What does it mean to be a “fisher of men” (Mk 1:17)?  A proselytizer?  An apologist?  A televangelist?  The phrase certainly conjures up images of sharp hooks and bait, of being in pursuit, of trying to literally capture someone or something, but this does not sound like Jesus!  What if, however, “fishers of men” has to do with the nets that were so typical during ancient times?  And what if these nets were not to be used against anyone, but were instead for their benefit?  What if we are being called to “catch” those who have been entrusted to us when they fall?  What if, like a safety net, we are being called to humbly descend just low enough to ensure that another person remains intact and capable of continuing on their way?  What if ours is not to bring them to Jesus, but to create circumstances, like others have done for us, that allow for the dignity of choosing to follow him?  This is indeed an exciting vision of the Kingdom, which is, in fact, like a net (Mt 13:47), and a worthwhile way to spend our eternal retirement. 

Ave Crux, Spes Unica.

If we really want to understand other people, we should follow the humble example of Jesus and find ways to “stand under” them.  His dramatic immersion in the lowest-lying river in the world at his baptism, his willingness to stoop down to wash his disciples’ feet at the Last Supper, and his harrowing descent into the underworld to rescue souls after his death give us a sense of the extreme measures that Jesus takes to see us clearly and love us fully.  We too can arrive at a place of true perspective by actually making eye contact with the person holding a sign at the traffic light, by listening attentively to another person’s angry tirade directed towards us, by foregoing some luxury item that has crept into our daily routine, or by literally bending down to pick up a piece of trash along our way.  In doing so, we shall quietly and invisibly be drawn down the interior ladder and come to stand with Jesus under the drama of it all, appreciating, for the first time, the beauty of other people.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica.

Here’s a provocative question:  Is sin confessable?  It seems that, in an ironic way, that which is deformed, twisted, distorted and misshapen loses its sinful character the moment it finds expression in words, which are naturally meaningful.  A soul that is lost in the overwhelming emotions and confusion of sin actually discovers a sturdy point of reference in naming the experience as “lust” or “rage” or “hate” or “despair.”  What is being confessed, then, is simply our capacity for transformation and newness of life.  This act of consciousness, indeed, is a necessary development on our journey toward authentic human living rather than an exercise in blame and guilt and shame and sorrow.  The next time, therefore, we enter into the wooden box on a quiet Saturday morning, let’s leave the list of transgressions and dramatic revelations to the movies.  Let’s, instead, confess the glory of the living God who not only draws order out of the apparent messes of our lives, but who invites us to be coredeemers with every “I confess” and “I am heartily sorry” that we proclaim.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica!

Sitting at the kitchen table, on a warm summer night, working on a project, the ballgame on in the background, scratching my head, scraping something from my scalp, dried soap or dead skin, it’s a tick.  My dear brother tick, you have quietly and masterfully intervened in my life.  You have broken into my world of narrow perspectives and complacent routines.  Your heroic journey from the blade of grass, to my shoe, up my pant-leg, across the entire length of my sweatshirt, onto my hair, and under my ball cap has awakened me to the radical interconnectedness of all that exists.  My throbbing neck, my sneezing and my fever throughout this whole month have been welcomed reminders of the creatureliness that you and I share, and that the gift of being-in-the-world-together is enough.  And so, the next time I am tempted to think that I need to be something special, I can pull you out of my pocket, hold you in the palm of my open hand, and thank you for befriending me.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica.

If the Body of Christ were a mathematical precept, it would be the transitive property of equality: When a = b and b = c, a = c.  In other words, if I am somehow connected to Christ through the grace of discipleship, and another person is connected to me through the grace of friendship, then that person is also connected to Christ, and that’s how the body grows.  Such texture, which resists neat categories and clean ecclesiastical pronouncements, signifies a living organism marked by interdependence and mutuality.  The next time, therefore, we start to make quiet judgments about non-religious friends or family members, we can remember that each member of the body enjoys a unique calling.  We can be energized by the thought that their only Eucharist might be our weekly taco night outing, or that their only Baptism might be the tears of grief that we share at the funeral home, or that their only Confession might be the honest talk during our late night phone calls.  The more we come to see how thoroughly transitive our human lives really are, the more the Body of Christ will appear. 

Ave Crux, Spes Unia.