Station of the Cross

by Scott P. Richert When my sisters and I were young, my mother would spend all of Advent baking cookies and making candy. That may hardly seem remarkable; after all, countless millions of Christmas cookies are baked and consumed every year between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day. But my mother didn’t eat any of the cookies she baked, and neither did we — not before Christmas, that is. Every sugar cookie, Polish wedding cake, fruit cookie, square of fudge, and chunk of peanut brittle was packed away in vintage green Tupperware or metal tins (depending on whether they were intended for us or for relatives and friends), to be brought out only once Christmas Day had dawned. Four or five decades later, that seems remarkable, because what economists call “delayed gratification” is simply not part of American life anymore — and that’s as true of Catholics and other Christians as it is of the average American. Fifty years ago, the question “What do you want for Christmas?” meant something different than it does today, when a couple of clicks on Amazon can satisfy the desire of a child of any age with next-day (or even same-day) delivery. When I was a child, I thought as a child, which meant that, of course, I wanted to eat just one sugar cookie hot out of the oven, or sneak one piece of fudge. But Mom never let me do so, because satisfying my desire wasn’t the point of her baking. In fact, if anything, the purpose of all of her preparations throughout Advent was the opposite: to increase my desire, and to direct it toward its proper end. If you eat it before Christmas, a Christmas cookie is just a cookie. A bigger lesson My mother entered into eternal life in the early morning hours of Nov. 1, All Saints Day. Through the days and nights before she quietly passed from us, my father and my sister Monica and I held those hands that had mixed and shaped and baked all of those cookies just a few feet away from where the hospital bed was set up in the living room of the house that had been our family home for all but a handful of months of my parents’ 56 years of marriage. Polish wedding cakes and peanut brittle were the last things on our minds as we prepared ourselves and one another for a life without her. But a few days later, when Father Charles Hall, the priest who had anointed Mom seven weeks earlier and who would celebrate her funeral Mass on Nov. 6, asked us for a particular memory of Mom that would help him to understand who she really was, the first thing that came to mind was her Advent baking. Everything we do reveals something about where our heart lies. Too often, by necessity as much as by choice, we are caught up in the here and now. There’s work to be done, bills to be paid, clothes to be washed, children to be fed. But as much as necessity may seem to force our hand, there’s an element of choice in our actions as well. And that choice involves not simply what we do but why we choose to do it. I do not know, and of course, I cannot ask her now, whether Mom intended to teach us a lesson with her Advent baking. But as we talked with Father Charles, we realized that she had done just that. To be a Christian means to live always with a sense of longing, of that joyful expectation tinged with sorrow that comes from knowing that the greatest desire of our heart will never be fulfilled in this earthly life. That, perhaps more than any other part of the Christian experience, is a reality that the modern world rejects. A few hours after our mother passed from this life, my sister and I stood beside our father in the church where we had first received the gift of faith, and we sang with all the saints in glory of the life yet to come. And as we prayed for the repose of my mother’s soul, we gave thanks for the years we had spent with her, and for the cookies and candy through which Mom had prepared us all for living that day and the rest of our lives in the deep longing for, and joyful expectation of, our reunion before the throne of God. This article comes to you from Our Sunday Visitor courtesy of your parish or diocese.

by Catherine Cavadini This Sunday we celebrate the solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. From the beginning of the readings for the solemnity, Our Lord tells us what it means that he is “King of the Universe.” The Lord begins by speaking through Ezekiel, saying, “I myself will look after and tend my sheep … I myself will pasture my sheep … I myself will give them rest … The lost I will seek out, the strayed I will bring back, the injured I will bind up, the sick I will heal …” Jesus is not a king like the kings of this world. He is king by virtue of his humility and love, out of which he seeks us to serve and heal us. But the world does not recognize such service is truly the stuff of royal kingship. Indeed, the world grew jealous of the Lord, and enthroned Christ upon a cross. Even there, though, Christ revealed his reign over the universe. As Pope Benedict XVI, once wrote: “On the Cross, at that moment, he is shown to be King; and how is he King? By suffering with us and for us, by loving to the end, and in this way governing and creating truth, love and justice” (General Audience, Aug. 22, 2012). t is in accord with this kind of royal kingship — which rules by serving, because the rule is one of love — that Christ asks us to become part of his Kingdom. We, too, are to tend the sheep, pasture them and give them rest. Christ tells us as much in Matthew’s Gospel this Sunday: “Come, you who are blessed by my Father. Inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me.” Works of mercy In these verses, Christ delineates the actualization of his kingdom: feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, welcoming the stranger, caring for the sick, clothing the naked, and visiting the imprisoned. In short: the works of mercy. We carry these works out for Christ in his Body, for all those to whom he has given himself. “Amen,” Christ says to us, “Whatever you did for one of the least brothers of mine, you did for me.” Indeed, Christ says the works of mercy actualize the kingdom of God. Perhaps, though, we have forgotten the true wonder that this is. We often talk about the works of mercy , and about love for our neighbor as distinctively Christian, as activities that characterize a Christian life. And so it is worth remembering that this communion in love has a deeply mystical character. In his encyclical, Deus Caritas Est, Pope Benedict XVI reminded us that, “Love of God and love of neighbor are now truly united,” in God’s kingdom. “God incarnate draws us all to himself” (No. 14). Christ’s greatest work of mercy — the Incarnation — that by which he himself tended his sheep, is now carried out in us. Joined to Christ, we incarnate God’s love f or the “ least of our brothers . ” But, the mystical element is even greater than this. Thus, I leave you to meditate on the words of Pope Benedict XVI, again taken from Deus Caritas Est, where he describes the mystical character of the kingdom constituted by the King of the Universe: “I cannot possess Christ just for myself; I can belong to him only in union with all those who have become, or who will become, his own. Communion draws me out of myself towards him, and thus also towards unity with all Christians. We become ‘one body,’ completely joined in a single existence. Love of God and love of neighbor are now truly united” (No. 14). November 26 – The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe Ez 34:11-12, 15-17 Ps 23:1-2, 2-3, 5-6 1 Cor 15:20-26, 28 Mt 25:31-46 This article comes to you from Our Sunday Visitor courtesy of your parish or diocese.

Thank you, God, for the flowers in the fields, the birds of the air, our family and friends far and near. Open my eyes to see the beauty all around me and help me to carry the light and joy of the Risen Christ in my heart all yearlong. This content comes to you from Our Sunday Visitor courtesy of your parish or diocese.