we are an Easter people

 

Years ago, I traveled to Turkey on assignment with an interfaith group of Catholic and Muslim faith leaders. Not only did we visit historical and Biblical sites throughout the country, we were also invited into family homes where we broke bread and shared faith with one another. 

 

For me, their open, loving, generous hospitality was truly humbling. And disarming! 

 

The questions we normally have about those we label as “Other” were being asked. But this time, they were being asked of me. 

 

I was the “Other.”

 

Why are there different Christian religions? Do all Christian families go to church? What do Christians believe? How do they practice their faith? As they asked question after question, genuinely desiring to understand a culture and a faith radically different from theirs, I could see and tangibly grasp our common humanity. 

 

I was also struck by how easily we separate ourselves from what we don’t understand—or are ignorant about. 

 

A different language. A different tradition. A different history. A different faith. A different experience, and of course, a different political view. 

 

We easily slip into an “us” versus “them” mentality and ignore our shared reality. 

 

Truth is, we all live what we know. 

 

We all die, eventually. 

 

We are all, literally, in this together. 

 

And I understood that I share a common vision with believers who are devoted, committed and faithful to their own faith experience, no matter what their religion.

 

For example, their call to prayer--their commitment to stop and pray throughout the day, made me look for ways that I could incorporate prayers into my own daily routine. Saying the angelus at noon. Contemplating the Divine Mercy chaplet at 3. Praying the Liturgy of the Hours Night Prayer as a family every night. 

 

I was genuinely surprised by their love, admiration and respect for Mother Mary, and this has given me much to ponder. 

 

In Ephesus, Mary’s house is a pilgrimage site for Muslims and Christians alike. It is holy ground, a place where we all gather to honor the mother of Jesus. How can *I* grow in my relationship with Mary of Nazareth? Can I incorporate and share with my family a holy reverence for the mother of our Lord?

 

One of the main concerns of the parents that we met was how to pass on their faith to their children, and what kind of world they will inherit from us. Like me, these parents ultimately pray and hope that their children have a vibrant, personal and intimate relationship with the God who created us. 

 

As we discern what it means to live what Pope Francis calls, “the rebirth of a universal aspiration to fraternity,” the challenge remains not to lose who we are and what we believe as Catholics-- under the guise of unity. 

 

Instead, we are asked to live our own faith fully, to strive to become saints. 

 

For Catholic Christians, this means being Easter people, who believe our faith transforms all, even death. 

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Note: An edited version of this post was published in the “Just Live It” column of the April edition of Liguorian Magazine. 

 

be sealed with the Gift of the Holy Spirit

"Las Tres Marías at the Empty Tomb"
(Mary Magdalene, Mary Caifas and Mary Salome)
by Angel Rodriguez-Diaz
painting at San Fernando Cathedral, San Antonio,
in commemoration of the cathedral's 275th anniversary in 2006

O God, who make this most sacred night radiant

with the glory of the Lord's Resurrection,

stir up in your Church a spirit of adoption,

so that, renewed in body and mind,

we may render your undivided service.

Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,

who lives and reigns with you in the unity

of the Holy Spirit,

one God, for ever and ever! AMEN

Happy joyous Easter to you and yours, 

my friends! May the graces of Easter 

overwhelm you with JOY ❤️

in defense of scars

“Maybe you’re not supposed to get over it. Some things you can’t move past. They scar you. Change you permanently.”

~Agent Mae to Coulson on TV’s “Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD”

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“If you can be still a suffer awhile, you shall without a doubt see the help of God come in your need.”

~Thomas A. Kempis, Imitation of Christ

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“Death is meant to indelibly scar our hearts because love is meant to wound us in that way.”

~Ron Rolheiser,

"Dying into safe hands."

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For the past few weeks (yes, from the end of Lent and into the Easter season), I have been discovering, little by little, the album “Evergreen” by Audrey Assad.

I find her lyrics quite compelling – and today, as I ponder the Gospel where Thomas says out loud that he needs to see Christ’s wounds, it is the beginning of Assad’s song, “When I See You,” that speaks to my heart:

You have loved me well, in a million ways
But my wounds are all I know
So I turn my head, and I hide my face
Too afraid to come back home

But all of the doors swing open
When I see You, when I see You
You make my heart unbroken
When I see You, when I see You
And I come undone, I come undone!

Every one of us is broken, wounded, and scarred in some way. This is, after all, a sign of truly living, of giving, and of dying for others on this our earthly pilgrimage. 

The scars left in me and on me by each wound, mark my life and define my spiritual journey. I would not be who I am today without each one of these marks, these scars.

This is reason enough to sing Alleluia on this second Sunday of Easter, don’t you think?

But our wounds not only tell our story. They also connect us to one another as the Body of Christ. Every one of my scars, visible or internal, can be– if I let them— a sign of mercy and an avenue for genuine compassion for others in their suffering.

Yes, I can speak to you of brokenness, because I, too, have been broken. I have felt despair. I have known unspeakable loneliness. I have walked the way of hopelessness.

Satan, the great deceiver, wants us to drink the Kool-Aid of fear and despair, the lie that says that no one can truly understand me, or my woundedness. Don’t believe it!

That which is most personal is also the most universal. Our personal suffering can and does unite us.

My friend Carrie, who fought until her last breath for more time on this earth in order to mother her young children as long as possible, described the gift of her scars this way.

The marks on her body, Carrie explained to me, was her road map, “a map I hope leads me to eternal life!”

In reality, Carrie and her scars were, and continue to be, a light post leading all of us to heaven. And I have no doubt that her suffering prayers on behalf of others as she walked through that pain, carried many people through their sorrowful journey.

Although I cannot take your pain away, I can walk with you—just as Christ, with all His visible wounds, walks with us.

In the words of my friend and retired pastor, Fr. Thomas Boyer, “As John tells the story, Jesus comes with his wounds, because a risen Lord with no wounds would not have much to say to the wounded people in that room or anywhere else… new life comes from these broken places, and this is resurrection; and it is a call to go, be broken and suffer a bit for the sake of another. 

ps. photos of Chihuly exhibit at Oklahoma City Museum of Art

Feeling the all or nothing of life, as is

There’s an incredibly intense, odd, yet distinctive, feeling that I get following every big family gathering, or rather, after family get-togethers that revolve around a special holy day—like Easter and Christmas.

This year, as has often been true in our family life, Michael and I shared the Triduum services with family members and special friends—Thursday’s Mass, Friday’s veneration of the Cross, and the Easter Vigil, the mother of all liturgies.

And at home, of course, everything culminated on Easter Sunday morning, when everyone gathered at our house for a full day of activities and a special meal – the kind of meal with recipes that are only made once a year.

Although the weather didn’t allow us to hang out in the back yard –my favorite! – we had a lovely afternoon full of laughter and games and storytelling, and not too many breakdowns J.

We seemed to move like a wave through the house, from room to room, ultimately retreating back into the ocean that is our large living room. That’s where we prayed together, where we had our Easter toast, where the kids drag us to read books—or to read books to us!

We had a traditional egg hunt for the Grands and their friends (11 kids total this year) – as well as the latest Scaperlanda Tribe tradition: a Hunger-Game-style egg hunt for adult “kids” under age 36. You’d have to see it to believe it.

Our meal menu has been the same for the last 23 years: garlicky leg-of-lamb, spinach and artichoke casserole, potatoes chantily, and home made rolls (courtesy of our best bread maker, Anamaría). The menu, by the way, comes from a ripped off page (now laminated) out of a Woman’s World magazine dated 4/11/95. The article was titled, “Amy Grant’s Southern-style Easter feast.”  Nope, I’m not kidding.

Today, as I sit in the same large living room that yesterday pulsated with the heartbeat of our family, the space is only filled up by scattered toys, books and empty plastic multi-colored eggs. 

I feel overwhelmed by what I can only describe as bitter sweet. I am spent, physically, yet also a bit weepy.

It’s not that I want my life to be different, or that I yearn for my life as it used to be—all those years of exhausting parenting when my awesome foursome all lived under our roof. I am genuinely delighted to watch my kids grow up, as well as to witness first hand the beautiful families that they are building.

Perhaps it’s the all or nothing of it all? That seems to be a constant element of this stage in our lives. Or perhaps I’m simply feeling the sadness that accompanies all true joy, the being truly here, then moving on. I don’t know.

Still, my house is silent. It is empty. There is something to feel here also. Life as is.

photo by Ignacio Ruiz

photo by Ignacio Ruiz