleep was startled, however, by the sound of tires spinning nowhere on the street outside his house. And sure enough, as his hand once again pulled back the curtain of the living room window, he made out in the blizzarding snow, the image of a man kneeling as if in prayer beneath the street light, his hands immersed into the cold snow, vainly attempting to dig his car out of the snowdrift into which it had skidded.

“Damn fool!” he mumbled as he let go of the curtain and moved toward his front door as quickly as a man his age could. “Hey! Hey you! You’re stuck! Come here! You’re never gonna to be able to dig yourself out until a plow comes, and God knows when that will be. You might as well come inside and wait.” And so, the man abandoned his car, and the snow, and the cold, and accepted the invitation.

“Look at you! Not even a coat on! You’re gonna catch your death of cold! Take off your shoes and let them dry out a bit,” he said as he opened the door for his unexpected guest to enter. “The name’s Sam.”

“Oh. Heard by God,” his guest smiled in response as he kicked off one shoe.

“What’s that?” Sam squinted back.

“Your name, 'Samuel.' It means Heard by God.”

“Ohhh . . . Well, if God’s heard me, all he’s heard lately is a lot of cussing and complaining,” Sam chuckled.

“I’m Manny,” said his guest as he kicked off the second shoe.

"Well, pleased to meet you Manny. Do you want to use the phone and call your family to let them know you’re okay?” inquired Sam.

“No thanks,” replied Manny. “I’m not from around here.”

“Not spending Christmas with family?” said Sam in a tone that reflected both his surprise and his softheartedness. “Well, I guess we’re kindred spirits then . . . So, if you’re not from around here, where are you from?”

“Hmm . . . Here, there and everywhere, really,” responded Manny vaguely. “I kind of move around a lot.”

“Good for you!” beamed Sam. “It’s great for a young man like yourself to see the world before having to carry the weight of responsibility on his shoulders . . . Come on into the living room and make yourself at home. Come sit by the fireplace and get warm. Let me turn off the radio,” which had been playing Christmas carols nonstop all day.

“No, please!” Manny protested. “I like it. I could listen to Christmas carols the whole year through, and, as a matter of fact, sometimes I do.”

“Say, I bet you’re hungry and could use a nice hot cup of coffee. And I just made something that I think you’re gonna like – tomato soup cake – from an old family recipe, treasured and passed down from generation to generation . . . from the back label of a Campbell’s Tomato Soup can,” chuckled Sam. “Sit here and let the fire warm you. I’ll be right back.”

But when he emerged from the kitchen several minutes later, rather than sitting and warming himself, he found Manny standing at the mantle of the fireplace examining the photographs that were carefully arranged there.

“That’s my family,” Sam offered. “This is my wife, Maeve, the sweetest girl with the prettiest eyes to ever come across the sea from Ireland. That one there is my daughter Megan. And this . . . this is my son, Daniel. Megan lives in California now. She’s very successful, very busy. A lawyer! So, there’s really not much time for visits. And Daniel . . . Daniel was killed in the war. And picking up the picture of his wife and holding it to his chest as if to hug her, he said, “Maeve was never the same after that. Those Irish eyes lost their smile. The doctors say it was a heart attack that took her. I say it was a broken heart.”

And, so as to not give into the melancholy of the moment, he directed Manny’s attention to another picture on the mantle. “And this one . . . well this one is my favorite! It’s of Maeve and Daniel and Megan out in the front yard after the blizzard of ’78. Just look at the smiles on those faces! And look at the tracks they left, the snow angels and footprints in the snow! You know, all winter long I would look out the window and would see those footprints and would get this overwhelming sense of peace, of joy, because even though my children or my wife might have been in school or shopping, the footprints were the telltale signs that they had been there. Those vacant footprints, to me, were still filled with life and love and laughter. That’s why I cherish this picture. Because, although those footprints have been covered over with many seasons’ worth of grass and leaves and more snow, in this picture, those footprints are preserved and frozen for all time.”

“You know, Sam, not everyone who visits us leaves footprints in the snow.”

“What? What’s that? What do you mean?” asked Sam, baffled by Manny’s statement.

“Angels leave no footprints. And neither does God. Yet without a doubt, they visit us, walk with us, stay with us. Some are unconvinced that God is with them, knows them and cares about them. And others despair when they don’t see the footprints. They believe God has abandoned them or worse – that he doesn’t exist at all. But the pure of heart don’t need to see footprints to know he has visited them, walked with them, loves them.”

Sam’s eyes widened; he scratched his head, and then nodded as the realization of Manny’s insight sunk in.

They spoke of many things that night - of faith and of folly . . . of laughter and of lament . . . of love and of loss . . . of things remembered and of things that are better forgotten. Was it hours they spoke? Minutes? Or was it only merely moments? All Sam knew is that the time sped by all too quickly; time that he wished was tangible, that he could hold onto and savor.

A pause came to their conversation and a glint of glee sparkled in Sam’s eyes as he glanced at his small Christmas tree which stood where grander trees stood tall in Christmases past. He got up from his chair and moved toward the tree with a briskness that his legs hadn’t known in years.

“Ohhh! I have something for you! A Christmas present!” Sam exclaimed. “Every year I buy myself a present and wrap it, put it under the tree and open it on Christmas morning, trying to convince myself that I don’t know what’s inside. I want you to have it. Here . . .”

Sam handed the crudely wrapped box to Manny who opened it and smiled. It was a grey cardigan sweater.

“Sam, it’s beautiful. And you’re so kind to offer it to me. But I can’t,” protested Manny.

“Ah, I’ve got a dozen of them. Try it on,” insisted Sam. And Manny obliged.

“Well, it’s a little big but you’ll grown into it,” Sam said with a wink and a smile. “But take it off now so you feel the good of it outside later.”

And just as Manny did, the sound of steel gliding across asphalt interrupted the serenity of the Christmas music on the radio, of their conversation, of the moment, and a stark and unwelcomed reality suddenly hit Sam.

“The plow,” he said without expression. He knew his Christmas guest would soon be leaving.

“Yeah, I guess I better go out and clear the snow off my car and hit the road,” responded Manny with a tone of somber reluctance.

“Let me walk you to the door . . . Now don’t forget your shoes!” Sam joked. And, as he reached the hallway, he was both confused and amazed when he realized that they had left no puddle on the floor.

Sam then gathered the courage to ask the question that had puzzled him and grew with greater intensity all night long. “Say, do I know you. Have we ever met before? Your face seems awfully familiar to me.”

“Maybe we’ve met before,” said Manny. “Or maybe I just have one of those faces that looks like everyone else,” he said with a smile.

And Sam’s childlike eyes stared deeply into Manny’s, hoping that a time, a place, some remembrance of a past encounter, would surface from the dust and cobwebs of his mind. But no recollection emerged, which didn’t stop Sam from believing somehow, somewhere, sometime, the two had met before.

“Well anyway. . . umm . . . Merry Christmas, Manny,” Sam offered.

“Merry Christmas Sam.” And as his hand reached for the door knob, he turned back and looked intently into Sam’s eyes. “Sam, today salvation has come to this house. You are not far from the kingdom of God.” And with that, he turned away, opened the door, and was gone.

The door closed. Sam returned to the living room, to his old familiar chair, to the carols on his radio. As his head found the hollow in the upholstered back of the chair that was its usual resting place, he tried to make sense of Manny’s parting words and of that whole Christmas Eve night. Suddenly his eyes caught sight of the sweater that Manny had left draped on the arm of the chair where he had been sitting.

“Hey! Hey! Wait a minute! You forgot! You forgot your sweater!” Sam raced to the door and, as he opened it, the radio suddenly began to blare at an almost deafening volume with the most beautiful sounding choir he had ever heard singing:

Hark! the herald angels sing,

"Glory to the new-born King!

Peace on earth, and mercy mild,

God and sinners reconciled.”

And . . . coming seemingly from both nowhere and everywhere . . . was Manny’s voice above the sound of the choir:

“For I was hungry, and you gave me food, I was thirsty, and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me.”

Sam squinted to see past the falling snow. But beneath the street lamp, he saw no plow. He saw no car. He saw no Manny. And suddenly, Sam gasped. Tears brimmed from those eyes which again beamed with childlike innocence, awe and wonder. The cascading tears warmed his frozen cheeks as he looked down at the pathway that led to his door. For he realized . . . there were no footprints in the snow.

Two thousand years ago, a babe was born in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes, serenaded by angels, visited by shepherds and Wise Men. He grew, and walked the dusty roads of Galilee and Judea, walked up a hill called Calvary, and walked out of a tomb that held his body for three days. And today, he walks whatever road life takes us. He is Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. He is Emmanuel, “GOD WITH US.” Blessed are the pure of heart who need no footprints in the snow to know that God has been in their midst.

Deacon Bruce Olsen: 2018

Revised: 2022

An Advent Prayer to St. Joseph

 Advent Prayer to St. Joseph

by Deacon Bruce Olsen

Hail Joseph, weary Advent traveler, protector of the treasures of heaven! You led the Virgin Mother and the Child in her womb along winding and rocky paths, through desert and mountain and valley and plain, to the city of David, to honor a decree, to fulfill a prophesy. We, too, are Bethlehem bound. Will you show us the way?

A star guided the Wise Men to the stable, and an angel pointed the way for the shepherds. But we desire you to be our guide - because in following in the footsteps of your faith and virtue, your strength and courage, your humility, righteousness and purity, your complete trust and abandonment to the will of God, and your unconditional love and devotion to the Blessed Virgin and the child in the tabernacle of her womb - we have absolute assurance that we will encounter, not only the Babe in the manger, but the Savior on the cross, the One risen from the tomb, the Bread of Life in the Eucharist, and the Lord of Lords seated on his Heavenly Throne.

Please light for us the dark and arduous pathways we travel till we encounter the true Light born to you and for us. Keep us alert and focused. Free us from distraction, lest the commotion of the world causes us to stray and takes us only to lighted trees and presents rather than to a star-lit stable and God's greatest gift. 

Sure our footing and let us not stumble or wander from the path through sin. Protect us, as you did Mary and the Promised One, from all that might bring danger to our souls. Reassure us when we are wearied and discouraged by the struggles, disappointments, anxieties and fears that tempt us to abandon our journey to Bethlehem and the one whom we desire to encounter there.

And when I, too, am rejected by the innkeepers of the world, when there seems no room for me and I don’t know where my place is, grant me welcome and acceptance at the stable by you, Mary and Jesus, the holiest of all families. 

This Advent, keep us watchful, keep us alert, to see the face of the One we seek in the face of the hungry and the thirsty, in the stranger and the naked, in the sick and the prisoner, in the sinner and the saint, and within ourselves. Bless us, O Righteous One, with the same Advent hope, peace, joy, and love that marked the first Advent, your Advent, on the journey to Bethlehem.

The Second Sunday of Easter (Year ABC) - Divine Mercy Sunday

A FOUNTAIN . . . A STREAM . . . A RIVER . . . AN OCEAN OF MERCY

Divine Mercy Sunday

The Second Sunday of Easter (Year ABC)

Acts 5: 12-16; Revelation 1: 9-11a, 12-13, 17-19; John 20: 19-31

One thing I love about the Gospels, and especially the Gospels in the first few weeks of the Easter season, is that often they play out like an episodic drama. We hear one part of the story one week, but it is continued the following week, similar to a good television series or soap opera. Case in point, our Gospel today. Last week, Easter Sunday, we heard that Mary Magdalene, following the instructions she had received from Jesus, goes to the Apostles, locked behind the doors that they hoped would hide them from the Jewish and Roman authorities, the same Jewish and Roman authorities that had cruelly, brutally, mercilessly put to death three days before - their master, their teacher, the one they had followed for three years, the one they had pinned their hopes on, the one they had loved. Her message was an incredible one, “He is risen!” And on hearing that, Peter and John have a foot race to the tomb, where they find it just as Mary had told them – empty.

Today’s “Part Two” of the story, takes place the same day - Easter Sunday night. Huddled in fear in this locked room are these friends of Jesus who, after the Last Supper, could not stay awake one hour to pray with him, and who ran away when the Roman guards came to arrest him; friends who spoke not a word in his defense at his trial - except for Peter who three times denied he even knew Jesus. Here are the closest disciples of Christ who were nowhere to be found when Jesus needed help carrying his cross. They were counted among the absent at the foot of the cross. But notice the immediacy and even urgency of Jesus. Not days, but only hours after his Resurrection, allowing neither death nor bolted doors to hold him back, Jesus appears to his Apostles and offers words of forgiveness, words of peace, words of mercy. No judgment. No condemnation.

Five weeks ago, on the Third Sunday of Lent, our First Reading, from the Book of Exodus, recalled when, from the burning bush, God revealed His name to Moses – “YAHWEH” . . . “I AM WHO AM.” And just who is “I AM WHO AM? God also revealed that to Moses, this time on Mount Sinai when he gave the two stone tablets to him, on which were inscribed, by God’s own finger, His law, the Ten Commandments. For He said to Moses, “The LORD, the LORD, a merciful and gracious God, slow to anger and rich in kindness and fidelity, continuing his kindness for a thousand generations, and forgiving wickedness and crime and sin.” God is the fullness of all things bright and beautiful; all things just and true; all things sweet and pure. God is love. God is mercy. And so, that the risen Jesus would find it in his divine heart of hearts to forgive this unfaithful bunch shouldn’t then surprise us at all.

When Pope Francis inaugurated the Year of Mercy in 2015, he said, “Jesus Christ is the face of the Father’s mercy.” And indeed, He is. God’s mercy streams from Jesus’ heart. I’m sure you’ve seen images of the Divine Mercy, representations of the vision of Jesus by St. Faustina, with rays of light emanating from his heart. Our Lord, himself, explained this to St, Faustina, saying: “The two rays denote Blood and Water. The pale ray stands for the Water which makes souls righteous. The red ray stands for the Blood which is the life of souls. These two rays issued forth from the depths of My tender mercy when My agonized Heart was opened by a lance on the Cross. Happy is the one who will dwell in their shelter, for the just hand of God shall not lay hold of him” (299).

• Christ's heart is God's mercy on us . . .
• Christ's heart is God's forgiveness of our foolish sins . . .
• Christ's heart is God's pardon for our crimes against the hearts of others in our lives . . .
• Christ's heart is offered in love for all the times we have selfishly held on to our own desires, for all the times we have stubbornly held back what was ours to give and share . . .
• Christ's heart, sentenced to the Cross, is our freedom, our parole, our own sentence served.
• Christ’s heart is an eternal fountain of forgiveness that never stops pumping, flowing, gushing forth with mercy, mercy that has no end. The font of Jesus’ mercy is never turned OFF by the vagaries of our repentance - or lack of it.

God’s mercy precedes our sins . . . the small ones, the medium ones, the large ones, even the extra-large ones. God knows that we will sin and is ready to forgive our sins long before we even think of sinning. That sin I find so hard to acknowledge? to bring to speech? to confess? God’s mercy was there to wash away, to forgive, to erase long before I did what I did, long before I failed to do what I should have done. God only waits for me to claim the mercy already prepared for me and offered to me in the sacrament of reconciliation, that I might be set free of what burdens and haunts my heart.

God has mercy to spare - eternal springs and rivers and oceans of mercy to spare. Many of us spend a good part of our lives struggling to believe that God’s mercy and love are truly meant for us. And many of us spend a good part of our lives struggling to forgive someone who has deeply hurt us. Sometimes the only way we can forgive those who have hurt us is to entrust them to the mercy of God . . . God who has so generously forgiven us who find it so difficult to forgive one another.

On this Divine Mercy Sunday, we are also challenged to discern where, in our own lives, each of us stands in need of God’s mercy. AND, on this Divine Mercy Sunday, we are called to discern when and where and how, in our own lives, each of us has the opportunity, the responsibility, to be merciful to those around us. If Jesus is the face of the Father’s mercy, then each of us is called to be the face of Jesus for one another.

I know that many of you right now might be saying, “How do I tap into this ever-gushing font of God’s mercy?" It’s simple . . . go to Confession, the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Sin without repentance is the only obstacle that prevents Jesus Christ from deeply healing and sanctifying our souls. Take an inventory of your heart. If there is anything in your heart that is impeding your love for Jesus or prohibiting you from accepting His - any grudge still held, any despair or mistrust, any kind word left unsaid, any duty seriously neglected, any unloving thought, word or deed - this is the time for a "spring cleaning of the soul." Make a good confession, and then try your best, with the help of grace, to keep your soul clean, open, and ready to receive our Savior in Holy Communion. 

On that first Easter Sunday night, the master, the teacher, the one they had followed for three years, the one they had pinned their hopes on, the one they had loved, said to his Apostles, “Peace be with you.” He says that also to us. And like them He desires to pass through the bolted door of our souls with urgency and immediacy. Like Thomas, he allows us to probe the opening in his side from which flowed the blood and water from His most Sacred Heart and which now flows out the ocean of his Divine Mercy. Will we, in turn, allow him to probe the wounds of our afflicted lives, to touch our souls? For with His peace comes joy to our broken hearts. With that peace comes mercy to our sin-stained souls.

“God our Father,

your Son Jesus expired,

but the source of life GUSHED forth for souls,

and the OCEAN of mercy opened up for the whole world.

We pray that this FOUNTAIN of Life,

the UNFATHOMABLE Divine Mercy,

ENVELOP the whole world

and be EMPTIED out upon us.” Amen.