If you’ve ever run a race before, you know that it’s a whole lot easier when you can actually see the finish line.  As the announcer exclaims, “And down the stretch they come!”, the jockeys, desperate for victory, crouch low and begin beating their galloping steeds.  In track and field, the home stretch is the moment that the half-miler turns on the boosters.  Even while jogging, when we imagine getting to the parking lot and slaking our thirst, we suddenly become world class sprinters or cheetahs traversing the savanna.  It is the same in the spiritual life, but because the “end” (Jn 19:30) is eternal, infinite and immense, it cannot be grasped by the senses like the checkered flag or represented in our imaginations like the victory tape.  Instead, we must know it by negation; that is, we must allow our minds to grow still and dark, appreciating that the essence of our ultimate goal is not like anything we have ever experienced in this life.  This via negativa becomes the trusting and patient way by which we are gradually drawn — through no effort of our own — not just across some cosmic finish line, but, in fact, into communion with the “end,” himself (Rev 22:13), who has been loving us to victory all along.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica.

“That makes me feel uncomfortable” is the show-stopping phrase of the postmodern era.  To utter these words brings immediate shame to the actor and creates an impenetrable bubble over the accuser.  Who needs the in-breaking of grace or salvation, a word that literally means safety, when we can control the circumstances of our lives to the point of feeling safe all the time?!  Indeed, maximal comfort becomes our highest priority – and isn’t it so with our society? – as we exchange transcendence, mystery and risk for a static cave where we gradually lose touch with reality and wallow in our untouchableness.  The next time, therefore, we are tempted to announce, “That makes me feel uncomfortable” as a cheap fix for our personal existential shortcomings, let’s pause and instead say something like, “That makes me feel afraid,” or “That makes me feel vulnerable.”  Such an honest starting point cannot but pop our own ego-bubbles on the way to becoming greatly strengthened – the literal meaning of “comfort” – in a communion beyond ourselves.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica.

Autumn can be a mysterious time of year.  The crisp air, the vibrant colors, and the long evenings are somehow able to announce change in a way that is attractive and compelling to us human beings.  While the kind of change that takes place during autumn is gradual and intentional, the beauty of the season lies more in her vulnerability.  Indeed, she does not try to hide the fact that she is immersed in death.  With leaves falling, trees withering, darkness descending, and a chill creeping into bone and marrow – a devastating scene! – she shows us, in total transparency, what it is like to like to change, and at some level we rejoice in something that is undeniably and breathtakingly real.  The next time, therefore, we find ourselves in an autumn mood, let’s skip the pumpkin lattes and haunted houses.  Let’s instead channel Sister Autumn’s bold spirit and run headlong into the changes that await us on our life’s journey.  The thin layer of grief that used to trip us up and prevent us from growing will be transformed into gratitude as we, together, fall into the constant and glorious mystery of it all.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica.

While Francis of Assisi may be best known as the pious-faced saint who adorns the lawns of Catholics and animal lovers the world over, he was a real person who lived an authentic life. Francis grew up the son of a wealthy merchant.  He led a carefree and indulgent lifestyle and eventually joined the local militia in the hopes of gaining worldly glory during this period of fair maidens and courtly love.  Nevertheless, he was captured in his very first battle, spent over a year as a prisoner of war, and returned home shell-shocked.  After a second unsuccessful attempt to become a war hero, the despondent Francis returned home permanently.  Everyone was stunned, as the life of the party moped around town trying to figure out the meaning of his life.  Years, in fact, passed with Francis becoming increasingly absorbed in his soul searching, awkward ascetical practices and lonely vigils.  Then, one day, after everyone had written him off as a lost cause, the miracle happened: he had a vision of Christ, his mission came into focus, and he single-handedly transformed Medieval Europe.  Let’s be patient enough, long enough, like Francis, for the miracle to happen in our own lives.  We too shall be surprised by the story that the Lord wants to write with our broken dreams and restless hearts.  Ave Crux, Spes Unica.