Lent & the Crown of Thorns

 

Terry was sitting beside her husband at the outdoor Mass we attended on the Mount of Beatitudes. She leaned into Chris’ side and felt the joy of praying the Mass with him, the enormity of hearing the words of the divine liturgy on this mountain where Jesus Christ proclaimed the Sermon on the Mount. Then, Terry suddenly reached up and swiped at the back of her neck as though she had been stung.

It was no bee.

When I looked behind her, I had to smile. The branch she had just swept away was from the Zizyphus Spina Christi plant, a tree believed to have been used to make the Crown of Thorns that was placed on Our Lord’s Sacred Head before the crucifixion.

The significance of that moment on the Mount of Beatitudes and the grace of being pricked by the thorns of that plant in the middle of Mass still resonate with me. Yes, it was a grace … is a grace to share in His Passion, just as it is a grace to share in His Resurrection and triumph over death and sorrow and little pricks of pain from countless things that trouble us. A little thorn on an obscure branch on a hill where the gospel was proclaimed and is still proclaimed today.

The thorns were not big, like those we imagine or see in Hollywood depictions of that day. They were little. So sharp. Like needles, but so small that one has to look closely to see them. The first time I visited the Holy Land and walked along that Mount of Beatitudes, I paused to snap a little branch from one tree as we descended the mountain and approached the Sea of Galilee below.

The thorns pierced me three times, drawing blood. It was painful, but I had to laugh at the irony of it. Such a little thing, this thorn.

Such little things to cause such pain. And there was a little joy in knowing I was sharing in a very small way in the pain my Lord had experienced. I treasured that little thorn. It is now between the pages of my Bible – resting in the crevice of a page that tells about the Passion and a crown of many thorns.

As we approach Lent, I am thinking again about the Mount of Beatitudes and the Zizyphus Spina Christi plant.

I am thinking about our thorns, the countless sufferings we embrace and consider a share in His great suffering.

I think of Our Lord, who walked down that same mountain, passed thorny plants such as these, and yet had His eyes on the path that led all the way to the Cross of Mount Calvary.

Oh, my Jesus. Let me take up your suffering and wear it with you.

Let me see each prick as a grace.

And let me say what you said.

Thy will. Only Thy will.

 

Lent & the Crown of Thorns

Where Even the Shadow of Death Cannot Shake Us

On Sunday, during the parish dinner, a man choked on a piece of food. His wife stood up and put her arms around her husband and attempted to save him. In a matter of a few seconds, those of us working the floor of the hall noticed their crisis and called to a few large men to spring into action. One man made it to their table and took over. Almost immediately, the victim's air passage was cleared, and he could breathe again.

I know what it is like to choke on food. It can be absolutely terrifying. In those critical seconds, you wonder if this is it. You know that, unless something happens to change the situation, you simply aren't going to make it.

Oxygen is that important.

As I watched from a short distance away, I found myself immediately in prayer. But the only thing I could say was Jesus. Oh Jesus.

I've only prayed that short prayer once before. It was on the day I choked. In fact, it was while I was choking. In both cases, the name of Jesus became a plea for help - for help from the only one who really could help. Jesus.

It saddens me deeply when people use Our Lord's name so casually. In exasperation. In anger. In surprise.

This one who has died for us and who gives us His own Flesh and Blood so that we might live - this name we misuse. This name we defile.

We are told in Sacred Scripture that at the name of Jesus, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

By this name, we are saved.

And even as I invoked the Holy Name of Jesus Christ in my one word prayer, Jesus, the man's air passage cleared and he began taking in deep breaths.

I have seen this man before. He comes to Mass every week, pushing a walker, making his way to the front to receive the Eucharist. Oh, he could stay home and nobody would think twice about it. God would even understand. Someone could bring the Eucharist to him. I don't know the name of his illness, but I do know that he can't be older than I am. Probably in his forties. But something has gone very wrong. He is frail. I've seen him collapse as he walked forward to receive the Eucharist. I have watched as ushers ran to help him back to his seat. I have watched as Father walked directly to him to bring Our Lord's Body to this one who suffers so greatly.

On Sunday, my husband was an usher at Mass. He greeted this husband and wife as they entered the narthex. John asked the man how he was. The husband didn't complain, though he was hunched over the walker and barely able to shuffle his feet along the floor and into the sanctuary.

The man replied that he was doing well. It was a good day.

And even though he struggles to walk, he comes to Mass.

Even though he risks falling in front of everyone, it doesn't seem to deter him. He still keeps making his way toward the Eucharist.

Even though he has a tendency to choke, probably due to the illness, he still comes to the parish dinner. He still breaks bread with all of us.

At Mass.

At the parish dinner.

In moments like these, I witness a portion of grace far greater than I have personally witnessed ever before. That kind of strength comes from God. No amount of personal determination and grit could account for the strength I see in this ailing and failing man.

And after I ponder this, I take a look at his wife. She is right there, by his side, as he enters the church, as he receives Our Lord. She is there behind him, using all of the strength her small frame can muster to wrap her arms around him and perform the manuever to rescue him from the brink of death. She is there with the napkin to wipe his mouth after the food and saliva run down his chin. She is always right there.

My friends, this is Catholic faith. It is richer and deeper and holier and more faithful and self-effacing than any faith I have ever seen.

It is the kind of faith that makes saints.

And I hunger for more of it. More and more of it. Until even the shadow of the valley of death cannot shake me.

Where Even the Shadow of Death Cannot Shake Us

What Catholics Know

I spent my entire childhood in rural Iowa. For that matter, I lived a great deal of my adult life there as well. Both of my grandfathers were farmers, as were their fathers, and so on.

I probably heard the term work ethic many times before I actually knew what it meant. In my family, you worked hard, you worked together as a family unit, and you were proud of what you accomplished.

As Catholic Christians, we have a strong work ethic. We know how important it is to give our yes to God. To accept the work the Lord has given to us. To work in tandem with grace.

We also know how to pick up our crosses. Cradle Catholics know how to do this. They have journeyed through many Lenten seasons. Their mothers would nurse them through illness and mend them after injury, always reminding them to offer it up. Offer to God all that you must endure, offer it for another, offer it as reparation, offer it in love.

It is only speculation, but I suspect that Catholics weather tough times better than most. I would bet that they have a resiliency that is stronger than almost any other group.

I remember hearing a sad story when I was Baptist. One Sunday, a family in the church went for a Sunday afternoon outing. That evening, they drove back to St. Louis, to attend Sunday evening services. They were involved in a terrible accident. The wife and all the children were killed. Only the husband survived.

Immediately, I wondered about that husband. How could he go on? How would he have the strength to bear such a terrible burden? Some time later, that father took his own life. He simply didn't see how he could carry on.

After I became Catholic, I started to notice a particular strength in Catholics. They seemed to have a better handle on suffering. They had a plan. An approach. They seemed to know what they must do when trials come - they seemed able to draw from a deep well of divine strength.

In short, they knew what to do when they encountered the cross. They got on their knees and prayed for sufficient grace. And then they picked up that cross and started moving forward. Even when they faced tragedy as terrible as the Baptist father in the story above.

I cannot say that I am there yet. I am very much like an elementary student in this school of suffering. But I trust. . .

Jesus, I trust in You.

Help me to remember what I have seen. Give me the wisdom to get on my knees and pray. And give me the strength to pick up my cross and start moving forward - no matter how heavy the cross may be.

What Catholics Know