“Freedom is not only a gift, but also a summons to personal responsibility. Americans know this from experience — almost every town in this country has its monuments honoring those who sacrificed their lives in defense of freedom, both at home and abroad.”

These words crushed me.

How could the Pope repeat United States propaganda, and express admiration for US bloodshed? I racked my mind for ways to interpret his words in another way, but I couldn’t. Not in that context. Not at the White House with the President standing next to him. Not as the Iraq war rages on. The Pope meant what he said, but not as propaganda. He spoke sincerely. He marvels at American monuments and sees those who “sacrificed their lives defense of freedom”. Pope Benedict looks at our country and sees . . . goodness. When I look at our country, I see . . . evil. I want the Pope to condemn war and abortion, not to call our country ‘great’ and ‘religious’. I want brimstone and fire and words of fury! But from the mouth and heart of our Pope come nothing but goodness.

I have so much to learn.

After a great deal of reflection and prayer, my heart has moved, my neck has bent. I have seen something startling: we live in a society where “defense of life” and “nonviolence” are mostly mutually exclusive, and because the defense of life must take priority over a commitment to nonviolence, most Christians are duty-bound to defend life with the least amount of violence possible.

Did I just write that? I did. But only after three days of gut-wrenching prayer!

I am not suggesting that violence is good, or even Christian. I am suggesting, however, that the circumstances of our society require us to choose defense of life over nonviolence. In other words - if the only way I can defend life is to use a gun, then I must use a gun.

Those familiar with nonviolence and theology will hear echos of the “fallen world” defense of violence in my thoughts. But here’s where I depart from such thinking: Jesus Christ has redeemed the world, and has sent us into the world with his Holy Spirit. This fallen world can be transformed. And we are the ones called to transform it.

But at present, our fallen society has few practical, concrete, and readily available means of nonviolently defending life. Boycotts will not save us from a bullet to the head. Strikes will not stop robbers from breaking into our homes. Nonviolent communication will not stop those who do not wish to communicate. We have no nonviolent alternatives to police forces or militaries. We have no nonviolent alternatives to courts and prisons. Nonviolent means of defending life are mostly confined to idealistic exhortations to “love your enemy and trust in God’s grace to work miracles.”

Nonviolent means of defending life must be reasonable, passing the common sense rule, being as readily available as the gun in Target, or a call to 911. To criticize those who use violence to defend life when there are no other ways to defend life is . . . well . . . possibly scandalous.

To summarize, Gandhi said:

I have been repeating over and over again that he who cannot protect himself or his nearest and dearest or their honour by nonviolently facing death may and ought to do so by violently dealing with the oppressor. He who can do neither of the two is a burden. He has no business to be the head of a family. He must either hide himself, or must rest content to live for ever in helplessness and be prepared to crawl like a worm at the bidding of a bully.

Instead of offering concrete ways of defending home and family without violence, I have condemned all violence in every situation. I forced people into a corner - demanding they renounce violence while giving them nothing in its place - asking them to be “like a worm at the bidding of a bully.” I have fought to show violence as wrong in every situation, but never considered that violence could be wrong yet relatively legitimate. In a not-yet-redeemed society, the evil of violence may be the least wrong choice, and our duty.

My advocacy of nonviolence has consisted in saying, “no, no, no!” to America. But our Pope tells us that Christianity is not “no, no, no,” but is “yes, yes, yes!” All his words and actions reverberate within the great “yes” that is Christ our hope. Not one word of “no” passed through his lips over the past three days, even as he spoke of evil. Instead, he proposed solutions aimed at transforming our society into one of peace and justice - a world where men and women can finally embrace nonviolence, “a world where it is easier to be good.”

It is time for me to do the same.

It’s amazing what a Pope can do. I feel like I’ve been through a war, and that this little reflection is but a brief respite. But thank God, and praise Him. He is GOOD.

Recently Father Zuhlsdorf described US warships as “gorgeous” and “amazing”, naming those slain by these warships as “educated”. After receiving criticism, Fr. Z explained: “I do not apologize . . . [America] pulled many other peoples’ fat out of the fire with the blood of her soldiers, sailors and marines. Pope Benedict in his first Message for the World Day of Peace pointed out the importance of military intervention at times to establish the proper framework for true peace.”

But did Fr. Z read all of the Pope’s World Day of Peace message, “In Truth, Peace“, where he stated that “[lies] are the framework for menacing scenarios of death in many parts of the world . . . truths are what make peace possible”?

Lies include calling machines made for slaughter - battleships - “gorgeous”. Battleships are not beautiful. They are ugly. They are huge chunks of metal formed and shaped for one purpose - the deliberate destruction of human life. This is not gorgeous. It is horrifying. Though Catholics might accept violence as necessary, a Catholic can never accept violence as beautiful.

The Pope’s words on military participation would be littered with words like ‘noble’ and ‘glorious’ if he thought as many militarists do. Instead, Pope Benedict expresses gratitude toward “the many soldiers engaged in the delicate work of resolving conflicts,” but only insofar as they perform their duties “properly, [do] they contribute to the establishment of peace.” He calls their work ‘delicate’ and ‘demanding’, and reminds the chaplains who serve soldiers to be “heralds of the truth of peace.”

These are the words of a Pope who saw that “the new weapons that make possible destructions that go beyond the combatant groups” ought to make us ask ourselves “if it is still licit to admit the very existence of a just war.” (Zenit) Why does the Pope see battleships and wonder whether these weapons can perform the “delicate” work of peacemaking, while many Americans see these weapons and call them beautiful?

Ignorance.

“In Truth, Peace” attempts to pierce our ignorance (a spiritual work of mercy) by reminding us that “to impose on others by violent means what we consider to be the truth is an offense against the dignity of the human being, and ultimately an offence against God in whose image he is made.”

The ‘delicate’ work of peacemaking, done ‘properly’, does not create body counts, nor does it attempt to force truth upon enemies. Rather, peacemaking resolves the conflict by defending all life - both friend and foe. The Vatican supports UN peacemaking operations because of their limited rules of engagement. Peacemakers risk their own lives in an effort to reduce violence. Killing is seen as a failure, even if condoned as the last resort of defense.

But why call war a failure? Why attempt to limit the destruction of war? Why train peacemakers instead of infantrymen? Why has “the Holy See expressed its support for humanitarian law,” claiming that treaties regulating war “ought to be considered as one of the finest and most effective expressions of the intrinsic demands of the truth of peace?” We see the answer in the Pope’s challenging stance on weapons:

“how can there ever be a future of peace when investments are still made in the production of arms and in research aimed at developing new ones?” “What can be said, too, about those governments which count on nuclear arms as a means of ensuring the security of their countries?” . . . one can state that this point of view is not only baneful but also completely fallacious.” (In Truth, Peace)

And so we return full circle to Truth. What is the truth of peace? Why does the Pope call peacemaking a delicate task? Why does the Pope question modern weapons and warfare? Why does the Pope call upon us to respect humanitarian laws regulating warfare? Why does the Pope call reliance upon nuclear weapons baneful, and ask that we cease production of new weapons?

Because war and weapons promulgate the lie, the myth, of redemptive violence:

With the conviction of her faith in Christ and with the awareness of her mission, the Church proclaims “that violence is evil, that violence is unacceptable as a solution to problems, that violence is unworthy of man. Violence is a lie, for it goes against the truth of our faith, the truth of our humanity. Violence destroys what it claims to defend: the dignity, the life, the freedom of human beings” (JPII and CSDC)

Monstrous weapons like battleships are a lie. They propose peace, but they promise war. May all the faithful of Christ see the truth of peace, may we listen to our Magisterium, and never mistake “gorgeous” lines for what they really are: ugly lies.

I had begun to worry that my tiny dorm room was full of too many possessions. I spent hour upon hour going through them, throwing out or giving away what I could and blaming myself because, ultimately, I couldn’t part with very much. The voice of Christ in the Gospel rang in my ears, sternly commanding that I leave all my wealth behind so I could find and follow Him. I had turned to Merton in my desperation, hoping that the monk could help me cut myself free from my false needs.

The chapter in Merton’s text entitled “Asceticism and Sacrifice” begins as a passionate defense of a life tied to the flesh of Christ, “above human nature itself.” However, Merton demonstrates why my obsession to give up was ultimately as false as an obsession to gain. “The saint … is sanctified not only by fasting when he should fast but also by eating when he should eat … Our self-denial,” he writes “is sterile and absurd if we practice it for the wrong reasons or, worse still, without any valid reason at all.” The real work of the aesthetic is not to hate the things of the world, Merton argues, but to find their real meaning, “to disclose the difference between the evil use of created things, which is sin, and their good use, which is virtue.” I had devised my plan in a spiritual vacuum, become so dedicated to it that I could not let in the goodness and happiness which God put in the world. From Merton, I learned quite powerfully that “[a]sceticism is utterly useless if it turns us into freaks.”

What distinguishes voluntary poverty, that which the Catechism calls the “poverty of heart” (2544) which brings us to Christ, from the poverty which enslaves man to the earth, which forces so many to beg and leaves so many hungry, in danger and alone? In the most fundamental part of our conscience, we know that a world in which three billion people live on less than two dollars a day is a world far distant from the Kingdom of Heaven and its complete goodness. How, then, can Jesus possibly tell us that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs among the poor?

Voluntary poverty is a type of living, not a state of being. It is active, not passive. It is desired, not abhorred. It is sought but never truly found. Most significantly, it finds its end not in itself but in the proper pursuit of the Kingdom.

Catholic social teaching rejects both pure capitalism and socialism as presenting false versions of the human condition and lacking a fundamental respect for the human person. The distributist economic framework is designed to keep economic actions in close proximity to humanity’s natural place in the family and community while maintaining a respect for all of God’s creation. Unlike in capitalism and socialism, distributism considers man’s nature and end as founded in God, not founded in the material. Most importantly, however, it ensures that all economic policies, not merely some, are designed with respect for the needs of the poor in mind – the virtue of mercy.

The essence of Catholic social teaching’s vision of the human community is described in the phrase “the preferential option for the poor.” As Christians, we acknowledge the inherent dignity of each human person as part of God’s creation and reflective of God’s will and design. In close correlation with that dignity is a natural human equality: the rich are no more modeled on God than the poor, nor do the poor share a greater proximity to God’s plan than the rich. Catholic social teaching asks us not to make policies for the poor because they are the poor, or because poor men and women in particular deserve support. Rather, it calls us to exhibit preference for the poor because they are human persons in need, members of the community whom we can help.

Those of us who are economically secure admit (correctly) that we will never understand what it is like to live paycheck-to-paycheck, to forgo a meal in order to feed our child, to sleep away a cold night with only the protection of cardboard or newspaper. The biggest mistake I made was assuming that in throwing away a few things I never used, I would somehow feel what poverty was like, that I would sacrifice some amount of physical or emotional wellbeing. I was born lucky enough, with a wide enough safety net, that such understanding will never happen.

What, then, is understanding if not knowing? In working to fight poverty, the US bishops wrote in 1986, we aim to increase social solidarity, to draw “together all citizens, whatever their economic status, into one community” (Economic Justice for All, 187). As reflection of the mercy which God shows to all of us who sin, we must show mercy to those in need and cultivate a true sense of communion with them. John Paul II writes that acting on this social solidarity brings us the mindset necessary to show the understanding we need. “[L]ove makes itself particularly noticed in contact with suffering, injustice and poverty … It is precisely the mode and sphere in which love manifests itself that in biblical language is called ‘mercy’” (Dives in Misericordia, II.3). Making this contact is one of the heaviest demands of our spiritual life.

How can I understand when the beggar is a source of scorn? When I walk past the man with his hand out on the street, mumble that I have no money and walk on, how do I live in contact with poverty? In that momentary glance comes a torrent of questions: Should I give him the money? Will he spend it on drugs? Is he trying to rob me? These questions are all legitimate ones, grounded in our flawed sense of the true nature of the world. At the end of the day, we may even find that a well-discerned monthly check to the food bank or a few hours of time on a Saturday make more impact then what we derisively call a “hand out.” Ultimately, however, these responses do not answer our persistent spiritual question.

On Lent, when we are asked to fast in part to join in the immense suffering of Christ, we feel even more powerless to understand. In the face of this problem, Jesus does not call us to spend our lives mourning at the foot of the cross. Instead, He calls us to a relationship with Him through which we can grow in understanding and love. “I no longer call you slaves,” Jesus tells his disciples, “I call you friends” (Jn 15:15). In the same way, we show love grounded in mercy not by lamenting the conditions of the poor but by being with the poor, by treating them with the human dignity to which they are entitled and joining them as members of the human family. When a soup kitchen’s volunteers eat the food they make, and devote significant time to greet and chat with their clients, they emulate the proper model of service to the poor. When a woman offers the smallest gestures of eye contact, a smile or simple courtesies to a homeless person or a beggar, she shares in the work of the disciples and helps mend the tear in the seamless garment which connects the human community.

To live in the spirit of social solidarity, then, is to live with the poor, to live amongst the poor, to know the poor. If I knew the beggar for who he was, I would never have to ask myself those troubling questions. If I knew the beggar as a person, the kind who deserved a home, I would know if he had one. If I knew the beggar as a person, the kind who deserved to live a life with full pockets in place of empty ones, I would know if he had enough for his daily bread. Indeed those questions in themselves would disappear. The questions which come to us in that moment, in that glance, are themselves just that: glancing, momentary, brief. They are questions which nag us when we are ignorant.

The definition of this mission is well encapsulated in Dives in Misericordia by John Paul II: through “evangelical poverty … the God who is ‘rich in mercy’ has been made still more clearly manifest” (Dives in Misericordia, VII.14). I had tripped and fallen in my early attempts to fulfill the command of poverty because my poverty had no dimension outside of itself. Ironically, perhaps paradoxically, I had lost Christ completely in my quest for Him, had gone so far down the road of poverty itself that I could no longer find or relocate the path to the Kingdom. Evangelical poverty, poverty which preaches the gospel, is a far more radical notion, one which demands something unique from us.

We can imagine how different the national debate would be if economic policy was not merely considered a mechanism for exercising self-interest, but instead a mechanism for mercy and love. Economic debates are marked by a notion of fairness which says that a taxpayer ought expect that his money is not “wasted” on classes that are thought not to deserve it. Accordingly, these classes are given names – illegal immigrant, welfare mother, freeloader – which declare that they do not enjoy membership in the same humanity as you and I. This false philosophy tries to convince us that a system which apportions wealth only to those who can easily make it is a system of justice.

Such an argument is a perfect example of how justice is often abused. As John Paul II writes, an improper understanding of justice is easily overcome by “spite, hatred and even cruelty. In such cases, the desire to annihilate the enemy, limit his freedom, or even force him into total dependence, becomes the fundamental motive for action; and this contrasts with the essence of justice, which by its nature tends to establish equality and harmony between the parties in conflict. This kind of abuse of the idea of justice and the practical distortion of it show how far human action can deviate from justice itself, even when it is being undertaken in the name of justice” (Dives in Misericordia, VI.12). As the Holy Father argues, Christians must bring to this false notion of justice an ethical dimension founded on the respect for each person’s right to belong in the human community. To establish this harmony, we must be willing to part with the false doctrine of fairness: to look with mercy, with preference, on the plight of the poor. We must be willing, as St. Ignatius prayed, “to give without counting the costs.”

What of the freeloader, then? What has he earned? Those who abuse justice will quickly ask this question. Because of the freeloader’s “reliance” on the State, he is lazy or, worse, a swindler. He has earned nothing, the answer comes back: earned nothing because he violated the rules which the winners can safely argue after the fact they followed. Surely, however, none of these winners would be as swift to ask the same question before Jesus, who tells us to find Him in caring for the “least of these” (Mt 25:45). In asking such a question before Jesus, we would have to answer it of ourselves. We find in the presence of Christ that we have earned nothing, nothing which can justify His opening the Kingdom of Heaven to us. And while I believe that Jesus will judge me on my works, I do not believe He will ask “What have you earned?” but rather know who I am. Like all human beings, I am the Father’s child, whom He loves unceasingly. In return for that love, it is hardly unreasonable to be asked as all God’s children to treat one another as brothers and sisters: not by what we’ve earned, but by who we are.

I knew before I began my struggle that a persistent giving was the goal. Even if I didn’t really follow the goal, I was determined to try, to push myself down the path towards giving unceasingly, giving as a lifestyle, giving for itself. I was sure that the first step was to give those things which I had already. Indeed, this seems an obvious step. Yet, my mistake was in attempting to give unceasingly without first being willing to take on my more pressing need: praying unceasingly.

Depending on the Gospel account, Jesus says the Kingdom of Heaven belongs either to the poor (Lk 6:20) or the poor in spirit (Mt 5:3). Our spirit seeks nourishment, regardless of whether or not we give it the proper direction. The hardest spiritual nourishment to seek is the nourishment of the Lord: it is difficult precisely because we will never fully attain it until the last day. It is far easier to find spirit in material goods. Through our material goods we can receive a constant stream of temporary satisfactions, reflect on our own glory and always be occupied in the task of earning more. Most obscenely, however, our material goods can cause us to lose sight of those around us, lose sight of the poor, lose sight of their human needs.

As I discovered, it is just as easy to be caught up in a way of being not grounded in God’s plan for our lives. It too promised the temporary satisfaction of each thing removed from my sight. It too allowed me solace in what I had done. Such a mindset caused me to act as though only my sacrifice mattered. I was, ultimately, just as dependent on material things if giving them up was my shibboleth to a more spiritual life. In evangelical poverty, however, there are no easy shibboleths: only action which is defined exclusively through prayer.

Thanks to Brother Merton, I now look at my possessions as a unique privilege and responsibility, with potentially good and bad ends. I know that I have the ability to use my property to preach the Gospel, to bring myself and others to a greater appreciation of the joys God gives the world and to consecrate my life to a vocation which seeks to bring an end to social injustice. At the same time, I must try to keep in mind that, if my property could see better use among the poor, that is where it belongs. As Jesus commands, I must truly be willing to give up everything if doing so is in accordance with His will. I am not fully ready yet. I pray some day I will be.

Evangelical poverty is not simply about giving up our possessions. Evangelical poverty is about releasing the mindset which tells us we need to possess and exchanging it for a mindset of mercy, moving from concern about our own needs and desires to concern about the common good. In evangelical poverty, we give up both our property and our idolatry of property itself and find ourself poor in spirit, yearning only for the Lord.

The old lady slept silently in the hospital bed. Blankets and tubes covered her shrunken and wasted body. Tiny electric lights glittered and strobed along the wall, beating to the drum of her fading existence. Death approached.

In the background, a voice droned. It spoke of the past. It spoke of children, of travels, of failures, of triumphs. It spoke of its dying beloved. The voice didn’t pause for response. It settled into a familiar rhythm. A nurse came in, attending to bags of liquid, bags of excrement, bags of flesh, and then left. She never noticed the voice in the corner. No one ever did. Not the family that visited the lady every morning. Not the doctors who peered over her charts, frowning. Not the small flies that crawled on the outside of the window. Nothing at all. But the voice didn’t care. It continued anyways.

“I don’t really know what to do…” it said. It looked at the woman, the beloved. Dark shadows clawed at the dying woman’s spirit. The voice became soft, resigned. “What else can I do?” it asked itself.

The dying lady stirred. The voice perked up, alert and ready - and then gave a low and pleasing sound, almost inhuman and not entirely audible… yet comforting. The sound sank beneath the world, rippling its surface. But this time the ripples failed to soothe. The lady groaned, twisting in pain. Her eyelids fluttered. The crack of decayed vocal chords crawled out of her throat.

“It’s okay,” said the voice, repeating a mantra of mercy - the mantra that had always worked. But the woman did not settle. Her eyes opened, revealing gray-scabbed eyes… blind eyes.

“Is someone there?” she asked. Her voice had changed. The last time she had spoken was weeks ago, and that could barely be described as speaking. But now her voice was different – though softer and weaker, her words carried a clarity that had been missing for years. They held the strength of someone who no longer had anything left to lose. “Is someone there?” she repeated, growing stronger, more alert.

The room went into a shocked silence, echoing with the question. The voice in the corner almost stuttered.

“She couldn’t have heard,” it said.

The woman’s blank eyes grew wide, then patient. “Who’s there? I can hear you muttering to yourself,” she asked. “Where am I?”

The voice drew closer to the woman. It hesitated. “Can you really hear me?”

The woman’s eyes closed, fighting some internal and unseen battle. “I’m so tired,” she whispered, drifting. Her eyes worked behind the closed lids, half dreaming. The voice touched the worn woman. But the eyes popped back open. “Who is that?” she asked.

The voice bobbed back, settling upon the corner. “Unbelievable,” it whispered. Its tone was both surprised and excited. “Do you remember me?” it asked.

The woman shook her head. “No,” she said. Her head continued to shake slightly, searching for a forgotten question. Her head finally settled. “Where am I?” Her eyes, though blind, sought out the voice - staring into the dark corner.

The voice winced. Something was wrong. Was this the end?

“You’re in a hospital. You’re very sick.”

The voice paused.

“Don’t you remember?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Your family visited earlier. Charles brought you blueberry pie. Kate brought her little one.” The voice turned anxious. “Remember?”

“No,” she breathed.

The voice paced, thinking, worrying, knowing that the inevitable had finally come. It stopped. “Do you remember your name?”

The woman didn’t respond. She tried to ignore the voice. She felt dry tears clawing at her blind eyes. “Why?” she asked herself. “Why am I here?”

“It’s okay,” said the voice, lying. “Everything is going to be okay…”

The woman’s glistening eyes opened. “Liar,” she stated. But she almost smiled. In the midst of the dark haze surrounding her, somehow, in some unexplainable way, this felt familiar. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m…” the voice searched for the right word. “I’m your guardian.”

The woman blinked. “An angel?”

The voice wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Instead, it gave the truth. “No, I’m not an angel.” But what was the truth? “Whatever I am, I’m not an angel.”

The woman shifted in her bed, searching for a comfortable spot. There wasn’t one, but even in the face of certain defeat, the woman refused to quit. The voice felt better. Perhaps the beloved wasn’t gone. Perhaps she was still there, underneath the decayed flesh and rotting mind… somewhere.

“Let me help…”

The guardian reached out towards the white mass of light swirling around the woman. Dark red threads cut and pierced the woman’s spine. A faint arm, invisible to all but the voice, tugged and kneaded the thread - slowly turning it orange, then yellow, then green, then blue. After a few moments, the thread finally rejoined the liquid halo of white flames surrounding the lady. But the flames were dying. Darkness pounded at them. The guardian stepped back.

The beloved breathed easier, and went still. The pain was gone. “That was you?” she asked.

The invisible head nodded. “I wish I could do more.”

The woman felt better. She gave a small smile. “You could tell me who I am.”

The guardian didn’t know what to say. It had waited for this moment its entire existence. And now… everything had gone blank. But looking into the woman’s eyes… past the fog of gray death… the memories of life came back.

“I’m probably the only person that can do that… A lot of people could come in here and tell you your name. The doctors could tell you a lot about your disease. Your family could tell you a little about your past… what little you’ve told them about it. But no one could really tell you who you are… no one except me.”

The guardian wished it could say the same about itself. But it had given up that dream long ago, in place of another.

“Let me start at the beginning. It was over 93 years ago, on the day we met.”

The guardian smiled, remembering.

“That was the day you were born.”

2.

The guardian almost laughed at its self. It’d been preparing this speech for nearly a century, and now it had forgotten everything.

“But maybe I should start even earlier. The real beginning began almost a year before I met you, at the moment of my creation. I wasn’t born. One day, I simply popped into existence. I have no memories before that moment - none at all. I don’t know where I come from, and I don’t even have a name. My first thoughts were thoughts of terror. All I knew was that I was alone, and that I was lost. Surrounding me was a strange world, unknown and foreign to me.”

The guardian paused, dwelling upon bitter images.

“It began with a blinding white light. And then, the light flickered, faded, and was replaced by a room - a room much like this one, though the bed was empty, and there were no lights. It was very dark. I wandered to the window, dazed. I looked out the window, expecting to see a moonless night. What I saw shocked me. The sun was high in the sky, but burned with blackness. What little light there was came from below me, but not from streetlights. It came from small walking figures - from people. People walking across streets. People in shops. People in cars. Their bodies shone with a swirling light - penetrating everything around them, revealing colors, revealing details.”

“I tried opening the window, and received two shocks. First, my hand was transparent. Second, it went right through the glass… right through it… as if my hand didn’t exist at all. I looked down. I was wearing a thin piece of cloth - just the slightest of robes. My feet didn’t seem to be touching the ground, and if they were, I certainly couldn’t feel it. So I raised my right leg. No problem balancing. I raised my left leg. No problem floating.”

The guardian grinned.

“And to this day, I don’t know how I do it, but then… I flew. I shot straight through that window, and flew over the city - exhilarated and terrified. I don’t know if there’s blood pumping through my veins or not… or if I even have veins… but I felt pure energy running through my entire body that night. Below me swirled millions upon millions of lights - millions of different colors, twirling, bursting, showering, flowing… I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

“I don’t know how long I flew for. It could have been days. I was like a moth to the flame - racing from one point of light to another. But in the end, I had to come back down. I couldn’t ignore the fear building in me. I couldn’t ignore the blackness all around me - and in me. Though the world around me felt alien and out of place… I still knew it. I knew what streets and buildings and cars were. I knew how to read English. I could speak and think. But I couldn’t remember who I was. I couldn’t remember where I lived, or if I had ever lived. All I could remember was the bright flash of light, and my new existence… Was I a ghost? A spirit? Was I dead? Was I an angel? A demon? Was I in heaven? In hell? Something worse, something better? I didn’t know, but I knew I had find out. So I landed in a city, and went off in search of the truth.”

“At first, I was afraid to approach people. I hid in an alley for weeks, watching men and women walk by. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I just floated there, watching and waiting - terrified of the flaming torches called human beings. Each one carried different colors. Each one had its own pattern and its own… smell. Some darker, some lighter. But each scared me into silent hiding. Yet somehow I was drawn to them. I couldn’t hide forever, at least, not yet. I had to know.

Eventually I worked up the courage to close my eyes and run out into the open. I stood there, blind and waiting for the worst… but nothing happened. I wasn’t consumed in light and fire. Nobody yelled out “ghost! monster! run!” All I heard was the sound of cars passing and people walking. Finally, I opened my eyes. A man was walking straight at me, only feet away. I pivoted, allowing him to pass by me. He never looked at me. He just kept on walking. I stared at his back, amazed. He hadn’t seen me. So I called out to him. But he didn’t hear me either.”

“So I stood there, watching him disappear, feeling defeated. But I tried again. I looked up to see a tall woman walking towards me. I’ll never forget her face. She wore a tall hat and a fancy dress, and wore about an inch of makeup. The light fought out through the mask, making her face look like a carved pumpkin… Honestly, I froze at the sight of her demonic smirk. I just stood there as she got closer and closer. I wanted to run and scream, but couldn’t. And then… she walked right through me. Her light swirled around my body like water. Her spirit gripped me. I felt a thousand thoughts, memories, and emotions run through me being – scratching and clawing to get inside me. And then, it was over. She had passed on, and I knelt down. I felt numb. I couldn’t remember anything that her spirit had told me, and I didn’t want to. All I knew was that she hadn’t even twitched. She hadn’t noticed me at all.”

“And that’s when I knew… nobody ever would. At least, no one living. So I went off in search of others. If I were a ghost, surely there’d be others. Surely I wasn’t alone.”

“But I was. I wandered from street to street… but found nothing. I shouted from light poles. Still… nothing. I even went to hospitals, to cemeteries, to graveyards, and anywhere I thought dead people might gather. Nothing. I even found the room that I’d been ‘born’ into. I waited there for days, for weeks… it was some sleazy motel room… dirty and full of prostitutes and cockroaches… but still, I never found anything. No bright light. No ghosts. Nothing.”

“So I went into a deep depression. I flew away from the city. I gave up on people and ghosts and answers. Instead of looking for light, I leapt into darkness. Animals didn’t give off light - they just sort of glowed dimly like me. So I flew into those deserts of blackness - into the forests and mountains and deserts. And there I walked - blinding and numbing myself to the world. I can’t tell you for how long. I didn’t see the sun or the moon. Every now and then I’d see hunters, but I’d retreat before getting close enough to see. Those were the lost days. The days when I went insane, when I’d given up.”

The guardian almost smiled.

“But then something changed all of that.”

The guardian paused, his smile growing.

“What?” asked the old woman.

“I heard you scream.”

3.

“That scream changed everything. I’d never heard anything like it. It wasn’t a scream of pain. It was a scream of fear - intense, unfiltered fear. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t run from it. I couldn’t ignore it like I’d ignored everything else. I had to stop it. If I hadn’t, I’d have heard that dark scream for the rest of my life, which probably meant forever. It was the greatest choice I’d ever made.”

“And so I followed the sound. I ran. And in the distance, I began to see the silhouette of tree trunks. Light began seeping through the forest. I flew. A small wooden cabin appeared within a clearing. I rushed through the wall, and found… well… I found something unexpected.”

A mother sat in a bed, soaked with sweat and tears, holding a newborn baby. The baby was shrieking. The father paced along the edge of the small room. A nurse was trying to get the baby back from the mother, who appeared hysterical. There was something wrong. The nurse wasn’t a nurse - she was a neighbor. The doctor hadn’t arrived. Was there something wrong with the baby? Why was it shrieking? The mother had no experience - it was her first child. The father wasn’t helping - every few seconds he yelled for everyone to stop yelling.”

The guardian shook its head, looking at its beloved… finding it hard to believe that so much had happened since that day.

“You were born into total chaos and confusion.“

The woman had closed her eyes. She was seeing what the guardian had seen.

“Do you remember? You probably would have done what I almost did – which was walk right back the way I came! But you weren’t me. You were just a baby, and your cries tore into me. I couldn’t stand them. They had to stop. But what could I do? I felt helpless. And in that moment of desperation, I gave the loudest scream I’ve ever given. And in that moment, I found something that would change my life forever. When I started to scream, you started to settle.”

“Your blind eyes blinked. Your face turned towards me. And I swear - you looked straight into my soul. No one else had noticed - the humans were still yelling and crying and arguing. But within it all, you went silent, and stared. I drew closer to you. Your light was strong, tight, new, but greenish. I put my hand into your slow moving and sickish stream of light, splashing into it. And I don’t know how I did it - I still don’t, but I stirred, or twisted, or diverted… and the green faded… and though you couldn’t smile… I felt it. I felt your joy. I felt your thanks. I stepped back, and your arm reached out.”

“The mother noticed. The yelling died down. Smiles appeared. The doorbell rang. The doctor arrived. And everything changed. I had touched something in this world, and something in this world had touched me back. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know why, but I knew that somewhere within you was the answer to all my questions. Somehow, I would find myself. I would find my memories. I would find my lost life. And for the first time, a smile touched my lips…

“… your smile.”

4.

“Eight hard years passed by. Though you’d brought me out of the darkness, though I’d been able to touch you as a baby, you quickly learned to ignore me. Where you’d once broke out into a smile at seeing me, though you even shouted and laughed with me… or okay, at me… though you once tried to tickle me like I tickled you.. the older you grew, the less and less you noticed me. You were becoming like everyone else - blind and deaf. By your eighth birthday, I was depressed again. You hadn’t spoken to me since your last birthday, when you asked if I had bought a gift for you. I shook my head, and even apologized… and then your eyes went blank, and you stared right through me.”

“Really, I was ready to give up. I still hadn’t found any others like me. My hope that you would grow up being able to see me, that you might be able to help me track down my life, that you might be able help me figure out who I was… well… all those dreams had faded.”

“Of course, you didn’t make things any better. I didn’t know anything about kids, and thought you were a real brat - always crying, always whining, and always demanding things be done your way, always demanding more and more - this food or that food, this doll or that doll… and it was never enough. Basically, you were a normal toddler… but I didn’t know that. All I knew was that this birthday had been the worst ever. Your parents had bought you a table full of presents, a huge cake, balloons, and had invited every kid from school. But you threw a tantrum about something. I think a friend of yours got a corner piece of the cake - with all the icing. You went ballistic. The kids had to go home, the party was cut short, you were sent to your room, and then your parents and me collapsed.”

“I lied down outside, near the birthday table… floating on the ground, listening to the small water fountain in your pool - a water fountain you had demanded as soon as you saw it.”

“I sat there thinking about why I was still with you. I tried to think back - trying to remember those early years, the good years - when you were just a small baby and were always cute, even when crying. I tried remembering the small games we’d play together, making faces at one another, imitating one another’s sounds. I even taught you how to say ‘Mom’. And when you were sick… I took care of you. When you felt like crying, I held you. It was I who spent every night with you. Your parents couldn’t do everything. But I felt like I could.”

“And now what? You were in your room sulking. And you certainly weren’t cute anymore. I just wanted to give up - to go back into the forests and mountains… to find a hole to creep down into… or maybe, to just let myself float down… down into the earth… further and further into the depths of hellfire… letting it all wash over me… letting me forget everything.”

“And then the world… flickered. The blue sky dimmed. Darkness crept upon the edges of my vision. I drifted. Dark bubbles floated before my eyes, swarming the sky, engulfing my body… the world flashed out of existence, then back in. Darkness pounded at my being, gripping my throat. And then - night. I could see nothing. No glows. No lights. No color. Everything faded into nothingness.”

“But then, when it all almost ended, something call out to me - a crack in the blackness. A dim outline. I sat up. I stood. I looked left. The crack fissured, revealing a figure. Something was underneath the ground, fading, flickering - taking the entire world with it - taking me with it.”

The voice had grown into a whisper. The black memories still haunted the guardian. The woman’s eyes had opened, and stared out into the darkness, looking for her guardian, wanting to soothe the hurting voice.

“What?” she asked. “What was it?”

The guardian looked at the beloved.

“It was you. At the bottom of the pool. Drowning. You’d snuck out to play in the pool. You’d been quiet, and you’d slipped through the fence, and now your lungs were full of water.”

“I flew to you. I tried lifting you… but my hands passed right through you. I tried screaming, but your light faded. I felt my heart dying. Death crushed my throat. I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t abandon you. But I had…”

“It was my fault. I hadn’t been there to stop you. I hadn’t been there to encourage you. I hadn’t been there, and now you were dead.”

“The last of the light disappeared, leaving me in blackness. And all I could do was scream in silence, begging and pleading for another chance, for another life, for a different fate.”

“And then… the world exploded in light and color. I was next to you, on the pool patio. Your father was over you. You were coughing up water. You were breathing!”

“Alive!”

“Your mother was hugging you. Tears flowed. My tears. Your tears. And since that day, I’ve never left your side.”

The guardian smiled.

“And I never will.”

5.

The guardian drew closer to the dying woman. “How are you feeling?”

The old lady smiled through the pain. “I’d say I’ve felt better… but I can’t remember.”

The voice laughed softly. “That sounds like the woman I remember…” The laughter faded quickly. The hurt returned, and the guardian retreated to its corner, silent.

“Tell me more, please…”

The guardian didn’t want to… but it had never been able to say no.

“I know everyone says it… but the years went quickly. Before I knew it, you had grown into a wonderful young woman.”

“By the time you hit high school, you were on honor roll, you spent your weekends volunteering at your local church, you tutored younger students at school, and basically - you lit a smile on every face that met yours. We were all so proud - me, your parents, even your younger brother and sister. You graduated at the top of your class, and spent the next four years doing great things at college.”

“I’d be lying if I said it was all easy. It wasn’t. Leaving the family and going off on your own was tough. Now, I wanted to get away from your parents just as much as you did, but we did miss them. And we had to go through a lot… we had to learn a lot. God knows that I had to sit through some terrible things while you were in college. Things that I could only sit in a corner of the room, shut my eyes, hold my hands over my ears… though it never helped… and hope for the best. It was either that or yelling, and by this time, you’d forgotten completely about me. But I could still turn a mood here and there. I could still be a breath of wind, a breath of inspiration. Now and then, I even imagined that you caught glimpses of me.”

“And then four more years had passed, you’d graduated from college, and had a fiancé. You were going to Medical school - training to become a pediatrician! All your dreams were coming true, and though I was no closer to finding out who I was, though I was still alone… I could share in your dreams… You had become my child, and in a lot of ways, much more.”

“One day, we were sitting alone in bed. You were reading some woman’s magazine, worrying about your fiancé. Wondering where he was. Wondering if he’d be home on time tonight. I worried about the same things. Once or twice I almost left you to follow him. But in the end, we both laughed at our own paranoia, and settled back down. You turned to another page, and I let myself slip back into a light daze. I never really slept, but I could dream. Sometimes I spent days dreaming…. dreaming about something forgotten, but close…”

“But that night, something broke my thoughts. You flickered. I nearly flew through the ceiling. I hadn’t seen you flicker since you were at the bottom of the pool. I watched you closely. You flipped a page. Nothing out of the ordinary. You flipped another page, and then… there! Your light hesitated, blurred, flickered, and then settled back into its normal pattern. I put my face closer… inches away… I traced something out of place… a thread that was not supposed to be there. I stuck my fingers into the stream, expecting to feel the normal bitterness of some dark poison, some thought or feeling or pain that was eating you from the inside out. But I didn’t feel that. I felt something… out of place.”

“I followed the stream from your neck, then lower, down your side… then lower… and then.”

“I saw.”

“You shut the magazine, stared off into space, threw it on the floor, and hopped out of bed. Two hours later, we both stood over a pregnancy test, staring in wonder and awe.”

“Blue. Positive.”

“We let out a scream of joy and surprise, me hugging you, you dancing, tears springing to our eyes. Hoots and hollers and hallelujah amens! And then we stopped. And then the world flickered. Blackness settled across my vision. Your tears hadn’t stopped, but the laughter had. You wiped them, and looked back at the blue.“

“Time passed. Darkness and time faded in and out. And then, one month later, we’re no longer in the bathroom. We’re at a bus stop. I’m pacing behind the glass. You’re sitting on a bench. You’re still crying. You’re weeping. I’m screaming. I’m yelling. You should never have trusted him. You should never have done those things with him. What have you done? I had to watch! I had to watch the entire thing! Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“You continue to cry.”

“Across the street is a brick building. Inside is a dirty room, with tables full of dull knives and instruments. And in the garbage is an unborn baby. Yours. Ours.”

“Your fiancé had broken your heart. He’d broken it with hate and reason, and then convinced you to kill your baby. And I watched the entire thing. I watched the blood. I watched the blackness. I could still see the black hole in your womb. A burning black pit of hate and death. And I felt it. I felt it deep inside me - where only love had existed. Now, I hated you. The baby had been something new. Something beautiful. He’d been hope, and I had seen him. And… I had spoken to him, touched him, prepared him… told him everything would be okay… told him I’d never leave him… that I’d be part of him forever… And you killed him.”

“The bus pulled up, people walked off. An old man saw you crying, asked if you were okay. We both screamed at him to go away and leave us alone. You got up, tears streaming down your face, palms rubbing your cheeks raw. You stepped into the bus, taking a window seat - facing me.”

“I didn’t move. I stayed outside, staring at you. The bus doors closed. Time hesitated, and slowed to a pulse.”

“I felt something I’d never felt before - hot tears running down my cheeks, and off my chin. They burned paths across my flesh. I tried wiping at them, but they remained, just as yours did. And I looked into your eyes. I couldn’t see anything. I looked harder. I reached back into my heart - into that black pit of despair, of bitterness, of fear and hate.”

“And I saw you. And I knew I couldn’t let you be afraid - not alone, not like I had. We’d both been scared for so long. Who would take care of us? What would happen to the baby, being brought into a world of death, of disease, of desolation? The fiancé had left - a liar and a cheater. The parents could only offer shame and condemnation. The world could only laugh. No one could save us. No one could save a baby and a life that none wanted. And then death crept up to us, offering terms of surrender. Was our only friend death? Could anyone else offer us comfort and support? So it had seemed… The darkness had seemed so friendly. And I hadn’t done anything had I? I had abandoned you to it, like I’d abandoned myself. I’d only yelled and screamed and threatened. But did I forgive? Did I heal? Did I love?”

“And then your eyes did something I hadn’t seen in over 20 years. They looked at me. They looked right into me. And I saw the questions. I saw the plea. And I wept… with you.”

“So I stepped into that bus. And I made the second real decision of my life. I forgave you. I forgave myself. I forgave everything. I put away the fear, and embraced the love that would keep us together - in light… forever.”

6.

The guardian remained silent for some time.

The old lady sat in her bed, eyes open, listening carefully, and waiting.

“That was over 60 years ago,” said the guardian, looking up. “60 years, and I can barely believe it.”

The guardian snuck up to the bed, placing its head near the old woman - near the beloved. “You became a doctor,” it whispered. “You found a wonderful man - another doctor, and married him. You had children - two sons, two daughters. And then they had children. You and your husband started a private practice - saving countless families from death and sorrow - your own, and others. You grew old, and retired. You traveled the world with your loving and faithful husband. You watched your grandchildren and gardens grow - and everywhere, life went on… and conquered… and triumphed. And through it all, I’ve been at your side, whispering love into your ear, breathing love into your heart.”

The woman smiled. The guardian felt his heart trembling.

“And now… when I can’t help you… you come back to me.” The guardian smiled, kissing her forehead.

The old woman laughed softly. “You’ve helped me,” she whispered.

The guardian shook his head.

“Now,” she said, “Let me help you.” Her familiar and playful eyes sparkled.

“You’ve already done so much,” replied the guardian. “You’ve saved my life.”

“No,” she said. “You don’t understand.” She looked into her guardian. “You still don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Look closer… look into my eyes.”

The guardian stared into the glassy gray eyes… nothing. “What am I looking for?”

She laughed softly. “The answer. The answer you’ve been searching for…” She lifted a hand, placing it upon her guardian’s cheek. The guardian’s face buzzed with light, burning with fire.

“I know who you are.”

And then her eyes lit up, light pouring forth, filling the room, enveloping both guardian and guarded… and in the eyes, a reflection formed.

“You’re me.”

The guardian’s skin ignited with loving light, burning into its soul and being. The reflection bore into its heart, revealing the truth that had been hiding there all along. The darkness couldn’t quench it. The hate couldn’t devour it. For in the unending quest, in the unending dreams, in the unending love and forgiveness and hope, in the unfaded memory of loved and beloved, the guardian finally found herself: one, in light, forever.

I was walking home on Monday night thinking about my wife, dinner, and how glad I was to be able to enjoy them both in the safety of my home. I saw three high school aged males walking towards me and they were smiling, mumbling something to me. I leaned in and asked, “excuse me.” They replied, What’s in your pockets, son?…What’s in your pockets?” Before I could respond two of them had moved behind to restrain me and the third belted me in the face. A barrage of punches landed around the left side of my face, chest and shoulders while my arms were caught in my backpack straps. I could not get those humorous words or pointed questions out because of the repeated blows to the face. The words were trapped in my head and I began to panic.

My mind conjured up a picture of an acquaintance that received a similar beating. He raised his hands and told the attackers that he refused to fight with violence, but if I lifted my hands I could not say a word. Non-violence became a tremendous challenge when the scenarios considered were inadequate but eventually I was able to recover my weapon. I was able to shake my arms free to cover my face. I could no longer hear what they were saying to me but I unleashed a thunderous cry for help. I repeated this one word one syllable alarm and a sense of fear entered my attackers. They knew the injustice they were delivering was shameful. They knew that if they couldn’t silence me they would be discovered. They threw me to the ground and began to kick me in the face, legs, and ribs and they did this to the sound of my continued cry for justice. In a moment of true dehumanization I was dragged a few feet through a mound of dog feces left on the sidewalk and a few more blows to the head were delivered before the three attackers fled.

I chased these three scared young boys while dialing 911 on my cell phone. I told the police officer where they were headed knowing that the chances of their capture were slim. While telling the story to the cops I was bruised but not in need of medical attention.

When I reported this attack to friends and family the common response was “Were you able to hit them back?” “Man if I were there I would have had your back!” Were you able to kick their asses?” The message of returning violence with violence has been so ingrained that a five-year-old relative of mine prayed for his Karate teacher to find these guys and return the beating.

Where would this have gotten me? A headline that reads, “white male high school teacher beats up a black sixteen-year-old on his way home from school.” Jesus calls us to respond with love. Now I know this in a real sense rather than the historical or theoretical sense. This is not to say that I would have been able to land a punch on my attackers but what would this have accomplished. I am trying to be creative in my non-violence and my pursuit of justice.

I was encouraged by the spirit through the following Sunday in listening to the Gospel reading about Jesus wiping mud on the face of a blind boy so that he could see. The public wanted to know if it was the parents who sinned or the boy to bring God’s wrath of blindness upon him. Jesus uses an unconventional way of showing God’s love by spitting in the dirt, making clay, and smearing it on this boy’s face. Christ used unconventional ways to show love and bring justice. It is time to follow Christ and use these unconventional ways. We need to make these unconventional ways conventional.

I was fortunate in my experience in that I was not hospitalized or murdered. I continue to wrestle with the unconventional ways of Jesus and how important it is to study them. Violence is a convention that has not worked and may have been a cause of my own attackers belief that this was acceptable.

I have always wanted to be good at dancing without practicing. Maybe non-violence is like dancing. It must be practiced, studied, visualized . . . but you never know when it will be time to perform.

In my experience burritos never travel alone. They often are seen in pairs or even triplets. I’ve even seen them coupled with any number of items from the 99 cent value menu. I’m no math major, but this one is easy: Burrito = delicious.

Burritos are easy to come by, but the easier they come, the easier they go. According to Taco Bell International, the average preparation time of a bean burrito is a one minute, 41 seconds, while the average life span of an unwrapped burrito is 37.4 seconds. About 20 minutes after devouring the bean, sour cream, cheese, and lard creation, the bliss has passed. In the aftermath, not only am I still hungry, but I’m in pain. I inhale burritos. But once I’m finished, I get a stomachache, which also never travels alone. These stomach pains can almost always be found in tandem with flatulence. The reality is that gas, a by-product the burrito connoisseur is forced to endure, stinks for you and everyone around you. The outcome of my usual trip to Taco Bell is never a pretty picture: a foul smelling, young man with gastro-intestinal discomfort. (Side note: The majority of Taco Bell restrooms I’ve been in have been very clean and well kept.)

You would think after three or four times, I might catch on. No such luck. It seems the hungrier I am, the less foresight I possess. But is this only true of our hunger for food? I think a worthy parallel could be drawn to the sexual appetite as well. Hunger makes us lose our ability to think of the future. How do we respond to hunger? Do we rashly, thoughtlessly try to quench it without thinking about the future? This might be permissible when dealing with your digestive system, but we cannot treat the sexuality of human beings of infinite value so callously.

If unfulfilling sex is a burrito, then sex as God designed it is the Thanksgiving Feast. Burritos are cheaper and faster, but only through patience and perseverance can the greatest good be achieved. At first Thanksgiving is a slow suffering that whets your desire. Smelling the buttery mash-potatoes, the stuffing (my favorite), and the roasting turkey is painful, especially when you see the oven timer still has over three hours. Where burritos are easy, thanksgiving is difficult. Even as a child, my mother put me to work stirring gravy and buttering bread. I’ve since moved on to peeling potatoes and chopping carrots. Thanksgiving always requires effort. Not just effort, but effort in the face of temptation. How many times did my thieving hand get slapped trying to sneak some crescent rolls? The meal is worth waiting for, had mother let me ruin my appetite, all our work would be in vain.

Sexuality is the hunger only a holy and spiritual union can fill. Why do we act surprised when anything else leaves us unfulfilled? Why do we stop at Taco Bell on our way to Thanksgiving dinner? Why are we so impatient and unwilling to allow God to cook us the thanksgiving feast that is holy sex, sex at its best. Sex at its best is a “complete and lifelong mutual gift of a man and a woman” (CCC 2337). Sex at its worst is a cheap and unsatisfying.

My mother slapping my hand is God asking us, begging us, not to settle for premarital sex. The only time God ever says “no” is when God wants to say “yes” to something higher. God asks us to skip the burrito and implores us to invest that hunger in something more stable. A burrito leaves us hungry 20 minutes later; thanksgiving feeds a family for a whole day, and for weeks afterwards with turkey sandwiches. Holy matrimonial sex will nourish the couple for a lifetime.

An appetite is healthy, but let’s not spoil it.

Men, put down the burrito and demand something higher, holier, and more nourishing. Let’s not settle for anything, but the best. We’re too good for anything but the highest good. Burritos cannot compare to well-cooked turkey.

Women, demand to be treated better than bean-lard and guacamole. Your dignity demands the attention, endurance, and determination of a real man, a Turkey-baser. You are too sacred to settle for anything less.

We must trust that God will not let us starve. We hold the menu; the choice is ours. We can have quick, cheap, unfulfilling sex, which is fleeting and leaves us hungry and gassy, or we can share the feast that God has prepared. The feast takes longer to prepare, but can be enjoyed for a lifetime.

if this endeavor or this activity is of human origin,
it will destroy itself.
But if it comes from God, you will not be able to destroy them;
you may even find yourselves fighting against God. (Apr 4th)

The Gospel reminds us that Christ can take a few scraps of food and turn it into a feast. But Christ, through His Church, can do far more than multiply loaves and fishes. His Church will storm the very gates of hell, and win. It seems that every other month I meet a Catholic who is convinced that the Church is upon the verge of total annihilation, upon the precipice of defeat. The enemy threatening to devour Catholicism is always different: relativism, radical traditionalists, money, the Vatican, and more often than I can comprehend, Islam.

Gerald at the The Cafeteria is Closed sums this mindset up:

I know that Catholicism is a suicide cult to some but thankfully not to the majority, else there’d be no Catholicism. (Haloscan)

Their solutions, ironically, are always the same: personal and interpersonal violence. Is hell is to be conquered with tanks and protests, with nukes and curses? Why do so many Catholics put more trust in our own power than God’s? Why do we call guns peacemakers, even while deriding compassionate souls as peaceniks? Other the side, why do we fight for justice without praying to the God of justice? How can we look for Christ in others while ignoring Christ in the Church? Why do hold signs saying ‘love your enemies’ while cursing enemies in our hearts?

If we really believed that Christ had triumphed on the cross, then we’d rejoice in our so called ‘defeats’. Mother Theresa said it well: we are called to be faithful, not successful. The Apostles rejoiced at being scourged for Christ. They didn’t see suffering and death as a sign of defeat. They saw suffering as a sign of Christ’s presence, “rejoicing that they had been found worthy to suffer dishonor for the sake of the name.” For his name - a name that they remained faithful to, even as they stared at the defeat of the cross.

This doesn’t mean that we sit back while evil triumphs. Christ didn’t say that he’d protect the Church from hell. He said that the gates of hell would not stand against the Church! The Church attacks! The body of Christ confronts evil, and defeats its enemies!

But how? How does the body of Christ break hell into pieces? “I have given you a model to follow,” Christ tells us. “I give you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you.” This new form of warfare is described by our new Pope:

The Lord has conquered on the cross. He has not conquered with a new empire, with a force that is more powerful than others, capable of destroying them; he has not conquered in a human manner, as we imagine, with an empire stronger than the other. He has conquered with a love capable of going to death.

This is God’s new way of conquering: He does not oppose violence with a stronger violence. He opposes violence precisely with the contrary: with love to the end, his cross. This is God’s humble way of overcoming: With his love — and only thus is it possible — he puts a limit to violence. This is a way of conquering that seems very slow to us, but it is the true way of overcoming evil, of overcoming violence, and we must trust this divine way of overcoming. (Zenit)

In weakness, St. Paul tells us, we find true strength. Weakness allows us to love, allow us to be merciful. And it is precisely through mercy that evil is defeated. In his encyclical Rich in Mercy, Pope John Paul the Great draws these thoughts into one final conclusion:

Mercy constitutes the fundamental content of the messianic message of Christ and the constitutive power of His mission . . . (it) does not allow itself to be “conquered by evil,” but overcomes “evil with good.”

Mercy will destroy our enemies. Mercy will destroy evil. Mercy will, and has, saved us.

If they come at us with missles, we come back at them with mercy. If they come at us with nukes, we come back at them with mercy.

Suicide bombers? Mercy.
“Radical Islam”? Mercy.
Unjust wars? Mercy.
Poverty? Mercy.
Greed? Mercy.
Hunger? Mercy.
Racism? Mercy.
Abortion? Mercy.
The assault upon families? Mercy.
Crime? Mercy.
Murder? Mercy.
Death? Mercy.

Evil?
Mercy.

Believing in the crucified Son means “seeing the Father,” means believing that love is present in the world and that this love is more powerful than any kind of evil in which individuals, humanity, or the world are involved. Believing in this love means believing in mercy. For mercy is an indispensable dimension of love; it is as it were love’s second name and, at the same time, the specific manner in which love is revealed and effected vis-a-vis the reality of the evil that is in the world, affecting and besieging man, insinuating itself even into his heart and capable of causing him to “perish in Gehenna. (Rich in Mercy, JPtG)

In case we have forgotten, the works of mercy:

The Corporal Works of Mercy
To feed the hungry
To give drink to the thirsty.
To clothe the naked.
To visit and ransom the captives.
To shelter the homeless.
To visit the sick.
To bury the dead.

The Spiritual Works of Mercy
To admonish sinners.
To instruct the ignorant.
To counsel the doubtful.
To comfort the sorrowful.
To bear wrongs patiently.
To forgive all injuries.
To pray for the living and the dead.

“Mercy constitutes the fundamental content of the messianic message of Christ and the constitutive power of His mission. His disciples and followers understood and practiced mercy in the same way. Mercy never ceased to reveal itself, in their hearts and in their actions, as an especially creative proof of the love which does not allow itself to be “conquered by evil,” but overcomes “evil with good.” The genuine face of mercy has to be ever revealed anew. In spite of many prejudices, mercy seems particularly necessary for our times.” - JPtG, Rich in Mercy

Issue 02 is finally here, thank God, thanks to his mercy. Without mercy, we are lost. Today I was told that prisoners on death row do not deserve mercy, and I wondered to myself, “but who does?”

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So both of my parents live and work in Iraq’s green zone, which is currently being attacked by rockets. Reportedly, two Americans have been killed this week. As the Shi’ites begin to kill one another across Iraq, and as my brother (a Marine infantryman) begins his 2nd deployment to Iraq, my emotions creep into the dark-side. Someone is trying to kill my family. The enemy is attempting to mutilate their bodies, scar their hearts, and destroy their being. If my mother comes back with half a face and a breathing tube down her throat, if my brother comes back with missing limbs and burnt-out eyes, if my father comes back in a flag-draped coffin, then I can’t predict what I would do. Maybe I’d reenlist into the Army. Maybe I’d get on TV and scream, “This enemy will never stop! The only solution is to kill them all!” Or maybe I’d cultivate silent hate.

But my faith in Jesus Christ and his Church calls me to another path, for my faith reveals the truth about my enemy, our enemy: “This enemy is not human.” We cannot destroy this enemy with a rifle, with a surge, with a military occupation.

Pope JPtG taught us, “no peace without justice, no justice without forgiveness.” Killing people in Iraq will not bring forgiveness. Rifles are not tools of reconciliation. Stryker armored vehicles rolling into Sadr city will not broker mercy. Bombs falling will not lead to flowers and forgiveness. The United States Military is an organization that trains for one thing: the spilling of human blood. Warriors know this. Soldiers are not trained in conflict-resolution during basic training. They’re trained to stick sharpened pieces of metal into human bodies while yelling, “KILL!”

No peace without justice. No justice without forgiveness.

And no forgiveness without sacrifice - ours, upon crosses, with “father, forgive them,” on our lips, with love of enemy in our hearts. To all Christians, I ask you - how is killing a self-sacrifice for love of enemy? How is killing an overture of reconciliation? How is killing a work of mercy? What sacrifices are you willing to make, rather than take? Make a sacrifice or take a sacrifice - carry a cross or carry a rifle. Both crosses and rifles require courage, both require bloodshed, both require sacrifice, but only one leads to forgiveness, to justice, to peace. Only one is VICTORY.

“Loving the enemy is the nucleus of the ‘Christian revolution’ . . . (it) is rightly considered the magna carta of Christian nonviolence.” - Pope Benedict XVI