As my infant son struggled with a difficult medical condition over the last few years, I found myself in the midst of caregiving like I had never experienced before. During that time, I stumbled across an old devotion: the Seven Sorrows of Mary. So, finding a connection with the Blessed Mother in my sorrow and hers, I found myself meditating on the Passion and Death of Jesus in a new way.
Amid Mary’s great Passion-related sorrows, we can find consolation, just as in the middle of a dark night, we find illumination in the stars. That consolation is that Jesus could see Mary standing there along the road to Calvary. Her presence was a comfort to him, as it was for me facing grief and sorrow in my own life.
Their meeting is not recorded in the Bible, but we know it happened by tradition. Their meeting was likely brief, just after Christ’s first nasty fall, and in that moment, Mary witnessed all the wretchedness that the people around her son put him through. Yet, what was wretched for her was also a moment in which Jesus could see that he wasn’t alone. Her presence showed him that someone loved him, that someone grieved his fate, and that Mary shared his suffering in her heart.
So even though Mary witnessed all the grotesque details of Jesus’ torture, she perhaps saw too the glimmer of relief in his eyes — just for a moment, that she was there.
Sometimes, our presence is not enough to console someone we love. But in certain, beautiful moments, it can. Even during the most difficult times, God offers us small graces. Like Mary, then, we can keep going.
Right after Mary and Jesus were forced to part, the soldiers recognized that he might not make it all the way to Golgotha alone. I wonder if Mary saw Simon of Cyrene from behind, and saw him help Jesus carry the cross as she longed to do. This too, was both a sorrow and a consolation, for now he had some help, but he was getting farther and farther from Mary, and closer and closer to death.
Isn’t it funny how intimately sorrow and consolation are linked? The other side of sorrow is joy, and the other side of love is loss. As a caregiver, I’ve learned acutely that in life, we walk the razor-thin edge between the two sides, feeling both in their time as we wobble between them. It’s the sorrow of sitting at the bedside of a suffering loved one, intermingled with the joy of being in their presence, the joy of loving them with a depth that only such suffering uncovers. To flee one – sorrow or joy – is to flee the other. We can accept joy in our lives only when we accept sorrow. We can accept love only when we also accept loss.
This is the drama of our fragile, human lives. It is my drama in caregiving, and, I imagine, in all the permutations of life in which we live our days for the sake of another. Perhaps it is why Jesus told us to take up our crosses, that we may take up our joys in their time as well (Matthew 16:24). Perhaps it is why the man who avoided suffering “went away sad” (Matthew 19:22).
Mary’s sorrow is different from sadness. It is founded on faith, given momentum by hope, and is the interwoven brother of love. Sorrow is deep, like roots that probe deeper and deeper so that the tree above can bear abundant fruit. It is like the chaff that grows up with the grain; to remove sorrow now would threaten the harvest, but one day, God will separate the two (Matthew 3:12). Sorrow will be forgotten, and we’ll be left with the abundance and joy of Easter.
Editor’s note: This article is an edited excerpt from Theresa’s book, “Caring for a Loved One with Mary: A Seven Sorrows Prayer Companion” (OSV 2023).
Why do Catholics wave palms on Palm Sunday, wash each other’s feet on Holy Thursday, or kiss the cross on Good Friday? In an updated version of our classic video (with a bonus extra minute — because there’s a lot going on this week!), Busted Halo explains the significance of the final week we spend preparing for Easter.
To download this video go here and click the download arrow or choose save or download.
Eucharist Adoration at Immaculate Conception Seminary in Huntington, New York. (CNS photo/Gregory A. Shemitz, Long Island Catholic)
My first experience with Eucharistic Adoration occurred in sixth grade at my Catholic elementary school when my homeroom teacher took my entire class to the church to pray in silence in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. If you’re thinking it was difficult for 35 12-year-olds to sit still and pray in silence for an hour, then you’d be right. We squirmed and fidgeted and poked our neighbors to avoid giving our undivided attention to the Lord. Our behavior earned a mild scolding from our soft-spoken teacher, who reminded us of Jesus’ own words in the Garden of Gethsemane the night before he was crucified: “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour?”
After that, I didn’t go to Adoration again for many years. First, there was the challenge of carving out an hour in the middle of the week to get there, when so many other activities and errands felt more pressing. Secondly, I was worried that Adoration might only be for super holy people — ones who spend time with God in perfect, prayerful contentment. My mind is full of worldly concerns and distractions, so maybe Adoration wasn’t for me. Finally, my inner, fidgety sixth grader was concerned Adoration might be, well, boring. I assumed a Holy Hour would look like waiting for a big revelation from God and hearing nothing but crickets.
After moving to Colorado, though, I discovered that my new parish had a perpetual Adoration chapel, which meant I could sit with the Blessed Sacrament at any time of the day or night. And despite my years of doubts, I somehow found myself wanting to try again. Here are some things I that helped me commit to a weekly Adoration practice:
It’s not all about me
Like Mass, Adoration isn’t necessarily about what we will get out of it. True, the graces dispensed by God help us grow in holiness, but the primary purpose of Adoration is right there in the name of the act: to adore the One present to us in the Eucharist.
Just be
Remember that you don’t actually have to do anything. The Catholic faith recognizes that the greatest gift God gives us is himself, and Adoration is another way for us to recognize that gift outside of receiving the Eucharist at Mass. So, don’t overthink it. Just receive the gift.
Pray (with a little help)
If it’s been awhile since you’ve entered the Adoration chapel and you’re worried you might be a little bored (that’s understandable!), or you have no idea where to start (it’s okay!), I’ll offer the following suggestions:
Pray the rosary. To contemplate the mysteries of Jesus’ life in the rosary is to contemplate the mystery of the Eucharist given to us and the Blessed Sacrament we praise in Adoration. So, pairing these prayers is a great habit to get into.
Write in your prayer journal. Writing in a prayer journal is a great way of making your relationship with God seem more tangible, since we’re getting the words out of our heads and onto the paper. Think of the practice as writing a letter to God. Take all your worries of the day and lay them down during Adoration. Or write to him about everything that’s going well in your life right now.
Listen to praise and worship music. Music can be an extremely effective way to focus our thoughts on God. Just make sure you have headphones that will keep everyone else in your vicinity from hearing your music if they’d rather spend their time in meditative prayer. I usually find that slow, reflective melodies work best for this environment — anything by Audrey Assad usually does the trick for me.
Read. While Adoration isn’t really the time to break out that thriller you’ve been working your way through, it is a great opportunity to pull out a book by one of the saints (such as “The Diary of St. Faustina,” St. Francis De Sales’ “Introduction to the Devout Life,”or St. Thérèse’s autobiography “The Story of a Soul.” Or prayerfully consider a few lines of the Catechism. You may also choose toread a set of devotional essays like Caryll Houselander’s “The Reed of God,” which is full of meditations on Mary. And of course, don’t forget the Bible!
You don’t have to sit still during your Holy Hour in order to make it count. It’s okay for it to be a natural extension of the rest of your prayer life. So, if there’s something that really helps you focus your prayer, bring it to Adoration. Most of all, remember to receive the gift of Christ in the Eucharist and just be present to God.
Every March, I notice an emergence of leprechauns, shamrocks, and Guinness, followed by an abundance of Italian pastries, lilies, and the color red. The remembrance of St. Joseph follows St. Patrick’s Day on the calendar each year, but too often I have neglected to celebrate them both intentionally. This year, my family has decided to honor the impact of these two heroic saints in a (hopefully) memorable way.
My wife, Joanna, is always concerned about how we can encourage our young sons to experience the faith in a way that goes beyond attending Mass on Sunday mornings. She is great at finding ways to make being Catholic about celebrating life and having fun doing it. She’ll buy a colorful saints calendar for the kitchen, set up dinner on the floor on Holy Thursday, or dress the kids in colors that align with a specific feast day. Finding ways to infuse the faith into the normal parts of our lives sparked our ideas for how to celebrate St. Patrick and St. Joseph this year. While Joanna’s Italian side gives rise to her proclivity for Joseph, St. Patrick has always been celebrated radically in the Irish Griffin household.
St. Patrick receives most of the spotlight out of these two saints, and much of his feast day has been commercialized into drinking and eating corned beef. This year, we plan to eat all of the traditional Irish foods, but also use the shamrock as a way to teach our sons about who God is.
We plan on going outside and using chalk to outline a huge shamrock in green and have the kids color it in. Then we will focus on how the shamrock points to the fact that God is a relationship of perfect love represented by the three leaves (The Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). While we eat dinner, we will tell the brief story of St. Patrick who helped bring the faith to the people of Ireland even though it was not easy. Then we will talk about how prayer helped him through his trials.
At bedtime, we will reinforce this and pray one of St. Patrick’s prayers:
“Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.”
We will end the prayer with the Sign of the Cross, referencing the huge shamrock we colored together as a family.
Two days later on St. Joseph’s Day, we will enjoy some nice Italian pastries while focusing on an activity that we hope the boys will love. Our kids already have some toy tools. Some of them have worn out their flavor, but we will try to resurrect that by giving them a chance to build something together. As we build something together as a family, we can talk about how Joseph was a carpenter and how Jesus spent so much time building with him.
Later in the day, we hope to make a tiny home out of popsicle sticks. All we’ll need is glue, a piece of cardboard to serve as the walls, and about 30 popsicle sticks. By gluing them together to form the structure of a simple five-sided house, we can teach the kids that God calls us all to build time to talk to him in our home every day.
In many ways, Patrick and Joseph belong together. They were both heroic men of virtue who acted radically for God. Despite the challenges they faced, they trusted that God would protect them, and moved to love those around them as if they were Christ themselves. Highlighting their trust and devotion can only aid the growth of faith among our children.
Even though these are simple practices, we think they can have an impact because we are using ordinary moments of the day to invite God to speak to us. Whether it is playtime or dinner or bedtime, these can be opportunities for us to bring God to our kids. While some aspects of these activities will, undoubtedly, not go as planned, we hope that they can become habits that we come back to each year so that faith becomes a part of their lives in an organic way. Hopefully, they will even give rise to celebrating other saints in a similar way. Then Patrick and Joseph can truly impact the holiness of our growing family.
A few years ago, I was asked to sit on an alumnae panel at my high school to talk about life in college and beyond. At the end of the discussion, the panelists took turns giving the seniors advice about college life.
Mine? “Don’t study while you eat.”
For me, the point of a meal is to be fully present with the person you’re sharing it with. (And if you are eating alone, the meal can be a time to mindfully reflect or pray.)
There is a sanctity in literally breaking bread with others — whether it be for a special occasion or as part of an everyday routine. Regardless, being distraction-free and fully focused on the present moment — and God’s presence in our company — makes each meal full of grace.
During the Last Supper, a Passover Seder, Jesus gathered with his 12 disciples in the Upper Room to celebrate the Jewish feast. Together, they reclined at the table to symbolize that they are a free people. They feasted on food such as eggs (beitzah), bitter herbs (maror), lettuce (chazeret), parsley (karpas), a spiced apples and nut mixture (charoset), unleavened bread (matzah), and chicken or fish. They enjoyed the traditional four cups of wine throughout the meal.
Mealtimes emphasize the beauty of a community. Everyone takes time out of their busy lives to come together as one. It’s no wonder that Jesus chose a meal to establish the first Mass, the holiest of meals. In fact, every Mass is a meal. We gather together to listen to God’s word and eat and drink his body and blood in the form of bread and wine.
That’s probably why I love hosting family and friends for a home-cooked meal. My husband and I have some favorite dishes we cook for guests: Jamaican-style oxtail, lasagna with homemade pasta, slow-cooked honey-soy ribs, and French onion soup, to name a few. But even daily meals where it’s just Arthur and me (and our dog on the lookout for scraps) feel special because it’s a time when we can simply be together and enjoy a moment of stillness in our lives.
As Jesus literally broke bread, he told his disciples: “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19). He did it again as he passed around the cup of wine: “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood” (Luke 22:20). This was one of the most singularly important announcements in the world: that Jesus is fully present in the bread and wine that is shared in Mass, all around the world, from that very first seder meal to today.
In our own lives, mealtimes are moments for making announcements. I remember, for instance, the night my sister announced that she was pregnant. It was also over a meal that my husband and I announced we were engaged. Mealtime makes perfect sense to share announcements such as these, as well as job promotions, new ventures, travel plans, and so forth, because we are sharing time and food with our loved ones.
Coming to terms
Because we are gathered with loved ones, mealtimes can also be a place to process bad news. I remember the meal I shared with my family the day of my grandmother’s wake: a pork cutlet with mashed potatoes and cucumber salad—the typical hearty Polish fare that is my total comfort food. The meal not only gave me the physical strength to bear the painful events to come but also gave me courage, knowing I was in solidarity with my grieving family.
Jesus himself shared a dramatic pronouncement at the Last Supper: “Truly, truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me” (John 13:21). This, I’m sure, caused quite a stir in the Upper Room. And, while his disciples were shocked that there could be a traitor among such a close-knit group, Jesus planted the seed to allow them to begin to process all the terrible things that were to come on his road to Calvary.
During a seder, it is traditional to wash hands as part of ritual and spiritual cleansing. But Jesus also washed his disciples’ feet, saying: “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you” (John 13:14-15).We, too, can gain wisdom from the loved ones gathered with us. I remember my parents telling their stories of living in Communist-occupied Poland. Due to mismanagement and poor economic policies, the Communist regime rationed food and other everyday supplies so that store shelves were frequently empty. People stood with government-issued ration cards in long lines (“kolejki”), some of which took days, to receive their portions of sugar, meat, flour, chocolate, etc. Stories such as these gave me the prudence to always be grateful for life’s blessings—like mealtimes. Jesus teaches us to keep mealtimes sacred.There’s a game that some people play when they go out to a restaurant. Everyone places their cell phones in a pile in the middle of the table. The first person to touch their phone pays for the entire check.
Perhaps this is a little cruel for the first poor soul to succumb to temptation, but the message is a simple one: When you’re sharing a meal with your loved ones, be fully there for them. Be present. Make it holy. Jesus did when he instituted the Mass. We can, too—and not just on Sundays, but every day of the week.
At a 4:00 p.m. Saturday Mass in Overland Park, Kansas, during the preparation of gifts, I sat on the stiff, dark wooden church pew and reflected on Lent. Earlier that week, a student taking my Christian Ethics course asked what I had given up for the season. It was a routine question, but it felt more genuine since we had been discussing moral virtues, vices, and spirituality that day. I told the class that I had not decided. The students were surprised. I acknowledged that, in the past, I had given up yelling at my children (now teenagers!) with mixed results.
What came to me during Mass was the thought that I could give up judging other people as the Gospel of Matthew teaches. “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged. For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get” (Matthew 7:1-2). As the thought arose, I sensed that God began to laugh. Indeed, when I told my ethics students that I had given up judging others, they howled and one student commented, “Professor Hughes, c’mon, you can’t be serious!”
Yes, I get it. We evaluate other people’s actions and their character constantly: for an unkind word, indifference to our needs, suffering behind a slow car or being passed by a fast one, or, worse yet, feeling our good work or integrity is overlooked or forgotten. Our judgments frequently pair with hurt, anger, resentment – pain. Psychology tells us that we tend to attribute more to personal character than to situations and that we know much less about complex situations, actions, and motives than we suppose. I cannot count how many times I’ve made snap judgments about certain students on the first day of class. I might focus on a weird facial expression, a slouched body posture, a face hidden under a hoodie, or a single negative comment and sortput them squarely into a “worthy” or “unworthy” bucket.
During Lent, I became more attuned to the frequency and quality of my judgments. I habitually sorted actions and persons into different categories — innocent, guilty, deserving, undeserving — so that Jesus’ injunction seemed on a commonsense level to be impossible. Surely, he didn’t mean it! On my daily commute, at times I find myself attributing malicious motives against me by my fellow commuters behind the careless driving or impatient honks without knowing anything about their lives, worries, pressures, etc. And it really makes no sense. But I, along with many of us, can habituate taking offense and then passing harsh judgments too easily and quickly.
Or perhaps Jesus just meant not consigning another person to hell. It is, in fact, easy to think this. But from my Lenten experience and reflection on Matthew, I don’t believe condemnation is the main issue. What’s happening is a more subtle and pervasive way of seeing and assessing others that becomes a blindness to love. So what does this biblical teaching mean?
Matthew’s and other biblical references to “judging” seldom mean “do not condemn.” Luke uses a different word for “judge” (krino) and for “condemn” (katadikazete), distinguishing two different acts. Matthew (and Mark) add to the prohibition on judging the caution about how the way we measure others should be the way we measure ourselves. So, condemnation is only one of many responses covered in the ways we judge — not the only way. It seems that the meaning concerns more common interactions and judgments we make. From my own experience this past Lent, this distinction rang true.
That Lent, I learned that Jesus does not mean ignoring injustice or becoming desensitized to evil and wrongdoing. What I found in self-monitoring my judgment of others — especially behind the wheel — was that when I judged and quickly sorted another person into a negative category, I became less connected to that person, more cut off, more isolated from them and from my own tendency to act likewise. Indeed, one of the key meanings of the Greek term krino aside from “judge,” is “to separate.” If I wanted to see harshness, strictness, looking out to be offended by this look, that remark, his comment or her gesture, I would find them. I saw and judged the other as such. And in so doing, I separated myself from my neighbor and ignored my own harshness, strictness, and ways that I might offend others.
I was not at all aware that the measuring stick I used would be similarly used on me. And that is the tough part. It requires serious self-reflection, knowledge of one’s sinfulness, needing God’s help, mercy, and being constantly on the lookout for goodness to get “judging” right. It requires a type of ego death, one that means a better seeing of another person in all their complexity rather than a fixation on a snapshot in time or a fault, hurt, or offense. A patient gazing and understanding of the other with, what Richard Rohr calls “soft eyes,” rather than an emotional reaction and quick sorting into some form of inferiority.
Judging others makes it very hard indeed to see Christ’s goodness, kindness, mercy, and love being poured out upon my neighbor and myself every second. Judging can quickly and subtly lend itself to emphasizing what is wrong with the person, the driver, the lack, the negative in a situation. It means seeing the person or group behind such acts as unable to be fully defined and described and named by them as who they are in God. That Lenten lesson is still a work in progress for me. I suspect we all need to practice slowing down, waiting, and letting the goodness of the other reveal itself to us. For that, we’ll need to ask God for help: help to slow my assessments, find more patience, and remember that everyone is an image of incomprehensible love. And finally, I need to trust that, as always, our loving God will deliver and help me to see more lovingly and less critically.
The Stations of the Cross is a devotion following the events leading to Jesus’ crucifixion. Prayers accompanying it allow time to reflect on the mystery of his death. Originally the Stations of the Cross was an actual physical journey in and around Jerusalem. Later the series was symbolized in outdoor shrines, and today many parishes display artistic representations in their sanctuaries. The Stations of the Cross may be done at any time, but is commonly a part of Lenten spiritual practice, specifically on Good Friday.
Busted Halo has created a series of virtual stations designed for personal devotion. These stations relate to Jesus’ teachings about the Kingdom of God and the reason his vision of this Kingdom led to his death. Find a quiet place to watch these stations, and as you do the devotions be open to how God is speaking to you through the Stations of the Cross.
To download these videos, go here and click the download arrow or choose save or download (top right). Please note, all Busted Halo videos are free to use in parishes, schools, or for other educational purposes. In fact, we encourage it!
Station One: Jesus Is Condemned to Death
Station Two: Jesus Carries His Cross
Station Three: Jesus Falls for the First Time
Station Four: Jesus Meets His Mother
Station Five: Simon Helps Jesus Carry His Cross
Station Six: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus
Station Seven: Jesus Falls for the Second Time
Station Eight: Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem
Station Nine: Jesus Falls for the Third Time
Station Ten: Jesus Is Stripped of His Clothes
Station Eleven: Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross
Station Twelve: Jesus Dies on the Cross
Station Thirteen: Jesus Is Taken Down from the Cross
Station Fourteen: Jesus Is Placed in the Tomb
Credits: Images of the Stations of the Cross from the Pope John Paul II Cultural Center in Washington, D.C., were created by Pittsburgh artist Virgil Cantini and courtesy of Catholic News Service and photographer Bob Roller. All music by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com).
Last fall, signs outside our parish and notices within our weekly bulletin reminded my family that the month of October in our Catholic faith is dedicated to the Rosary. Every time when we walked into Mass, we heard other parishioners reciting the Rosary before the service started. It may sound cheesy, but my husband and I felt a spiritual calling in October to participate in those prayers more actively. Notably, this isn’t a reflection on how my family learned to say the Rosary together during October. It is, however, an account of how we began to try.
In this process of learning the prayers for the Rosary, we felt “behind” where we imagined other families we knew to be. In October, my family already knew “The Hail Mary” and “Glory Be,” but those were our only starting points. We began by adding “The Salve Regina” to our nightly routines, learning one line per night in our living room before the kids would dash off to brush their teeth and crawl into bed.
In the process, we found that attempting to memorize new prayers together was unexpectedly spiritually rewarding for every member of our family—my husband, my two elementary-school-age children, and me. Before last October, we’d recite those prayers we already knew each night before bedtime, but we’d never attempted anything long. We’d also never practiced the memorization and recitation process nightly together. We had learned those prayers individually or with our church classes. Of course, the things that are spiritually rewarding in our lives are never quite as easy as we’d like them to be, and this process has been no different. It’s now Lent, and we’ve still yet to say the Rosary together without reading at least part of it from a book or a screen.
A little like brushing their teeth each night, my children often balk at reciting the prayers. Likewise, sometimes when there’s a football game on, so does my husband. I also admit that if I’ve had a long day at work and would rather relax with a book and have some solitude, adding the drama of begging everyone to come together to learn prayers isn’t exciting for me. Still, once we start reciting the prayers and learning the lines, a sense of accomplishment and even a spiritual weight visits our living room that is worth every bit of nudging our family might have needed to start memorizing together. The kids might be fighting about whose cookie looks bigger for dessert, or what TV show they’ll watch in the morning, yet they’ll calm down once we’ve launched into saying the prayers a few times. Solemnity almost always takes hold, so to speak.
As part of our practice, we say each line of the prayer we’re covering that day five times together, adding whatever lines we learned the day before to it. Then we have each person say the prayer to the point they’ve learned it on their own. My children love taking center stage in the living room, standing on a certain part of the rug where there’s a big flower: This is their stage. They also enjoy checking and correcting my husband and me when we inevitably fumble certain lines or words in the prayers. Like the kids, we stand up on that same flower in the rug, making the recitation a more active, bodily endeavor. Even so, it still took my family three months to remember the “Salve Regina.” In part, this is because we didn’t recite the prayer every day, despite our best intentions. Yet when we’d get off schedule for a few days (like when my son got sick with the flu), we always picked back up where we left off as soon as we could. Now that we’ve finally learned “The Salve Regina,” the prayer is part of the fabric of our lives. We’ll say it together before I drop the kids off at school, or if they’re having an anxious moment, we’ll hold hands and pray it together. My 8-year-old daughter and I will also recite the prayers we’ve learned as I brush her hair in the morning.
As we’re approaching her First Communion this Easter, we’ve turned our focus to memorizing “The Apostles’ Creed.” The Rosary begins with it, and the Creed serves as a foundational statement of Catholic beliefs, focusing on our faith’s mysteries. When we practiced “The Apostles’ Creed” last week – again, before bed, in our living room betwixt the chaos of getting school clothes ready for the next day and lunch boxes packed – my daughter asked about the phrase in the creed stating that Jesus was “conceived by the Holy Spirit.” We realized she had no idea what the word “conceived” meant, and to be honest, my husband and I faltered for a moment in answering her. Theological explorations are not often at the forefront of our minds during our household bedtime routines. Even though we were saying the words together almost daily for months, it wasn’t until my daughter was able to repeat them without struggling that she began to ponder their meaning. How exactly was Jesus conceived by the Holy Spirit AND born of the Virgin Mary, not one or the other, she inquired?
After thinking through it—and, yes, Googling it—we explained that even though Jesus was born of a human mother, Mary, he possesses a divine nature, as his conception occurred through the Holy Spirit rather than a human father. Jesus is fully divine and fully human, both God and man. While we may worship this truth together at Mass and while my daughter may have learned this in her religious education classes, the lightbulb that went off in her head while we were discussing this mystery as a family was amazing to not only watch but also to participate in with her. Wow, we seemed to realize as a family, these words we’re repeating are astounding when one truly thinks through them and feels their power.
This was a special moment – and a rare one in our family routine – and it felt exhilarating to experience it. In fact, we encounter struggle more often than not. While we are almost done learning the Creed now, my husband is farther behind than the rest of us, and it’s not for lack of trying: memorization is simply harder for him. My daughter has a speech impediment, and the words don’t come easily to her either. Because every member of the family is different in how we learn, this can prove an impediment to keeping the energy and momentum needed to inspire daily practice.
Keeping this in mind, my husband and I try to keep an atmosphere of lightness. We never shame anyone if someone is struggling, but we encourage each other to make it to the end of that section no matter the attempts it takes. The laughter that inevitably happens as we mix or miss words is good for our family’s soul. Plus, it teaches our children to be kind to each other – and to us – because we’re all learning the prayers together simultaneously. Through memorizing and reciting prayers, our entire family can be described for one of the first times ever as spiritually curious. While we may have been fighting moments earlier before trying to pray about who did or did not do the dishes, we open ourselves to God being with us when we pause for this practice. Our hearts, minds, and days almost always settle. While it may not happen right away, after the final recitation, there is usually a sense of pervasive and palpable calm, and that is worth every up and down in getting there.
It bears mention here that in Catholicism, memorization entails a spiritual recollection that is supposed to work in concert with the intellectual aspect of memory. For example, the liturgy of the Catholic Mass is a memorial, or “a remembering of” the re-presentation of the sacrificial act of Jesus’ death on the Cross. During each Mass, our salvation becomes present before us on the altar through the Sacrament of the Eucharist. In other words, Mass is not a mere recollection but an active participation in this past salvific event, making the past present in a sacred and transformative way.
As my family prepares for my daughter’s First Communion, we have learned that memorizing prayers has brought us closer to God’s divine mission on our couch at home in addition to on our parish’s pews. Memorizing together helps us connect with the Church’s past and lay claim to our own future within it. The often-fumbled words, the shared laughter, and the earnest attempts to understand the words we’re reciting have led us to find grace within our family’s spiritual life and to connect that grace with the broader Church family we also belong to and are learning more about through its prayers and creeds.
Indeed, in nurturing our children’s spiritual growth, my husband and I have inadvertently discovered a path to our own. Our family recitation and prayer time has become a conduit for grace, an opportunity to be present with one another and God. As my daughter prepares for her First Communion, “The Apostles Creed” stands not just as a set of words now memorized but as a testament to our shared journey, a journey that has drawn us closer to each other and the Church’s doctrines, and most importantly, closer to God.
One of my favorite little moments from J.R.R. Tolkien’s fantasy masterpiece “The Lord of the Rings”is when the ranger Aragorn returns to Pippin a treasured brooch that the hobbit had cast by the wayside as a clue after he and his cousin Merry were captured by the evil orcs. “It was a wrench to let it go,” said Pippin, “but what else could I do?” Indeed, if Pippin had not had the good sense to drop the brooch, his friends might never have known that the two young hobbits were still alive at all. Aragorn confirms that Pippin made the right choice, saying that “one who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
I find this exchange so powerful because it often reflects my own experience. Parting with possessions, even those that I no longer need or use, can be a truly wrenching task. There are times when I feel like my possessions really possess me. Yet when I ask God for the strength to let them go, I know at once that I’m doing the right thing.
It’s true that, as a Catholic layperson, I have no obligation to take a vow of poverty like a professed religious brother. And yet, as a disciple of Jesus Christ, I am called to live simply and modestly, prioritizing people over possessions. More often than I would like, I find myself emulatingthe rich young man who encounters Jesus in Mark’s Gospel. When Jesus invites him to sell all he has and become a disciple, the youth “was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions” (Mark 10:22). Like that poor soul, I time and again find myself a prisoner of my possessions.
Thank God that the Church gives us the season of Lent! Lent can be a powerful, intentional time of conversion, a time to reorient my spiritual life and sacrifice those things that have become obstacles and stumbling blocks on my personal walk with God, holding me back from pursuing a more authentic path of discipleship.
As Ash Wednesday approached this year, I realized that I could make my process of decluttering into a Lenten blessing, an opportunity to examine what my spiritual priorities truly are, as well as an opportunity to practice almsgiving and help the less fortunate through the corporal works of mercy.
When I was out on a walk around my neighborhood thinking over all these things, I had a flash of inspiration: I would collect 40 of my unused or lightly used items and donate them to charity — 40 items for the 40 days of Lent! Of course, this is hardly an original idea (honestly, I can’t remember where I first heard about it) but I believe that it is what God is calling me to do this Lent. I didn’t even wait for Ash Wednesday to begin putting my plan into practice!
About half of the items I’ve collected for donation so far are clothing. On a recent episode of the “Word on Fire Show”, Bishop Robert Barron said that cleaning out the closet can be a very good way to make an examination of conscience.
Admittedly, I felt a bit defensive when I heard that. “Well,” I thought, “maybe that’s true for other people, but I certainly don’t have that many unused clothes.” But when I searched through my bedroom closet a few weeks ago, I got a sobering reality check: I found many items of clothing that I wasn’t wearing because they no longer fit, and more than a few pieces that I had bought on impulse and had simply never worn at all. I put all these aside into a big bag to donate to my parish’s Lenten clothing drive.
Besides clothing, the bulk of the items I’ve chosen to give away are books. I’ve written before about my struggle to downsize my enormous book collection. When I’m being brutally honest with myself, I know that many, if not most, of the books I own are titles that I’ll never read again. I either hang onto them for sentimental reasons or because I fool myself into thinking that I will need them for some vague “writing project” that I may (or may not) do in the future. The time had come to seriously cull my book collection. So far, I’ve managed to almost fill up three banker’s boxes with books to donate to my local library’s charity book drop! But this was not an easy accomplishment.
At one point, I was just stuck; I couldn’t seem to part with any of my books no matter how hard I tried. I kept putting them back on the shelf. Then I remembered one of my favorite Catholic podcasters, the Dutch priest Fr. Roderick Vonhöge, who often shares insights into his own decluttering process on his podcast “The Walk.” So I started listening to an episode where Fr. Roderick revealed how he’s been incorporating prayer into his efforts at decluttering. He found that praying over each unwanted object, and specifically giving thanks to God for its former usefulness, made it easier for him to let go of things cluttering up his workspace.
This insight changed my whole perspective on parting with my books, and I adapted Fr. Roderick’s practice into my own three-part prayer: As I took each book off the shelf, I first thanked God for sending that book into my life when he needed it. Second, I asked God to bless the person who would receive this book now that it was no longer useful to me. And third, I made an act of trust that God will provide for all my future needs. This was a liberating experience that allowed me to donate far more books than I thought possible before!
There are still several more weeks of Lent to go, and I know I’m just beginning this journey of conversion. I’m just starting to form a better relationship with my possessions that reflects my primary calling as a child of God and a disciple of Jesus Christ. With the help of prayer and trust in God’s grace during this holy season, I’m certain I’ll make progress.
People like to tell me that they haven’t seen “Star Wars.”
It started out as a joke with friends: “Eric loves ‘Star Wars!’ This will absolutely shock him. He won’t be able to believe it.”
But over time, it’s become something else. Usually, after I give a talk or a workshop—one thoroughly peppered with “Star Wars” references and jokes—a person will come up to me, sort of sheepish. “I really liked your talk,” they’ll say before pivoting to confession mode. “But Eric, I’m really sorry to say this, but I haven’t seen ‘Star Wars’…”
I mock shock, anger even, but then we laugh. It’s fine, of course—the franchise isn’t for everyone. We all have stories we like and some that just don’t resonate. I haven’t yet refused a friendship over the mere sin of not having seen “Star Wars.”
But I have been thinking more and more about this transition in the way people talk to me about that galaxy far, far away. Because I think they see a change in me: This isn’t just a story I enjoy; it means something.
Sure, it holds a special place in my own life story: My dad popped those VHS tapes in the VCR when I was little, ensuring I had something super cool to talk to my friends about in school for the rest of the week–and that I was ready for the prequel trilogy to premiere only a few years later.
But “Star Wars” means more to me than that. It gives voice to my own spiritual journey.
I’m not talking about drawing parallels between our faith and “Star Wars”: “Anakin as the Chosen One is like Jesus as our Savior!” Or, “Jesuits are like Jedi because they both practice a form of indifference!” Parallels are helpful, sure; they help us see spiritual stakes in otherwise secular stories. But we remain passive observers when we simply look for parallels; we don’t engage the spiritual truths they point to.
What moves me about “Star Wars” is that the story gives me a new language with which to give voice to my spiritual journey. For example, the Dark Side of the Force feeds on fear; am I allowing fear to govern my decisions in relationships, at work, or in the way I view myself? If I am, then I may be unknowingly pursuing a dark path—and my own faith tradition has plenty to say about that!
What about redemption? Sure, we love to see Luke cling so fervently to the belief that his father might still be saved, and that Anakin still lives somewhere in Darth Vader. But do I act as confidently in this galaxy oh-so-near? Do I display those spiritual virtues that Luke does on the second Death Star: nonviolence, trust, surrender, and compassion? And if not, is there a relationship in my life that could benefit from such a disposition?
I enter into the story; I engage the characters. I try some of those lofty lessons on for size. And I do so in a way that remembers St. Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits—honoring the spiritual legacy of the Basque soldier-turned-saint who realized that God was to be found in all things, through our senses and our desires. Ignatius invites us to engage Scripture this way, by entering the story. But what if we did the same with stories of pop culture that mean so much to us?
Because I think in the end, that’s the point: God is present in these supposedly godless stories. God desires to speak to us through the very myths and legends that move us, that inspire us, that stoke our imagination. Are these holy texts? Not in any way a biblical scholar would recognize, but these are stories that speak to something deep within ourselves.
And the reason I spend so much time thinking about them—the reason I wrote a whole book, “My Life with the Jedi: The Spirituality of Star Wars”—is because I think that while these stories speak to us, we can use that same language to speak to others. To discover spiritual truths within ourselves.
We don’t actually have some mystical energy force to call upon to levitate rocks or pull X-Wings from mucky swamps. But we do experience the tug of the dark side and the light each and every day. We wrestle with decisions that set our lives on trajectories that bring us closer to the light or further from it.
Painting this very relatable spiritual struggle in the hues of laser swords and warrior monks simply brings into clarity the weight of otherwise mundane decisions. Spiritual decisions. Do I move closer to the light? Or, do I find myself in darkness and in need of redemption? The fate of the galaxy might not rest on my meager decision-making. But then again, maybe it does.
Star Wars. Ignatian spirituality. Pop culture. Our faith lives. These aren’t separate things. In fact, one can feed the other, all while elevating our ability to see new. possibilities in a world so desperately in need of them.
Maybe that’s why people have started apologizing to me for not seeing “Star Wars.” People feel as though they have to apologize for not being fully bought in. Not because “Star Wars” is my religion but because it clearly gives me a new language with which to articulate very old spiritual truths. And that matters—to me, to you, to our world.
But here’s what I say in response: Don’t apologize for not seeing “Star Wars.” Find the story or stories that inspire you. And see what God might be trying to say to you through them.
As my infant son struggled with a difficult medical condition over the last few years, I found myself in the midst of caregiving like I had never experienced before. During that time, I stumbled across an old devotion: the Seven Sorrows of Mary. So, finding a connection with the Blessed Mother in my sorrow and hers, I found myself meditating on the Passion and Death of Jesus in a new way. 
Every March, I notice an emergence of leprechauns, shamrocks, and Guinness, followed by an abundance of Italian pastries, lilies, and the color red. The remembrance of St. Joseph follows St. Patrick’s Day on the calendar each year, but too often I have neglected to celebrate them both intentionally. This year, my family has decided to honor the impact of these two heroic saints in a (hopefully) memorable way. 
One of my favorite little moments from J.R.R. Tolkien’s fantasy masterpiece “The Lord of the Rings”
People like to tell me that they haven’t seen “Star Wars.”