Quenching Christ's thirst

Gospel: John 4:5-42

The major theme of today's readings is thirst. Almost without fail, our focus tends to be on how much or how little we thirst for God. If you're not as thirsty as the world's most interesting man says you should be, then something is wrong. This is, of course is true. Who doesn't long for more? But it's also something you can't fix on your own.

If one takes the lovely Preface for the Eucharistic Prayer specfic to this passage from Saint John's Gospel, which is geared toward Christian initiation, what it tells you is that Christ thirsts for you. Not only is the liturgy the primary place for encountering Sacred Scripture, it is also prima theologia.

Let's step back, or rather, step forward, moving from the fourth chapter of Saint John's Gospel to the nineteenth. It is here that Jesus says, as He hangs dying on the cross, "I thirst" (John 19:28). This phrase was adopted by Saint Teresa of Calcutta as much more than a motto. These words constitute the foundation for the mission of the Missionaries of Charity. "I thirst" is also the Fifth of the Lord's Seven Last Words.

You can't "get" faith. No one can give you faith. You can't give faith to anyone. As a theological virtue, faith is a gift from God.

This Preface notes that prior to His encounter with this woman at Jacob's well, Jesus "had already created the gift of faith within her." Continuing, we hear that "so ardently did he thirst for her faith, that he kindled in her the fire of divine of love." To ardently thirst for her faith, which created in her, is a way of saying He ardently thirsted for her.

How the Lord kindled the fire of divine love in this Samaritan woman unfolds over the thirty-eight verses from the fourth chapter of the Gospel According to Saint John that comprise our Gospel for today. He lit this flame by gently pointing out how unsuccessful she had been at finding love. The fact she was then with someone, even if in an illicit arrangement, shows she still hadn't given up.

There is no shame in wanting to be loved and to love. This desire constitutes our humanity. This is why, at some point or another, love makes fools of nearly all of us.

At its deepest level, the Good News is that you are always already loved with an unquenchable, unfathomable love. "God," after all, "is love" (1 John 4:8.16). "In this is love," we read elsewhere in the Johannine corpus, "not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as expiation for our sins" (1 John 4:10). God loves you and there's nothing you can do about it!

So, before you ever thirst for Him, the Lord thirsts for you. Without His thirst for you, you couldn't thirst for Him. And He can't help but thirst for you.

To quote the usually neglected first part of the sentence that contains Saint Augustine's massively overused phrase, found near the beginning his Confessions: "You have stirred in us the desire to praise you, for you have made us for yourself. . ." (Book I, Chapter 1).

Year A Third Sunday of Lent: Thristy

I know that the Messiah is coming, the one called the Christ.

      And hope does not disappoint. . .

I am he. . .

Jesus Christ and the Samaritan woman at the well, Gustave Doré, ca. 1880 (Public Domain)

     But God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us.

We no longer believe because of your word; for we have heard for ourselves. . .

Saint Saturus

Even though it is an optional memorial on the Roman calendar, each year I personally observe the Memorial of Saints Perpetua & Felicity during my celebration of the Liturgy of the Hours. I do so especially by praying the Office of Readings. While none of these are the second reading for the Office of Readings for this liturgical memorial, every year I read one of Saint Augustine's sermons for this observance of the martrydom of his fellow North African Christians (Sermons 280-282).

As to the second reading for the Office of readings for today's memorial, I was struck today by an aspect of this passage "From the story of the death of the holy martyrs of Carthage" that had never really hit me before, focused as I was on the heroic virtue shown by Perpetua. It has to do with the martyr Saturus, who is certainly Saint Saturus.

Entering the arena, by Fyodor Bronnikov, 1869

Serving at the colisieum on the day of this gruesome spectacle, was the Roman soldier Pudens. Apparently, Pudens, too, was a Christian. After being savaged by the hungry leopard who was set upon them, Saturus told Pudens not be frightened by what he was witnessing but to let his faith be strengthened by these things.

Saturus then asked Pudens to hand him "the little ring" Pudens was wearing on one of his fingers. Pudens did so, "After soaking [the ring] in his wound," Saturus returned it to the soldier "as a keepsake." The soldier was gifted a relic.

Saturus, who this account tells us was the first to die, is last seen helping a badly wounded Perpetua. While I admit to being more than a little biased in this regard, Saturus' words and actions strike me as more than a little diaconal.

What follows is an addendum to my original post:

Thinking about Pudens watching his sisters and brothers being devoured by a feral, hungry leopard while serving the power subjecting them to this horrific death, kind of epitomizes cognitive dissonance. Many Christians today find themselves in a predicament similar to that this soldier serving the empire.

What unfolds before this Christian Roman soldier's eyes is nothing less than the kingdom of God, as the Lord Himself taught and lived it, versus the kingdoms of this world. In worldly, existential, terms, winning for Christians often looks like losing- "if you are the Son of God, come down from the cross!"

But, Saturus speaks words of hope to his brother who is working on behalf of the power putting him to such a gruesome death while giving him a bloody keepsake to strengthen him. One wonders, strengthen him for what?

"I am my own worst enemy"

February was a month during which I had the s*#t kicked out of me. One crucial piece of the armor of God as described in Ephesians that is missing is a cup or protective codpiece. I can point to four events last month that together really shook me. It was cumulative effect, as each of these things separately, while a bit distressing, would not leave me feeling the way I felt. Looking back, last February was the beginning of what turned out to be a very difficult year. Not being superstitious, I am not worried about an exact or even similar repeat. It was interesting to notice this.

I think this adversity is helping, not hardening, me. I am grateful for the grace to be open to the needed growth that can only come from experiencing difficulties, both those I bring on myself and those that arise from nowhere. I'd be lying if I told you that there are no unguarded moments when I catch myself being angry, bitter, and a bit resentful. When I catch myself feeling that way, it is opportunity to take it to the Lord and offer it to Him all over again. At some point, I am sure I will be able to just leave it.

We sing, say, and cite the Prayer of Saint Francis ad nauseum. As it goes with everything that is overused (i.e., "thy will be done" and "our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee, O Lord," etc.), it isn't usually taken to heart, remaining a nice sentiment in the moment. I have really been grappling with the petitions "may I not so much seek . . . to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love." This is proving to be some hard sledding.

Most Catholics are well-acquainted with the corporal works of mercy, but less so with the spiritual works of mercy. Two in particular challenge me: enduring wrongs patiently and willingly forgiving offenses. As difficult as these are for me, the lesson I am really learning so far this Lent is to be gentle and patient with myself.

Treating myself the way I want others to treat me, applying the golden rule and fostering a just love of self is my unbidden, Spirit-led, Lenten project. Trying to gaze on myself with the same tenderness with which Christ gazes on me is a new perspective. I am finding this way harder than patiently enduring wrongs and forgiving others. In the face of these things, I am very quick to shame and demean myself. This starts the cycle of anger, bitterness, and resentment.

I know how unlike Christ I am. It can easily be and sometimes is discouraging. In my better moments, not being more like Him grieves me. I was very struck by the Collect for Monday of the Second Week of Lent:

O God, who have taught us
to chasten our bodies
for the healing of our souls,
enable us, we pray,
to abstain from all sins,
and strengthen our hearts
to carry out your loving commands

Trevor Hudson referred to Lent as a "time-gift." It's a time to let Christ heal my soul by the power of the Holy Spirit. A time to experience His love when I feel unloved and unloveable. No shame, no guilt, no condemnation, just pure, unbounded love, that only He can give and that I need so badly but want only intermittently.

And so, our traditio is Lit with "My Own Worst Enemy."

Letting go of Why?

Why? It is the most human of all questions. As human beings, we are creatures of meaning, always deeply desiring meaning. We often tend to manfacture meaning. Because this question is human, all too human, it is limited. Hanging on to "Why?" limits you.

The Book of Job shows what happens when one clings to "Why?" In the end, Job doesn't really receive a satisfying answer to his question. Rather than asking "Why?", it's usually more important to grapple with "that."

That really happened. What now? It's okay that you can't make sense of it. I am of the view that in a fallen and badly broken world, there is often no sense be made of things. And so, it's very often the case that any meaning you assign is an overlay, an imposition, a figment of your imagination. This is especially true when trying to determine someone else's intentions. Most of the time, we don't know our own reasons why!

Most of the Book of Job consists of either Job's friends trying to answer Job's "Why?" or Job rejecting their facile answers (i.e., God is punishing you because of something you did) even as he continues imploring God. In the end, the divine answer Job receives can be summarized by this passage from Isaiah:

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways . . . For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, my thoughts higher than your thought (Isa 55:8-9)

When reality is overwhelming, disorienting, bad, or even traumatic, "Why?" is a natural response. Like a lot of natural responses, the Spirit leads us beyond that. In his lovely little book Prayerfulness, Robert L. Wicks inists that "until we can let go of this question ["Why?"] and find new ways of relating to God and the event, moving on and moving deeper in our life is almost impossible" (90).

Perhaps the most pagan way of relating to God is to think that when something bad happens God is punishing you and when good things happen it is because God is pleased with you. God is not capricious. God is probably never the formal cause of what happens to you. Perhaps sometimes He might be the efficient cause. God is certainly the final cause of all things. If we're willing to let go of "Why?", God can and will make amazing things happen. Only God can bring life from death and create something from nothing.

Trust is earned. Trusting someone, even God, involves a risk. Most of the time the risk isn't whether or not things will work out for the better or maybe even just be okay. Rather, the risk is not having things work out the way you want them to. What we often want is for bad things to just go away. Far from being an evasion of reality, Christian faith is a deep engagement with reality. Hope is realized by facing reality squarely.

More than God's pleasure or displeasure, I think the worst temptations are not to believe in God or to believe God is indifferent toward you. Of these two, the latter is worse than the former. We are not to put God to the test, which, scripturally, refers to trying to force God to do what you want Him to do. Trusting God when reality seems arrayed against you, which requires submission to His holy will and realzing that it isn't just all going to magically go away, is necessary. This means having no idea how this is going to work out or how I am going to make peace with this and imploring God, surrendering to Him.

As Eugene Peterson wrote: "When nothing we can do makes any difference and we are left standing around empty-handed and clueless, we are ready for God to create."

Monday of the Second Week of Lent

Readings: Daniel 9:4b-10; Psalm 79:8-9.11.13; Luke 6:36-38

Our God is awesome because, for anyone who repents and seeks His mercy, He does not deal with him according to his sins. In other words, if you turn to Him, you won’t get what you deserve in the end. If this isn’t good news, I don’t know what might be.

In essence, the Gospel is pretty simple. Human life, “real” life, is what is complicated. A very complicated situation arises whenever someone who has done something truly terrible turns to the Lord and truly repents.

Of course, repentance consists of acknowledging the terrible sin(s) committed and accepting, perhaps even embracing, the just consequences that follow from them. Genuine repentance is not a way of avoiding responsibility or consequences. In his encyclical Spe salvi, Pope Benedict XVI noted:

Grace does not cancel out justice. It does not make wrong into right. It is not a sponge which wipes everything away, so that whatever someone has done on earth ends up being of equal value¹

He also pointed to something axiomatic: “Only God can create justice. And faith gives us the certainty that he does so.”² We must humbly acknowledge that ultimately, only God can judge. And judge He will. So, how you live your life matters both here and now and in eternity. This is Christian realism at its most stark.

Today, the Lord does not comfort us. Rather, He provokes us: “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.”³ Today’s readings are summed up nicely in a passage from Ephesians:

And do not grieve the holy Spirit of God, with which you were sealed for the day of redemption. All bitterness, fury, anger, shouting, and reviling must be removed from you, along with all malice. [And] be kind to one another, compassionate, forgiving one another as God has forgiven you in Christ⁴

In his magisterial address with which he opened the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council, Pope Saint John XXIII insisted:

In our time, however, the Bride of Christ prefers to use medicine of mercy rather than severity. She wants to come to meet current needs, showing the validity of her doctrine rather than renewing sentences⁵

In his first message for Lent, Pope Leo invited us

to a very practical and frequently unappreciated form of abstinence: that of refraining from words that offend and hurt our neighbor. Let us begin by disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander and speaking ill of those who are not present and cannot defend themselves⁶

Striving to be like Christ means endeavoring to follow follow even His most difficult teachings. To love your enemies, pray for them, do them good. In the verses leading up to our short passage from Luke for today, Jesus asks:

For if you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners do the same⁷

Christians reject the lex talionis, which insists on an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Like Tevye, the main character in Fiddler on the Roof, we realize that the only result of living according to the lex talionis is that everyone winds up blind and toothless.⁸

By following Christ Jesus, we go a better way.

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1 Pope Benedict XVI. Encyclical Letter Spe Salvi, sec. 44. 2007.^↩
2 Ibid.^↩
3 Luke 6:36.^↩
4 Ephesians 4:30-32.^↩
5 John XXIII. Gaudet Mater Ecclesiae. Address to Open the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council. 1962.^↩
6 Pope Leo XIV. Message for Lent 2026.^↩
7 Luke 6:32-33..^↩
8 Fiddler on the Roof, film version, directed by Norman Jewison, 1971.^↩

Year A Second Sunday of Lent

Readings: Genesis 12:1-4a; Psalm 33:4-5.18-20.22; 2 Timothy 1:8b-10; Matthew 17:1-9

The Lord’s Transfiguration is the fourth Luminous mystery of the Blessed Mother’s Holy Rosary. This mystery’s fruit is the desire for holiness. In the part of the Sermon on the Mount known as the Beatitudes, which we spent several Sundays listening to just before Lent, Jesus calls blessed those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.¹

What does it mean to be holy, to be righteous? It means to be like Jesus. This requires obedience to the Father by listening to His Son’s teachings and endeavoring to follow them. Transfiguration or, more succinctly, conversion, is a better way to think about repentance than just being sorry for your sins, which, while necessary for repentance, is far from sufficient.

This holy season is a time-gift we receive each year. Receiving this time gift means repenting and believing in the Gospel, which is not a self-improvement project. As our responsorial for today puts it: “Lord, let your mercy be on us, as we place our trust in you.”² To be like Christ means surrendering yourself to God. Indeed, Christ “saved us and called us to a holy life, not according to our works but according to his own design.”³

Abram, later Abraham, our father in faith, exemplifies this our reading from Genesis, which is summarized in the final sentence: “Abram went as the LORD directed him.”⁴ Jesus Christ is the Gospel. He is the Good News of salvation, the One who surrendered Himself completely to God, relinquishing His own will for the sake of love, even to the point of death.⁵

In the whole of our uniquely Christian scriptures, which together we call the New Testament, eternal life is clearly defined only once.This definition is found in the Gospel According to Saint John:

Now this is eternal life, that they should know you, the only true God, and the one whom you sent, Jesus Christ⁶

Being a Christian means to desire holiness. It means being hungry and thirsty to be like Christ, a desire that is strengthened by the Eucharist. Becoming holy requires me to confront myself in those ways I know I am not like Him.

Transfiguration, by Titian, 1560 (Public Domain)

These realizations should cause me, in words from our Ash Wednesday reading from the Book of the Prophet Joel: “Rend your hearts, not your garments, and return to the LORD, your God.”⁷ This exhortation ends on a note of encouragement that gives hope:

for [the LORD] is gracious and merciful
slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love,
and relenting in punishment⁸

The Lord taught that those who truly hunger and thirst for righteousness will be satisfied.⁹ Without repentance, there is no hunger, no thirst for Christ. Hence, there is no forgiveness, no conversion, no salvation. What good is a gift you refuse?

The good news, in part, is that, at least until death, God never ceases offering you the gift of salvation, purchased by the death of His Son, no matter how many times you refuse or ignore it. But that part, at least until death, recalls that I am dust and to dust I will return. This realization gives the Lord’s call great urgency.

As Count Leo Tolstoy wrote in a pamphlet at beginning of the twentieth century: “everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself.”¹⁰ While you cannot be transfigured into Christ’s image merely by your own efforts, you certainly can’t be so converted with no effort!

Today, with Lent in full-swing- though it’s never too late to start- the Lord says to you: “Rise and do not be afraid.”¹¹ He desperately wants to hear you respond, “Jesus, I trust in You.”

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1 Matthew 5:6.^↩
2 Psalm 33:22.^↩
3 2 Timothy 1:9.^↩
4 Genesis 12:4a.^↩
5 Matthew 26:39.^↩
6 John 17:3.^↩
7 Joel 2:13.^↩
8 Joel 2:13.^↩
9 Matthew 5:6.^↩
10 Leo Tolstoy. "Three Methods of Reform." Translated in 1900.^↩
11 Matthew 17:9.^↩