Anthony Gerber's blog

What Does Jesus Do?

Anthony Gerber — Tue, 20 May 2008 14:50:26 -0500

I think it’s pretty safe to say that most of us have heard of the phrase “What would Jesus do” or have seen the bracelets with the WWJD on them. It’s a good slogan which we have probably echoed to our very selves as we struggle with making a tough decision: “What would Jesus do?”—would he go to Mass on Sunday or stay home? For some, it has even become a kind of catch-phrase for giving advice: “what would Jesus do?”—you have a problem? well, what would Jesus do?

The last time my whole family got together to celebrate a birthday, a few of my relatives started a conversation about God and the Church and Jesus. A couple of them were talking about “going to Church” and how they were too busy with errands to go to Sunday Mass. I was listening to what they had to say—there is usually more to a story than what meets the eye. They talked about how they knew that missing Mass (except for a very important reason—like being very sick) was a “sin”—but that was all (and by “all” I mean, it was just a sin). The word “sin” had no meaning for them. It was like driving five miles over the speed limit or parking in a handicapped spot—you probably shouldn’t do it, but occasionally you “have” to (so long as no one gets hurt), they say.

Towards the end of the conversation, I was asked what I thought. Here, I could have talked about how Mass is more than simply an obligation—I could have talked about God as a loving Father who provides always for his children and how he longs to be united with us and how, at the Mass, we are united to him in a way beyond all ways. I could have talked about the cross and the resurrection and the sacrifice at the altar. I could have talked about how missing Mass is not simply a “sin”—a word without a meaning for many—but is like telling someone who loves you so deeply that you don’t love them like that or are too busy or that you want to be left alone. Then, at least, I would think that they would see Mass in God’s plan and as the center of his personal love. Mass wouldn’t be an obligation we have to fulfill; but, instead, Mass is an expression of God’s love for us which we can enter into and draw strength from and are changed into free, loving persons. We go to Mass because we love. Mass matters—not only because not going is a sin, but also because it’s how God loves us personally and how we personally love God.

But, I didn’t do that.

Instead, I asked a simple question—no, not “what would Jesus do”—but, rather, “what does Jesus do?”

You see, I think this question gets at the heart of the matter—and fast. Sure, I could have given them all the information above, but I probably would have come off as preachy (which is something that I tend to—and am struggling to overcome). And I could have asked them “well, what would Jesus do?” But, we all know their answer to that question. “Jesus would understand.”

But, would he? In fact, let's not speculate: does he?

The question “What does Jesus do” places Jesus right into the heart of the conversation—he is right here. Present. Looking at you. Active. Alive. Loving. You. Here. Right now. Really.

Faced with that question, we are less likely to turn Jesus into someone “out there” who “would do” something—who would love, if he were still here. Instead, when we ask “what does Jesus do,” we can’t help but think him to be present and alive here and now. We focus on him and what he is calling us to do, because he does it now.

Jesus says to you, right now: "I am with you always…"

Of course, I see the value in asking the question “what would Jesus do” as a kind of motivating force for what we should and should not do—that is, “if Jesus were here right now, what would he do if he was in my position?” And then, hopefully, we do what we think we see Jesus would do.

But Jesus is in your position. And Jesus is here right now. And what we think Jesus would do might not be how or what he actually does.

I would like to say that this new question was a cure-all for my relatives, but sadly they still said, “Jesus would understand.” And so they didn’t go to Mass that Sunday. Their answer to “what does Jesus do” was incorrect because they still did not know what Jesus does. They did not know that he is a person who loves. Them. Right now. Here. And so sin for them is just another word. And Mass is just another obligation that one has to fulfill.

Change in heart may take some time and will certainly take much prayer; but, at least now we are asking the right question.

Perhaps, as Catholics—not simply as ministers, but as Catholics—we need to teach Jesus and the Christian moral life not by asking the question “what would Jesus do” but by asking and answering the question “what does Jesus do.”

Then, I think, we would see that he doesn’t “understand” when we love things more than him—but instead, he weeps.

More Than I Believe

Anthony Gerber — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 17:31:51 -0500

When I was growing up, I was a real snot. I fought with my sister every now and then, and the shouting would get really heated. If my mom was home (God help us!), she would ask me, being the older one, “Who started it?” I would then come up with some fantastic story about how I was innocent and perfect and the best son ever who would never EVER start a fight. EVER. At some point along the way, my sister—by now, red in the face—couldn’t take it anymore and she’d scream: “He’s LYING!!!” I was usually busted and sent to my room—and rightly so.

“I believe.”

Now, there is something wonderful about someone telling you: “I believe you.” There’s something powerful there. We feel affirmed, special, trustworthy. We’ve been deemed consistent with the truth. We’ve pointed out that something exists, that it’s real—and others have confirmed it. “Yeah, Anthony started the fight. I believe… you.”

Now, in the youth group or in Christian circles, we often hear people talking about their beliefs: “I believe this… or, I believe that.” And we may agree with those statements, and sometimes not. Sometimes, we just chalk them up to mere opinion. But, sometimes, those statements of “I believe” are more than just what I believe. Sometimes they are statements of what really is. When I think of my mom looking at my sister and me, I feel sorry that I lied—that I tried to cover up the truth. There was a right answer and a wrong answer to what happened; and, no matter what lies or opinions I gave, reality was still there. It could not be covered.

But, when it comes to God and faith, where can we go to know what really is?

“I believe in…”

This afternoon, I was walking from the basketball court and began to ponder God. I wonder what God would feel if we told him, “Yeah, I believe you, God.” “You’re right. You do exist.” “You created the world and you sent your Son and you’re really pretty awesome.” I would imagine that would be pretty sweet for Him—especially if billions of people are telling Him that each day.

As I continued my walk, I imagined playing soccer and I imagined my dad. He was a big fan of soccer and would push me really hard to play it well. After about 20 years of playing, I realize that I don’t remember many of the scores of games that I played. And, worse, I really don’t remember hearing that longed-for statement that fathers should give to their sons: “I believe in you.” Sons remember things like that: they remember their father showing them confidence.

Real Power: Existence and Confidence

“I believe” and “I believe in…” are both related. They are both statements of belief; they both place their trust in something or someone; and we find them both in The Creed. This is the place where we can find the list of what is real. “God, the Father”—he’s real. That he “made heaven and earth”—that’s real too. That “Jesus Christ, His Only Son, Our Lord” is really real. And that he “was born of the Virgin Mary… was crucified, died, and was buried… and was raised on the third day…” all is really real. (We could continue, but you get the point).

Yet, there’s more to the Creed than just a statement of what is real, of what exists. The Creed is also a statement of confidence—a statement of power. In other words, when we say, “I believe in God the Father,” we aren’t just listing what we believe; we are also saying that we have confidence in Him. “I am sure of him; he is trustworthy; he is powerful.” How powerful? Just check out what we say next in the Creed: that He is “the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, and of all that is: seen and unseen.”

When we say the Creed, we aren’t just telling the people around us in the Church a grocery list of what we believe. We are telling God the Father: “Dad, I trust in you. You can do it.”

And we say that to Jesus too. And to Mary. And to the Holy Spirit. We say it also to the Church: I am confident in you, that you, who are “one, holy, catholic, and apostolic,” will lead me to be “one, holy, catholic, and apostolic with you.” I believe in you, the communion of saints, that you pray for me, that you help me however you can. I believe in the forgiveness of sins: that God really does forgive—and his forgiveness is forever and so, oh so very powerful! I believe in the resurrection of the body. I believe in life ever-lasting. Really—I believe God our loving Father has made them real; and not simply real, but powerful and really worth believing!

Thomas

We know Thomas, our friendly apostle who wouldn’t believe his friends, the other apostles, when they said that Jesus had risen and that He appeared to them. But, when you think about it, why should Thomas have believed? After all, if the apostles really saw Jesus, then why were they still in the Upper Room “for fear of the Jews”? If Christ was really risen, then they would have been affected. They would have changed.

Of course, there is more to it than that, but I think it drives home the point: we want other people to see reality as it is. We want them to be able to say the Creed with us. We want them to feel its awesome power—which is God’s power! But, if we’re not changed when we say the Creed, how can we expect anyone else to follow us?

Jesus believed in Thomas. He showed him his hands and his side. “My Lord and My God!” Thomas shouted! Let us be changed like that too. Jesus believes in you.

Lord,

I believe you and I believe in you.

I believe all that you have revealed to the world.I

believe that when I say that I believe in you, you are truly happy.

I want to make you happy and do your will, my God.

Please help me to believe you and to believe in you.

Help me to express this confidence towards my friends

And to all that I meet each day.

Help me to echo your confidence in them

By telling them, “N., I believe in you.”

Thank you for believing in me, Lord.

Amen.

God love you!

The Hook

Anthony Gerber — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 22:01:01 -0500

This little ditty goes to all the parents and youth ministers out there.

Reading time: 7 minutes

Music and me go way back. Piano lessons in seventh grade… a pots-and-pans drum set on the kitchen floor when I was two… headphones when I was still in my mom’s belly. I’m sure all of this contributed to my love of music and to my recent habit of playing the “steering wheel drum set.” (Yes, I am the guy in the car behind you, playing a mad air-drum solo while you wait for the light to turn green). It’s a bad habit, I know—especially at 70 mph—but there is just something in the music…. something that is moving… something that makes me go, “yeah, this is sweet! Turn it up!” Begin mad air-drum solo.

For producers in the music world, this “something” is what is so sought after. Sure, image is something in music, but it isn’t The Thing. If your band has “it”—this “something” that makes people pause and say “wow, that’s pretty cool”—it doesn’t matter what your band looks like. Your band rocks and we want more. (Nice hair, by the way).

It’s like we get hooked and we’re flopping like fish out of water—only we’re in our car or at a dance or in some other place where flopping around like fish probably will result in strange looks or a visit from the nearest police officer. But we’re enjoying it and having fun and, really, we might not even care about what the band is singing about. All we know is that this song kicks.

In the music world, this “something” is often found in a simple little mix of bass and drums. Here, I need only to say three words: Ice, Ice, Baby.

If you know the song, you can already hear what I’m talking about: “bum-bum-bum-buhduh-bum-bum… buh-bum-bum-bum-buhduh-bum bum.” Now stop, collaborate and listen, Vanilla Ice…. And you know the rest (or, at least, you pretend that you do, because if you really did, you know that your friends would be like, “wow, he knows all the words to Ice, Ice, Baby.” This might be cool today, or not, I don’t know). At any rate, for many people, if you just mention the song, “Ice, Ice, Baby,” they can probably remember the basic baseline if they’ve heard it before.

In the music world, this addictive quality of a song is called a “hook.” It’s often the “something” about a song that draws people into the music and makes them wanting more. The hook might come in a sweet baseline (like Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”) or in a solid beat (as heard in Queen’s “We Will Rock You”), or in a silly few repetitive words (like a-weem-o-weh in “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”). In fact, the hook might be a certain excerpt of another song (the hook of Ice, Ice, Baby is actually the opening to “Under Pressure” by Queen) or it may take the form of an entire chorus (see “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks). We’re even hearing some parts of music that we would hear in Broadway musicals (like “Hard Knock Life” from Annie in Jay Z’s “Ghetto Anthem”) make it into popular music. It’s all very interesting.

So, why do I mention all of this on a Catholic youth website?

Well, first, I think there is the budding concern with regard to the music industry today: is it good for our teens? Since a lot of our music has a good beat, and feels good, and might even cause us to air-drum in the car, we often overlook the message that we are encountering by having the song on in the first place. (Here, one may ponder how simply encountering questionable—or even, sinful—lyrics could be harmful. I simply ask a question in response: is a child harmed when she encounters her parents fighting with one another? And what if that fight was played over and over and over like an iPod on repeat? If she is not harmed in a strict sense of the word, at the absolute least she will become numb and dulled to such occurrences. And this is certainly harmful for a whole litany of reasons which a good psychology book is ready to reveal for us).

A quick note, though: hooks aren’t necessarily bad in themselves (nor is music).

But if they reel us into places where we ordinarily wouldn’t go if we had full use of our reason, then perhaps they aren’t so good. A hook to a fish is only good or bad depending upon whether the hook leads to the frying skillet or to fresher waters.

Here, then, is the crux of the matter: when listening to music, we must employ our mind and not simply our heart in determining whether a song stays on or is turned off. We can’t simply bite at any hook, nor can we bite only those that seem to fill an immediate need emotionally or otherwise.

Being entranced and uncritical is akin to drunkenness or to sexual inwardness—it is a certain moral mindlessness that smells very fishy. The metaphor I use here is not accidental; for I intend not simply to point out the “hook” in music, but also the hooks in a wide variety of issues we face alongside teens: from alcohol use to sexual experimentation to doing anything else but sitting down and praying. So often, the hook which lures kids to pre-marital sex is the same hook which leads other kids to alcohol or to cutting.

These difficulties all have their hooks; and if we, like fish, mindlessly grab hold onto one of them, we should not be surprised if the end result might possibly be a frying skillet. After all, living a certain moral mindlessness doesn’t bespeak being fully alive or being fully human. It bespeaks being a fish.

At the same time, the issue isn’t simply moral mindlessness, it’s also about a radical heartlessness. Ask any teen about a song that was cool “yesterday” and why it isn’t cool today. “It just isn’t,” they’ll reply. And it’s often because the song has been overplayed. The hook doesn’t seem to work any more. The heart has been dulled and the hook can’t seem to break through what now seems to be a heart of stone. In other words, to quote the Righteous Brothers, we’ve lost that lovin’ feeling.

Thrill seekers, pornography addicts, and even kids who have gone through parents’ divorces—they so often tell counselors that they need “more” in order to feel. The horrible issue of cutting today is a prime example. We’re a culture that is slowly losing not only its mind, but its heart.

This is the challenge of our day, to show what it is to be fully alive and to be fully human, to give teens the tools to use their mind and heart, as well as the signs to show when they are not. For, if we can do that, we can avoid the hooks that draw so many of our teens into the places we do not ever wish them to go.

Here, I think many of the youth ministers are doing a fantastic job, for they are reminding us in both mind and heart that God loves us and that he want us! Truly, Our Father has a few hooks—or nets—of his own (and should we be surprised, really, knowing how Jesus taught Peter, a fisherman, a lesson or twelve in how to fish?). By entering into God’s nets—and not the world’s hooks—we become more and more fully human and, really, divine.

Simon answered, "Master, we toiled all night and took nothing! But at your word I will let down the nets." And when they had done this, they enclosed a great shoal of fish; and as their nets were breaking, they beckoned to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both the boats, so that they began to sink. (Mt 5:5-7)

The spiritual nets we see today—nets which require both “boats” of our heart and mind—include Scripture, Eucharist, the Teaching of the Church, the Rosary, Service and Love. These are the best kind of “hooks,” for not only do they feed us, but they also draw us into the places we want to go and to the people we want to see; namely, to heaven itself with Our Father and all his children.

Again, in keeping with this, we must also teach our schools of fish about which hooks are the good ones and which are the bad—and to give them the tools to avoid them on their own.

So let us keep vigilant in our mission to teach (see Matthew 28:20). Let us lure our teens with these nets of Our Father. Let us reel them into Christ’s boat, which is the Ark—The Church. I’m certain that, with Jesus’ help, we will bring home a catch far greater than any of us could ever imagine or do by ourselves!

I pray that we all avoid the hooks of the world and, instead, find ourselves wonderfully caught in the nets of the Holy Spirit. May God bless you and keep you always! Amen.

God love you!

Chasing the Moon

Anthony Gerber — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 21:48:50 -0500

Have you ever seen a little child point up at the stars and the moon? The child just stares and is so completely awed. Last week, I saw my little nephew do this. He was gazing towards the heaven, his face radiating the last beams of the sunset, and he smiled so big, giggling as he stared into the beautiful sky. “Look!” he said to his daddy, “the moon!” My brother looked at his son: “Can you catch it?” Immediately, my nephew began running through the grass and the leaves, hoping to draw closer to the moon. “What are you doing, Evan?” my brother asked. His son turned around as he continued to run: “I’m chasing the moon!”

We all laughed. It was very cute and very innocent, for who wouldn’t want to catch the moon? The moon is beautiful and cosmic. But very few people ever grab hold of it.

For a long time in my life, I tried to love God like I was trying to catch the moon. I’d try to pray, but I’d stop after a while. I’d try to visit the food pantry, but quit after a couple weeks. I’d try to make God the center of my relationship with a girl I was chasing, but that too didn’t seem enough. I couldn’t seem to love right.

It seemed like I was chasing the moon, but never coming any closer to getting it.

And then, one day when I was far away from home, I flipped open the Bible to the following verse: “In this is love: not that we loved God but that he loved us.” In other words, we love only because God loves us first. I fell out of my chair.

I realized that my struggles to love were so incomplete and so imperfect and so destined to failure if I first did not receive God’s love. I had to know and hear and understand it through and through, with mind and heart, that I was loved. I had to believe that I was loved before I could deeply love anyone in return. I had to receive first before I could give.

Simply: I had to realize that I was the one being chased. Chased by God.

Now, it might be tempting to think that being “chased by God” is something reserved for seminarians, priests, or nuns. But, really, you are being chased by God. Right now. As you read. This doesn’t necessarily mean that you are being called to the priesthood or to the religious life. Rather, it means simply that you are loved so much more than our minds and hearts can possibly understand. We are all chased by God. Every last one of us!

After all, how do we come to know and love the moon but by first receiving its light?

It is because of this love, This Amazing Chase, that any other chases—especially those leading up to marriage and even the chase within marriage—continue. Marriages survive—and not just survive, but thrive!—not on their own power, but by the power of God’s love. The man and the woman realize that they are always being pursued and cherished by the greatest possible Love. Ever. This is so satisfying in times of loneliness and in times of boredom.

And it’s also the source of any sort of chasing that we do. A man will find new energy in love by knowing that he is loved completely and completely loved by God. The man is “my son in whom I am well pleased”—even if he never catches the moon.

That night, and all nights, Evan meant everything to his father. And you mean—and they both mean—everything to God.

If a man sits down and really asks to receive this love, then he won’t have to worry about being someone he’s not or measuring up to someone else’s image. He will know that he is awesome in who he is. He can be himself and be confident in that. Because of this, the man can love so purely and completely and with a chasing energy whose source is never exhausted (What woman wouldn’t want this?).

So too, the woman will find new energy in love by knowing she is loved by God: she is precious in God’s sight and a true bride, pure and beautiful and worthy of the greatest gifts man and God have to offer. She doesn’t have to be someone she is not. She is already stunning!

And so, if we are chasing girls or if we are chasing boys, it’s because God is chasing us first. He wants us to love others so that “as we do to these least among us, we also do unto him.” Truly, He wants to be loved by us.

And like us who give signs and symbols of love to your beloved (like flowers or hugs or simple “I love you’s”), so too does God give us signs and symbols of his love for us. He does this, among other things, by giving us the Sacraments.

Marriage is a sacrament, which means that it leads us to God. All the Sacraments do this. The Eucharist leads us to God by putting us into communion with Him. The Sacrament of Penance leads us to God by placing us in his mercy and love.

In particular, the Sacrament of Marriage leads us to God by giving us a taste of how deep his love is for us. It is meant to help us grow in love by teaching us how to give of ourselves, just as Christ gave of himself on the Cross. In marriage, the husband and wife say to one another: “this is my body, given up for you” just as Christ did on the Cross, and just as the priest does at Mass. That’s sacrifice. That’s true love.

And isn’t that the reason why we’re all chasing anyway?

God love you!

Loving Face to Face

Anthony Gerber — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 21:45:34 -0500

“Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9)

When I read the story of the first family, God and Adam and Eve, I always find it interesting to hear God asking a question as if he didn’t know something. Adam and Eve had sinned and, in their shame, hid themselves from God. God is searching for them and, so it seems, he can’t find them. It makes me wonder: what’s going on?

“… his face shone like the sun and his clothes became white as light” (Matthew 17:2)

I wonder what God looked like as he searched in the Garden for Adam and Eve. God is awesome and glorious and nobody had ever seen him face-to-face, but he was walking in the Garden. And so, I wonder: was he frantically searching for Adam and Eve, or was he just taking his time? Was he being loud as he walked through the garden, or was he quietly whispering: “where are you?” Certainly, he knew where they were, so why was he asking?

“Lord, make your face shine upon us” (Psalm 80:3)

I wonder what Adam and Eve must have been feeling as God searched for them. Were they afraid? Did they think that God was upset with them and was going to destroy them now that they had disobeyed him? Or were they surprised to find that God was searching for them, surprised by his immediate knowledge of their turning away, surprised by his desire to find them? I wonder whether they longed to really be found. I wonder if, having separated themselves from Love Himself, whether Adam and Eve immediately regretted their decision and wanted so desperately to have God back. But, how? And would He take them back?

"Lord, it is good that we are here.” (Matthew 17:4)

When I think of God’s search for Adam and Eve, I think about Jesus and his search for us. He is the shepherd in search for the lost sheep and he desperately searches, leaving everything to find just one. This, I think, is how God searched for Adam and Eve in the Garden. It was a desperate search, a loving search, a search which wanted to end not in failure, but in love. When Jesus brings Peter, Andrew, James, and John to the top of a mountain and shows them his glory in the Transfiguration, they get a glimpse of what God looks like. The light shines in the darkness; what is hidden is revealed. God is there—and they are found. Peter tries to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say. All that comes out is a simple, “hey, this is good.”

"Come," says my heart, "seek God's face” (Psalm 27:8)

Once Adam and Eve were found, I wonder what they saw. Did they see the same face that Peter saw atop that mountain? Or did they see the face that Peter saw when had denied Jesus three times? Did their hearts break within them? Did they tell Him that they were sorry? Or, did they turn their face away once again and leave?

I took them up in my arms; but they did not know that I healed them (Hosea 11:3)

As Adam and Eve packed up to leave the Garden, we are often quick to think that God just kicked them out without any sort of mercy or love. Yet, before they leave the Garden, he gives them clothes. He does not abandon them, nor leaves them to provide for themselves, but blesses them. I wonder what Adam and Eve were feeling as they were leaving the Garden. They knew God was being fair. And, even more, He was still loving them. It had to be confusing for them, utterly agonizing.

The Sixth Station: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus

And for this reason, God sent his only Son, Jesus. He came to bring humanity back to his heavenly home. He came to show that God was really serious when he searched for Adam and Eve. He would go to the ends of the earth to heal the rift that had been made. He would do anything to show them how much he loved them. And so, he was stripped of his clothes, he was given a cross, and the humanity which he longed to bring back once again showed him a disbelieving face.

Yet, here, amidst the blood and death, we see Veronica, holding her clothes up to Jesus’ face, wiping away the blood, the sweat, and the tears. We can almost hear her words to the Christ: “your face, O Lord, do I seek (Psalm 27:8)”. It is a great kindness that Veronica extends. Even more, it is a great act of humility for Jesus to receive it: it means that he, God, is hurt, and needs the love of humanity. How truly humbling!

It is often said that one of the hardest things we can do is to receive charity. Even harder is it to receive when we are broken, for it means that we have to recognize that we are hurting and in need. This is very humbling. But, we must receive God’s love. It’s the only way home.

Let us resolve to receive God’s love. He doesn’t force it upon us, but he invites us: “where are you?” Let us receive Him in the Sacraments, in the love of others, and in the silence of our rooms. Let us hear his beckoning, “where are you?” and answer in reply: Here I am, Lord. Here I am!

God love you!

The Brightest Star

Anthony Gerber — Sat, 25 Aug 2007 22:19:37 -0500

Timon, ever wonder what those sparkly dots are up there?

Pumbaa, I don't wonder; I know.
Oh. What are they?
They're fireflies. Fireflies that, uh… got stuck up on that big

bluish-black thing.
Oh, gee. I always thought they were balls of gas burning billions of miles away…

And God said, “Let there be light” (Gen 1:3).

I was two years old when I first saw stars, or so my dad tells me all these years later. I had just gotten my first pair of glasses and, on the way home, for the first time ever, I could clearly see objects farther than an arm-length away. I was excited and was pressing my nose against the car window as I named all kinds of things. Apparently my dad weeped when I pointed out the moon.

Between that night and the present day, I will admit that my wonder for the stars has kind of waned—like the moon, slowly disappearing into a kind of uninspired darkness. Occasionally, on a September night, like the cool ones that we expect from those in September, I do gaze upward and ponder the spots above, but mostly my thoughts return simply as: “well, that’s…nice.” And that’s too bad; thoughts more like Pumbaa and Timon’s from The Lion King are, at least, more entertaining.

I’m not quite sure why my fascination with the stars has disappeared. Perhaps I’ve seen them so often; or perhaps I’ve become too busy. I know that I’m frustrated that the light pollution of the city makes it more difficult to see as many as I once did, but is that a reason to stop looking? Maybe I’ve become too educated. …Or maybe I’ve stopped thinking about their Mystery.

Sure, there are some simple facts that I know about stars. First, they’re huge. And hot—usually. And really really hard to get to. In fact, the closest one to us (besides the sun) is not measured in feet or meters or miles, but in light-years. (You know you are getting into some serious distances when scientists start measuring length in time-units).

But this last scientific truth got me thinking for a moment. The closest star would take four years for us to get to if we were travelling the speed of light. And how fast is the speed of light? Well, think of something really fast. Ferrari? No, think faster. F-16 jet-fighter? No, faster. A bullet from a cannon? Ok, that will work. Now, say that someone fired that bullet into space. Here, you might think that this thing is going really fast. In reality, though, it is only going a teenie-tiny, itsy-bitsy, barely-even-worth-mentioning fraction of the speed of light.

What does this mean? It means that if you’re thinking of road-tripping to the closest star next to the sun, travelling in the fastest car known to man, be prepared to spend, well, your entire life trying to get there… and you will still probably not make it.

Yet, the mystery of the stars does not end there. What if I told you that that this star which is four light-years away—when we see it, we are actually seeing it as it was four years ago? It’s true. Since its light has to travel four years for us to see it, we’re actually seeing something that, quite possibly, might not be there anymore. Or, at least, has changed. That means that in 2007, we are looking at the star as it was in 2003. And to add more fun to the mix: most stars aren’t four light-years away from us—but millions. So, ultimately, when you look up at the stars in the sky, you’re seeing things as they were before George Washington or St. Francis or Mary or the Pyramids in Egypt… or your parents (barely).

Well, that’s nice: I’m really, really small… and insignificant… and slow. Thanks.

Not so.

“I am the light of the world; he who follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (Jn 8:12).

Whenever I hear about something as huge and as mind-challenging as this, my immediate tendency is to shut down or run away or just leave all of this mental gymnastics to the “smart” people out there. The truth is, though, that this is God’s creation. He made it. And he did so not to show off or to make us feel small or stupid, but to show us how very GOD he is. And just because the mystery is great doesn’t mean that the understanding is impossible.

And so, what can we learn from the stars?

First, God is older than them. Before George Washington, St. Francis, Mary, the Egyptians, or your parents ever were, GOD WAS. And is. And ever shall be. He is the Alpha and the Omega—the beginning and the end. He will always be here. Even when the stars disappear.

Second, God is more beautiful than the stars; he is more piercing, more deep, more mighty, and more mysterious. God is The More: his creation never can equal him. He is always better. And if we should find ourselves in awe of the stars, their size, their unfathomable distance, their unexplainable ability to make us stop on a cool September night and go “wow”—if we should find ourselves in awe, it is all because of Him.

Third, God created the stars to make us go “wow!” He loves to show us beautiful things. He loves to make our minds and hearts feel so full that they are going to explode in ecstacy. He loves doing this because, really, he wants us to know how much He loves us. “How much do I love you?” asks God. “I love you more than the greatest reaches and brilliance of the stars!”

Lastly, God, who is King of the Universe, the Mighty One who created all of this world and everything in it, comes to us. Jesus, who is God, said: “I am the light of the world” and, later, “unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you will not have life within you.” It is He, Jesus, God, who made the great stars and all that rests between them and us, and who says right now to you and me: “I want to be so incredibly near to you.” The One who is more massive and deep and greater than all of our thoughts and desires and needs became one of us and says to us, I want to be so close to you that I want to be within you. “Take and eat. This is my body, given up for you.”

How could our body contain such a mystery as this? How could our simple body hold the King of the Universe? Yet, this is precisely what happens in the Eucharist: the one who is the light and who created the light wants to be the light in us and gives himself to be our light: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” (Jn 1:5).

So what does all this mean? It means that when I go to Mass and I receive the Eucharist, I am receiving the King of the Universe, The More, the One who made all of those stars, the Greatest Love who wants the very best for me, who wants to express love in the deepest and most amazing ways possible. Likewise, it means that when I go outside and see the stars, no longer am I just seeing ordinary objects, but true expressions of a loving and personal God. Stars, so it seems, are the diamonds of a God who wants to marry us. And lastly, it means that when I go back to Mass, I go back to Mass as a child so completely loved by God. I go back to receive Him who has pursued me and sought me out and gave me every gift and good thing imaginable. I receive in humble and holy fear His Sacred Body and His Most Precious Blood.

And all of this makes me think: maybe there’s more to the stars—and to the Mass—than I ever thought before.

John Paul II Stood Up Too

Anthony Gerber — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:56:55 -0500

"Here I am, Lord. Here I am. I come to do your will." (see Heb 10:7)

Do you remember when John Paul II visited St. Louis? It was a Tuesday and Wednesday in late January of 1999. The sun had broken through the clouds after days of miserable weather and it seemed as though the entire city had come out to meet the man many called “Great.” Perhaps you were there, lining the streets while you held a papal umbrella, awaiting the arrival of the pope-mobile. Perhaps you were at what-was-then the Kiel Center, where 20,000 youth were singing and praising to the greatest of Catholic jam-sessions ever to be held atop Blues’ ice. You may remember the electricity and anticipation in that building—which seemed too small at the time to contain any of the energy which the Holy Spirit was pouring upon us. You may remember it—or it may all just be a blur.

But you remember seeing him. Or, at least, pictures of him. You remember how brilliantly white his clothes were and how he floated, although gingerly, to the papal chair and the altar, where he would greet you—and it felt like he was greeting you—in a deep, low voice that sounded more pure than any loving grandfather’s praise. How could we not respond in kind, saying, “John Paul Two, we love you!”

There was something about him—something he had, something he knew. You could see it—and you couldn’t help but smile like a young child that had just received a scoop of ice cream. You could see that he loved everyone he saw. He didn’t care where you lived or what your parents did for a living. It didn’t matter to him whether you attended Parkway or Lindbergh, SLUH or Borgia, Public school or Private. He loved you. He loved you so much that it didn’t matter to him what you were doing, so much as who you were. And what were you? God’s child. He knew that. And he loved you for it.

Yet, he knew as well that he was God’s child. Yes, the Pope—grand, awesome, famous Pope—he knew that he was God’s; a small, little child in His Eyes. He knew the Father who created him, the Son who called him, the Spirit who continued to give him life. And what a great knowledge this was—a knowledge that, with it, came great power: the power to love unconditionally. For, you see, the Pope knew he was loved. He knew it through and through. Beyond any doubt.

Yet, there was once a time when John Paul II was not the Pope. Or a bishop. Or a priest. Or a seminarian. Or an adult. There was a time when John Paul II—the man who would be Pope—was just a child. A child like you and I once were. And, like you and me, he had questions. Many of them:

“God, are you out there?” “Father, can you hear me?” “Jesus, what are you like?” “God, why is there suffering?” “Lord, what do you want me to do with my life?”

I am certain that John Paul asked these questions. We all do. Yet, there was one more question that he asked that many today are too scared to ask: “Jesus, do you want me to be a priest?” Or a brother? Or a sister?

Maybe he asked this question because he loved to receive the Eucharist. Maybe, during his years of going to Church, he started thinking to himself: “Hey, I could do that!” Maybe he wanted to help people, to serve people in some awesome way. Maybe he loved to pray. Perhaps he liked to sing when he came home from Mass. Or perhaps, when he was really little, he played pretend church with his friends or family. In any case, there was that moment in John Paul’s life where the desire descended upon his heart: “Lord, are you calling me?” Maybe you have had some of these same thoughts and experiences.

In fact, as any young man, I’m sure that John Paul wanted to get married. After all, as the Pope, he wrote some of the most beautiful words about marriage. On more than one occasion, he said (and I paraphrase here) “when a man and a woman are united in marriage, they experience one freakin-awesome mystery.” Ok, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but he did write over 600 pages about the beauty of marriage in his great work: the Theology of the Body. That’s like two-hundred 3-page essays. He HAD to have loved marriage.

Yet, he saw something beyond marriage. He saw a Love so wide that it spread to the horizon and reached heaven itself. He wasn’t concerned about what he was giving up. He was focused on something more. He saw Jesus, offering him a love which John Paul saw as so incredibly awesome and filling—even, yes, even more than a human wife could give him. He saw that, in religious life, he received the best gift of all: the marriage to God himself here on earth. (!!!)

So often, we think of priesthood or religious life in terms of “giving up” things—sex, fancy cars, children… But this is such an empty view! That’s like telling an engaged man that he is about to give up every woman on the face of the earth. What man would then enter into this, if we thought of marriage like that? Yes, there is sacrifice in marriage (and this is VERY important), but there is, with sacrifice, love, and romance, and flirting, and laughing, and joy, and sharing, and embracing, and the amazing realization that you would die for your spouse—and that they would die for you. That is why men and women enter into marriage; they want to give their entire self—their entire life!—to this, their closest friend and most amazing love. They would die for them.

And this is precisely why the priest and the religious brother and the religious sister give their entire lives to Jesus and the Church. John Paul saw marriage in the priesthood. He saw romance in it—not with women, but with Love itself: the Trinity. He saw romance here. And flirting and laughing and joy and sharing and embracing and the realization that he would die for God and that God would die for him (in fact, God has: in Jesus Christ on the Cross!). John Paul and all the saints who have given their life to Jesus as priests, brothers, and sisters (and there are a lot of them!) saw an amazing life in this—a life of love, unity, fulfillment, joy, adventure! And an amazing death. For, like the husband that must die for his bride, the priest must die for his Church. That is, he must give himself completely to her, just like Jesus did on the Cross.

Truly, I think priests and brothers and sisters are superheroes. They won’t admit it. But they are. In fact, the priest is better than a superhero; after all, what superhero can turn bread and wine into the body and blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ??!

Is this an awesome and scary thought? Absolutely! It is an amazing adventure and a great gift. I have received a great taste of this as, for a full year now, I have embraced this life, that of becoming a priest. And it is the best thing I have ever done. It is a great adventure, a great battle, and a great love! Sure, I want to be married . But, as a wise priest once told me: “how can a priest be called ‘Father’ if he never wanted to be a husband in the first place? Or, how can a sister become a religious ‘mother’ if she never wanted to be a wife?” Truly, the best priests and brothers and sisters are those that wanted to be married. But, human love is not enough for them. They are being called to that Divine Love.

And so, my thoughts turn back to John Paul. I wonder whether he was afraid on that night that he asked God the question, the question of whether Jesus was calling him to be a priest. I think John Paul was, at least a little afraid—if not a lot, just like I was. For, what if…. what if the answer came back: “Yes. I want you to become a priest.” ? Do I say “no” to that? And what would it mean for me to say, “Ok, yes, Lord. Here I am. I come to do your will.” ?

If, after all of this, you say, “No, Lord, I can’t do that.” He will respect that, but—if you are called—he will continue to ask you. For he needs you, he wants you, and he loves you—he wants the best for you (and what he wants IS the best for us!). Likewise, he knows, and I know, and you know that it only takes a little bit of time to explore what it is like to be a priest or a brother or a sister, while it takes a much greater bit of courage to conquer the fear of something so great and divine.

And if, after all of this, you say (like Mary), “Yes, Lord, be it do me according to your Word,” then, rejoice!

Maybe you have already stood up and responded to his call—by saying “yes” to God in prayer, or by telling your friends or family, or by even standing up at the Steubenville conference. And you may now be thinking: “What was I doing???!” Stop there: don’t second-guess yourself. God was working in you and you were responding. It was real and it is still very real. The proposal is there to explore.

Two years ago, I stood up… in front of 20,000 people at the Pro-Life March in DC. The priest at Mass asked if anyone had thoughts about becoming a priest or a brother or a sister—and to stand up if they had. And I stood up… in front of everyone… and I don’t regret it for a second. I had finally admitted to God, to my friends, and to myself that I wanted to receive God’s love by serving and pleasing him as a priest. Was I nervous? Heck yeah. But I wanted to check out his invitation. I wanted to see this love that I had heard so much about. And so, I did. I started asking questions. I started talking with priests and seminarians and old ladies at church who prayed for all of them. And I prayed. And prayed. And prayed.

And I have not once been disappointed!

Be open, and you too will find a great treasure in His Love awaiting you!

John Paul II, Servant of God: pray for us!

“Each of you has a special mission in life, and you are each called to be a disciple of Christ. Many of you will serve God in the vocation of Christian married life; some of you will serve him as dedicated single persons; some as priests and religious. But all of you must be the light of the world. To those of you who think that Christ may be inviting you to follow him in the priesthood or the consecrated life I make this personal appeal: I ask you to open your hearts generously to him; do not delay your response. The Lord will help you to know his will; he will help you to follow your vocation courageously. … Remember: Christ is calling you; the Church needs you; the Pope believes in you and he expects great things of you!”
- Pope John Paul II - to the youth of St. Louis , Jan 26, 1999

God love you!

The Iron Man

Anthony Gerber — Tue, 12 Jun 2007 22:29:28 -0500

“A great famine arose in that country, and he began to be in want. So [the Prodigal Son] went and … fed swine. And he would gladly have fed on the pods that the swine ate; and no one gave him anything.” (Luke 15:14-16)

Have you ever had the feeling that your cross was just too big—that you got yourself into so much trouble that no one could get you out or that Jesus overestimated how much you could carry? I hate that feeling. It makes me feel weak, burdened, and overwhelmed. In fact, I occasionally feel broken under the cross’s heavy weight. “Lord! I can’t do this! Help me!”

This past week, I got to participate in an eight-day silent retreat. That’s eight days of no talking. Complete silence of mouth and mind. The only ones that are talking are God to my heart and my heart to God. But this week I was certain that God too was making a silent retreat.

You see, on the second day of the retreat, I came down with the flu. It started with a backache, then a sensitivity to light, then a brisk chill in the summer heat. “Somethin’s goin’ on here” I thought to myself. “Lord, please don’t let me get sick.” Silence. “…please?”

So, as my head burned something special—a fever into the 100s—I was supposed to be pondering God’s love for me. “Oh yeah, that’s gonna work” as I rolled out of bed, a huge, wooden cross fixed squarely on my shoulders. I was complaining to myself because there’s nothing worse than feeling miserable and not being able to complain to anyone. Misery loves company—and I had no company, and if I did, I wouldn’t be able to complain anyway. Big, heavy cross.

I went to the chapel and slouched in the back row, away from any healthy seminarians.

“Ok, God. I’m here. I’m sick, I’m achy, and I’m completely bored. So I’m just gonna sit and try to think how in your good name you could be loving me right now.”

I pulled out my Bible and began reading the story of the Prodigal Son—the story where the greedy son asks his father for money, takes the inheritance, goes out and spends it all, and then realizes—when he has nothing left—that he has hurt his father. The son treks back home to ask forgiveness and the father runs out to embrace him, forgiving him of everything. Awesome story.

And so I tried to think about how God loves me. “God, you love me….you are the father who embraces his son… you love me…. you love… you…. I…. I wish I could be outside running right now. It’s such a beautiful day. Or swimming. Mmmm…. swimming. Or biking! … in the mountains! Oh, I miss the mountains…. Hmmm, I wonder what the mountains are like in Hawaii….”

Soon, I was running and swimming and biking in the mountains in Hawaii. In fact, I started imagining myself competing in the Iron Man Triathalon out there. It’s a race where crazy-strong people (ok, just crazy people) swim for a couple miles, then bike a hundred miles around volcanoes, and then, just when you think they can’t do anything more, they run a marathon, which is 26 miles. Yeah, I’d die too.

So for a half hour I was thinking about this—not about the Prodigal Son. I was swimming and biking and running… and, yeah, I was sick. With the flu. In the chapel. Supposed to be reflecting on God’s love for me. Ummm, heh heh. “Sorry, God. I kind of got distracted.” So, I told him about it. I told him about the distraction, about how I was running and biking and swimming and how I just remembered that I was supposed to be reflecting on how much he loves me.

Honestly, I don’t know why I got distracted. I was a little bored and I didn’t want to be there—but, of all things, why was I distracted by the Iron Man Competition of Hawaii??? And so, I asked him: “God, why this distraction? Why THAT, of all things? … Was that you?”

Silence.

For another five minutes, I just sat there, asking God to show up, to show me his love. And, well… I started thinking about Hawaii again. I started thinking about how hard and how long I’d have to train in order to compete in an Iron Man. I started doing laps at my local pool and biking around St. Louis. I started imagining an intense work-out program that had me ripped, chiseled, and perfected into a high-performance machine. Soon, I was buying a plane ticket, arriving in Hawaii, and competing in the Iron Man.

The gun fired as the race began: I navigated the waves of the bay, tasted the salt-water, felt the burn of my lungs and arms as I swam, up-and-down, for 2.4 miles. Then, I felt the warm Hawaii breeze as I climbed onto the beach and mounted my bike for a 100-mile trek through the winding volcano hills. Nothing but sunshine. I imagined myself tired after the ride, but ready for the marathon. This, I imagined, would be the easiest part of the race: just me, my legs, and the distance. This could be done, I thought.

Miles flew by: 5 miles… 10 miles… 15… my body was aching, but I was going to make it. 20…. 25…. I was just a mile from the finish. The Hawaiian sun was setting into purples and reds. It was just me on the road, lungs burning, legs cramping, head dizzy from exhaustion. I can do this… I can do this…. I… I… I can’t do this.

Leg tripped over leg and hands slowly extended to the ground as I collapsed onto dusty pavement. I gasped for breath, soreness penetrating every joint, every muscle, every bone in my body. I knew I was broken, unable to finish, unable to complete my dream. Tears welled up in my imaginary eyes and I saw myself crying, upset that I had spent so much time on this project, so much energy, given so much of myself—only to end up in a mess of a failure so close to the finish.

This was not how I would have imagined the Iron Man.

But, something was going on here. As I cried, a man approached me with a stretcher. As he walked in the setting sun, his shadow of a figure became light and his appearance became clear: it was Jesus. “My Son,” he said, deep and low, “I see that you’re having trouble.”

“Yeah,” I sobbed, looking down, ashamed that I had been so hard on him for not showing up when I wanted him to show up, ashamed that I thought I could do this race all by my self.

“Let me help you,” he said. And he placed me on the stretcher. I was thankful for him, thankful for his help. Yet, as I laid there flat on my back, looking up at the beautiful, purple sky, I was sorry too. I had pushed him away from all of my work and my struggles. Even now, I was happy that it was just me and him—I had, after all, collapsed far enough away from the finish line that no one had seen me. Only, I realized that my stretcher was parallel to the ground. If Jesus was carrying me on the stretcher by himself, I would be at an angle. I quickly sat up, and there was Mary.

She had been there too. The whole time. And she knew what was going on. She wanted to help me along, but I was pushing her away too. “My Son, you had me worried. Are you ok?”

“Yes, mother. O, yes! O, yes! O yes!” I scrambled across the stretcher and gave her a giant hug, tears streaming down my cheeks. I sat upright by her as she and Jesus carried me to the finish line. I was forgetting about my brokenness.

Then, Mary whispered, “Look, Anthony.” And she pointed over my shoulder. In front of me, lining both sides of the street, were large crowds, applauding, cheering, waving banners and jumping up and down. They grew closer and closer and louder and louder. I could see writing on a sign, “Welcome home, Anthony!” And I could see the finish line up ahead. “This couldn’t all be for me,” I thought to myself.

Jesus turned around and looked at me: “All for you, Anthony. This is all for you.”

My friends approached the stretcher, “Hey, buddy. Good job,” they smiled as they embraced me. Then, I felt a touch on my right hand and a voice: “Welcome home, sweetie.” Wait, that’s what my mom calls me when she tells me that she loves me. I jumped off of the stretcher and gave her a giant hug. I wasn’t broken anymore. I was walking with Jesus, and Mary, my friends, and my mom. I was home!

* * *

I looked up at the altar where Jesus rested in the monstrance. And I just looked at him, my eyes blurry with tears and flu and gratitude. “So, that’s how much you love me…”

“That’s how much I love you.”

“And he arose and came to his father. But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him. And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and bring the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’” (Luke 15:20-24)

Diamonds on the Mount of Olives

Anthony Gerber — Fri, 16 Mar 2007 16:50:54 -0500

“They each went to his own house, but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives” (Jn 7:53-8:1).

Ok, so you gave up cookies for Lent. Or you promised to pray every day. And as we’re nearing the end of these 40 days, I ask: how are you doing? Me—I want to bail out. I’ve already failed enough times, so I’m feeling discouraged. I’m starting to ask myself: why not just give up?

Well, today God reminded me of a story of why I shouldn’t:

During the third hour of the afternoon, two brothers set out into the untamed wilderness of central Colorado. With backpacks full of food, water, first aid, and light sleeping bags to boot, the brothers laughed at how they had everything they needed to survive—all laid upon their shoulders. They were starting out on what they had dreamed about when they first saw the beauty and glory of the mountains: they were going to climb one. And today, it was San Luis Peak: 14,014 feet.

As the two of them trudged through pine forest and grassy field, over snow-melt brooks and rocky pass, the two slowly became tired, backs sore from the weight of their burdens, and oh so hungry. Shortly after the sun had set, they found a stunning clearing with a beautiful view of the peak.

Here, they broke for camp, pitched a tent, and started a fire. This was only their second day in Colorado and their lungs were heaving as a result of the low oxygen. They had made it to 12,200 feet in their afternoon hike and, now, the pine trees were black against the purple of the twilight sky. A northerly breeze was bringing in a surprising chill, and the brothers decided to call it a day. They curled up in their sleeping bags and prayed for sleep.

During the night as the boys dreamed, the cold front that had brought the chilly wind passed through. The temperatures plummeted. Inside the tent, the boys began to toss and turn, their sleeping bags unexpectedly too light for this freezing weather. It was late spring and warm enough to wear shorts when they starting hiking, but now, beyond all expectations and planning, the boys were caught unprepared: their bodies were shivering.

Now, since the brothers had exerted themselves so much during the afternoon hike and were not adjusted to the low level of oxygen, their shivering bodies were actually harming them. They did not have the energy to become warm by shivering and so they slowly developed elevation sickness—in particular, the younger one.

He woke up: cold, trembling, in the dark, and feeling nauseous. He forgot where he was. His head was spinning from the disorientation and his body trembled at the cold and the need to empty his stomach. He frantically searched for the zipper to the door of the tent. He wanted to escape. He had to bail.

The older brother heard the commotion and woke up as well. Cold, but aware enough of what was going on, he tried to calm his brother: “take it easy, dude… slow, deep breaths… you’re going to be fine.” This helped the young man, but he still felt trapped. After another minute of fumbling for the zipper in the deep blackness of the tent, he found the zipper’s chilly metal, pulled back the door, and walked to the center of the clearing.

Suddenly, his breath was taken away and his eyes widened. Before him in the vast velvet of sky, he saw piercing diamonds of light, an entire universe of stars, brilliantly illuminating the Colorado wilderness. There was no moon, nor cloud—just millions upon millions of dazzling white and electric blue light pouring forth from many tiny, powerful portals. For the first time in his life, he could see the Milky Way. The breeze rustled through the high grass of the clearing, but he heard it not. Nor did he feel his sufferings. Beauty had captured him.

Now, I don’t mean to ruin a perfectly good story, but I have to ask you: will this young man stay in this spot forever? Or, when he finally does go back into the tent and wakes up the following morning, do you think he is going to reach the top of the mountain? After all, he has elevation sickness, he’s tired, and the peak is still a strenuous hike away. Do you think that this glimpse of something heavenly might change the young man’s health and state of mind? Will he make it?

I ask you these questions because here, in the Fourth Week of Lent, when our burdens seem too great and our sufferings overwhelming, when we really start to wonder: “Why did I give up cookies for Lent?”—it is here, when we start to give up and our despair for the remaining Easter climb seems too great, that Our Lord reaches down and lifts us up into his heavenly arms. He brings us within sight of our heavenly home and tells us through the Eucharist, through the Gospel, through Reconciliation, through a friend—or even through the stars themsleves—that “you’re going to make it.” Be not afraid; it is I.

He knows we’re suffering. He knows that the remaining climb isn’t easy. He knows that promises are hard to keep. He knows forgiving others seems ridiculous and that carrying a cross is near-impossible. But we know that Jesus has climbed the mountain (whether the Mount of Olives or the Hill to Calvary); we know that even he—God himself!—fell three times on the way up; we know that he has kept his promise to “be with us always until the end of time”; we know that he has offered forgiveness, even when it seemed ridiculous (like to the Prodigal Son or to the Woman Caught in Adultery); we know that he has carried a cross—THE Cross. We know all of these beautiful assurances of Christ and we know that he has told us to do the same:

Jesus said to his disciples: If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. Or again, Take up my yoke upon you, and learn of me, because I am meek, and humble of heart: and you shall find rest to your souls.

This is not impossible. Even Simon the Cyrene could do it.

This is the beauty of the faith: we can follow Christ. John the Apostle? Never denied Jesus; only apostle at the foot of the Cross; received Mary into his home—saint. Peter, a fisherman: Pope, crucified upside-down—saint. The rest of the apostles: martyred. Perpetua and Felicity: young women in Rome (one pregnant with child), martyred, became saints. Augustine? declared himself the worst sinner ever, converted—saint. Thomas Aquinas? known as the “dumb ox” by his brothers—saint. Maximilian Kolbe? Mary for a middle name, priest, died in the Holocaust when he offered his life in place of a Jewish man who had a wife and kids—saint. Gianna Molla? sacrificed her life for the life of her child—saint. Georgio Frassati? teenager, mountain climber, fed the poor in between his studies—saint (blessed).

And you?—

Let us not think that in these higher levels of divine calling that we cannot continue on because of lack of air or lack of spirit. Sure, our desire may feel like the brothers’ lungs on the mountain, burning and gasping for breath, and unfulfilled. But it is here that we must remember God the Father who breathed into the lungs of Adam, or Christ who breathed upon his disciples and gave them His Spirit to strengthen them and to confirm them in the mission to proclaim the Gospel and to carry the Cross.

Sure, we may think that when our bodies begin to fail us, that our ability to do God’s will is too weak and that we may die on the way up. But we must remember: it is only in dying with him that we rise with him.

Let us take a moment, then, to see the diamonds in the sky—the saints and those who have carried the Cross. Let us ask for and remember the Spirit which God wants to and continues to provide you in your sufferings. It is only thus that you will be able to have strength to make it to the top of the heavenly mountain.

This younger brother is proof.

“Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing.” (Rev 5:12)

God love you!

Dead in 40 Days

Anthony Gerber — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 00:52:56 -0500

“For God loved the world that he gave his only Son…” (Jn 3:16)

Seminarians receive many requests for prayers. And we are humbled and thankful that we should be entrusted to serve in this way. A while ago, one of these requests told the story of a family whose son was injured in Iraq.

He was confined to a hospital bed, many miles from home, and many months (perhaps even years) from returning to his family. He was in a very bad condition: he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t talk, and most of the time, he slept. But, his family loved him and would drive the many miles to see him, even though he usually didn’t respond. His family would stay at the hospital with him, oftentimes through the night. They would read to him, tell him about their day, and give him kisses. This was, after all, what a loving family does for its members: it loves no matter what. Even if that love isn’t immediately given back.

Truly, this family was sacrificing a lot to be with their son. They had to sacrifice their time to see him; they had to probably sacrifice “more fun” things they could have been doing instead of being at a hospital; and they probably even lost a lot of sleep when they sat with him through the night. But, that’s what love does: it sacrifices.

I sometimes think: what would I do if someone I loved got cancer and had to live at the hospital? Would I go and see her every night, holding her hand and telling her that everything is ok? Would I give up the evening with friends or the evening of my favorite tv show just to be with her? Would I sacrifice?

I hope my answer would be “yes.”

After all, that’s what children do for their parents and parents for their children. When I was a year old, my mom stayed at the hospital with me. I was pretty sick with a virus. All night, mom was there, telling me of her love in gentle whispers and hugs. She could have been elsewhere, but she was with me. She loved me.

So the question for you is: is there anyone you would do that for? Is there anyone you would stay up through the night for, even if it made you tired, hungry, or even bored?

Of course, right now, we all have a very real opportunity to do this. A loved one of ours is going to die in 40 days. This loved one has not only served our country as that wounded soldier did that I mentioned above, but our loved one has served the world and each one of us personally. More often than anyone we know, this loved one has been the one that has cared for us and stayed with us through our roughest nights, been there by our bedside, bringing us his love in gentle whispers and hugs. This loved one is Jesus.

He has 40 days left. He is preparing to die.

So, what will we do to help him out? What will we sacrifice? Will we stay up and talk with him? Will we miss our favorite show for him? Will we show him how much we love him by saying, “Hey, since you’re hungry and thirsty, I will also be hungry and thirsty too”? Will we show him our love, even if it seems like we’re not getting that love back?

Lent has begun. In 40 days, we will read about Jesus’ death. In the meantime, what will you do to show him that you love him?

"Little children, let us not love in word or speech but in deed and in truth" (1 Jn 2:18)

I Want to be Married

Anthony Gerber — Tue, 23 Jan 2007 18:40:03 -0500

I have a confession to make, a desire that God has placed on my heart for a long time now and which I wish to make known to you: I want to be married.

It’s true: I want a wife and kids and everything that goes with being married. Of course, I cannot be married to just anyone: I long for a beautiful bride—a bride that prays and helps others and desires to be holy. I want a wife that strives alongside me and challenges me and, ultimately, leads me to a greater relationship with her and with Christ. I want to be united to this woman in the most pure and beautiful of ways—a way that is completely sacrificial and completely loving, not emptying or devaluing. I want a love who allows me to serve her, yet who trusts me to lead. I long for a love that desires to be a good mother, who will stay up late hours with me when the kids are sick, or when they’re crabby, or when they’re just confusing their nights and days. I want a love that shows its fruits in many kids.

Yes, it is true: I want many kids—as many as God will give me, and help me provide for. I want to be there when they are born, when they are baptized, when they are taking their first steps (especially those first steps of faith). I want to be there at their first confession and their first Eucharist, when they taste that true sweetness and receive God in all his loving entirety. I want to introduce them to my Love, my Father, and His Son. I long to teach my children all about my Father and His Son’s Life and Their Love, and how They extend that love to all of us. I want to show my children how to talk with Them, how to walk with Them… And how to listen.

I want to help my kids out with school and attend their soccer games. I desire to answer their tough questions, listen to them as they struggle with the world around them, and support them as they strive to give completely of themselves to God and to one another. I want to be there as they grow.

I want to provide them with a good home—a home that is loving, and sacrificial, and prayerful. I hope we eat dinner together.

I want to stay up late in prayer as they are out late with friends. And I know I'll welcome them back home with a giant hug and a kiss. I want to teach them the extraordinary value of forgiving others.

Of course, I will encourage them as they figure out what God wants them to do in their lives, just as my Father encouraged me when I tried to figure it all out. I want to be there when they finally do, celebrating and rejoicing with them, as they are married. Or as they take final vows. Or as the bishop ordains them to the priesthood. Or as they remain single and serve the Church is so many amazing ways. I want my children to know that they are loved.

I always want them to know that, just like I want my wife to always know that. Whether they are struggling with finances, their job, addictions, or their own families—whether they are sick, dying, or just growing old—I will always serve my family and love my family and die trying to bring them home to the Greatest Family of all.

After all, that’s what Fathers do.

So, yes, God has given me a desire to be married. But—I confess— this marriage— in fact, everything I've said above— is in reference to the priesthood; my love is for His Bride, the Church. And one day, I hope to have children… His children, the Children of God; again, His Church.

I want to be a priest: I want to be a good husband to the Bride of Christ and a good Father to His children. And, thank God for that!— for this is the stuff that makes good priests.

God love you!

Do You Have Power?

Anthony Gerber — Sun, 03 Dec 2006 21:40:53 -0500

In these cold December days when the sunlight disappears shortly after we get home from school, the last thing we want is to go home to a house that is just as cold and as dark as it is outside. We want warmth. We want light. But without the power of electricity, our furnaces don’t work, and neither do our lights. Home doesn't feel like home. Instead, we find ourselves shivering in layers of clothing and blankets, trying to keep ourselves from the thought of how miserable we feel. And we ask: How did it get to this? How did we lose this warmth and light in our home?

I was thinking about this, about how so many people around St. Louis are feeling what it is like to go without warmth and light for a couple days. I thought about the homeless too, how they endure these conditions every day—not just when the power goes off. And I was thinking about the cause for all this suffering: that cold, hard, and heavy ice.

Ice clung to trees and wires after a terrible winter storm hit St. Louis. Although the ice appeared beautiful, it entombed trees, pulling on them until their limbs and the wires underneath them snapped under the unbearable weight. The power went out, and with it, the lights and the warmth. People felt homeless.

As I walked around the seminary, looking at these trees that had fallen, I knew that God was teaching me something. He was telling me something important: “Anthony,” he said, “do you see that ice which has covered those trees?”

Yes, God, I do see.

“That ice is like all of your sins. Each time you sin, you cover yourself with a layer of ice, making yourself cold and burdened. Eventually, the weight of your sins is going to be too much for you and you will collapse underneath it, just like that tree there, taking out the light and warmth I have given you to share with the world. And notice that tree there with buds covered in ice—with that ice there, this tree will never bloom.”

I stood there, looking at this tree that would no longer grow, splintered about by the weight of ice. And I knew God was right. Each time I sin, I push myself farther and farther away from His embrace—farther away from the light of His Son and the warmth of his love. And the more I sin, the more I become weighed down by it, just like that tree. Eventually, I will collapse and, with it, the power to bring warmth and light into the world disappears.

Of course, I try my best to not feel miserable—I’ll wrap myself in covers, wear extra clothes, trying hard to not think about the cold or the dark—but these are just temporary fixes. I am miserable, not only because I can’t go all winter wearing my entire closet, but also because my home no longer feels like my home. With sin, not only have I lost light and warmth, but I have lost my home.

But there is hope. As the power comes back on and restores the light and warmth to the homes of St. Louis during the next few days, even more so Christ’s power will restore light and warmth to our hearts. His light destroys the darkness and his awesome love dissolves our icy sins. He takes away the heavy weight and gives us strength to grow again, to become who we are truly meant to be. In this season of Advent, Christ’s bride, the Church, calls us to come home, to go to confession and to shrug off our icy sins; He calls us to go to the Eucharist and to embrace his warmth and light. In this season, he reveals that the winter will come to an end, that the power will come back on, and that home—home will feel like home again.

+ So let us pray:

Father in heaven, our hearts desire the warmth of your love and our minds are searching for the light of your Word. Increase our longing for Christ our Savior and give us the strength to grow in love, that the dawn of his coming may find us rejoicing in his presence and welcoming the light of his truth. We ask this in the name of Jesus Our Lord. Amen!

May God bless you!

The Day After and Mercy

Anthony Gerber — Wed, 08 Nov 2006 10:56:45 -0500

I often wonder, if I had been alive, where I would have been on the day Jesus was crucified. I wonder: Would I have been one among the huge crowd, calling for his death? Or would I have been one who was weeping for him? Would I have been one of the soldiers who had whipped him? Or would I have been one willing to help carry his cross? Would I have been the criminal that made fun of Jesus and did not believe? Or would I have been the criminal that, in a moment of turmoil, asked with beautiful faith for God’s mercy?

Would I have even known that Jesus had been crucified?

Honestly, I do not know where I would have been or what I would have done on that day. I do know that the things I did before that day would influence my actions—after all, it is hard to break habits. I would like to think that I would have done some good. Yet, I know that I often do what I do not want to do. I have done some terrible things. We all have: you, me, and our neighbors.

I say all of this because in times of darkness and despair, when we or others around us have done terrible things, there is still hope. On that day when Jesus was crucified, the ultimate day for darkness and despair, one of his last words was: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.” To the criminal who mocked him, Jesus said: “Father, forgive.” To the soldiers who whipped him: “Father, forgive.” To the crowd who condemned him: “Father, forgive.” And to us and those around us who continue to sin, Jesus continues to say: “Father, forgive.” What an astounding mercy! What a beautiful hope! What an infinite love!

Surely, though, it is not easy to always remember this. Nor is it easy to follow Jesus’ command to go and forgive others as He forgives us.

I mean, we can work so hard for something, we can invest so much time in a project, we can become so full of hope that what we are doing is truly bringing about good in our world (and isn’t this what Jesus did in his life)! Yet, our hearts are surprised and become heavy when things don’t go our way, when we feel like that young child who has just built a great tower out of blocks, only to have them knocked over by an older brother. We become sad and we suffer. And yet, isn’t this what Jesus did.

He agonized the in the garden, was scourged, crucified, and died. Yet, during it all, he forgave. And he knows it is not easy.

In fact, when Christ taught us the Our Father and to pray, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” he also taught us (in the line just before this) to ask our Father to “give us this day our daily bread.” Here, we are asking him to give us the strength to forgive: we are asking for the Eucharist. We are asking him to give us Jesus who, even while being killed, asked his Father to forgive those who were killing him. We are asking him to make us merciful, just as he is merciful. And why? Why do we ask for this? Because, we know that, despite all the suffering and death, Jesus forgave and was raised to new life. The victory is his. And he wants us to share in that. We ask to share in that.

Yet, we often forget this—that Jesus conquered the Ultimate Culture of Death which is Sin by his very death and resurrection. His Divine Mercy is the Ultimate Cure. We must never forget that. Thankfully, he give us strength to remember—strength in the Eucharist, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. It is there that we proclaim: “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.” Have mercy on us for our sins, cure us of them. Have mercy on us when we fail to do good, cure us of our evil. Have mercy on us when we don’t respect life, cure us of this death. Have mercy on us when we tend to think that Truth is determined by a vote (when really, the Truth never changes). Have mercy on us when we think that we can do good in the world without you. Have mercy on us when we forget that you suffered and died precisely to bring us mercy. Have mercy on us when we fail to remember that you are the King who is victorious. Have mercy on us and grant us peace.

O Divine Physician, whose remedy is Mercy, cure us!

Admittedly, remembering all of this—that I must suffer with Christ if I am going to rise with him, that I must forgive if I am to be forgiven, and that He has already conquered death—remembering all of this and living it out is very tough to do. It is a constant effort, like running a marathon. 26.2 miles. Phew! That’s a long way. But, with his help, we can do it. We must do it. We must continue to work hard for his Kingdom. Jesus has shown us that we can persevere and he gives us the strength to do so. His love, his mercy, and his Cross are proof.

In the end, may we all be able to say with Him: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” Amen.