Tag: Merciful Like the Father

I suppose it’s rather ridiculous that my favorite married Saints were only married for 30 days but, with apologies to Louis and Zelie, Luigi and Maria, etc, in my mind the witness of Timothy and Maura takes the cake.

St. Timothy¹ was a third century Egyptian lector, an office which entailed far more than simply proclaiming the readings. He spent his evenings reading to the people of his village and preaching the Gospel. He married a pious young woman named Maura and was arrested for being a Christian only 20 days later. His captors, on the authority of Diocletian himself, demanded that Timothy surrender the books of Scripture to them. Timothy refused, saying he’d just as soon surrender one of his own children, and was horrifically tortured. When being blinded and hung upside down with a stone tied to his neck did nothing to weaken him, they chose to attack his heart instead of his flesh and brought in his blushing bride.

The governor, Arian,² appealed to Maura’s hopes and dreams. After all, she’d only been married for 3 weeks. Didn’t she want to live the life she’d been promised? Didn’t she want to raise a family with her husband, to grow old with him? All he had to do was hand over the Scriptures and he’d be set free to live in peace to  a happy old age. Maura listened intently and asked to speak to her husband.

When Maura was brought in to Timothy, she explained the governor’s offer. “But I, for my part, will never speak to you again if you deny Christ.” Timothy likewise encourage Maura to withstand the tortures she was facing and Maura walked out to Arius to declare her own faith and suggest that he give her the punishment that her crimes warranted. She too was tortured but refused to deny Christ.

Finally, Timothy and Maura were crucified facing each other and for 10 days they prayed together, sang hymns, and encouraged each other as they suffered for Christ. When one was weak, the other would be strong, reminding the beloved of what Christ suffered and the promise of future life. Ultimately, both found themselves welcomed into the arms of Christ, glorious martyrs. The witness of their courage and joy so inspired the governor that he, too, became a Christian and was eventually martyred himself. His feast day is on December 14 in the Eastern calendar.

Though they were married for only a month, Sts Timothy and Maura understood the purpose of marriage: to suffer together, encouraging one another in virtue as you seek to follow Christ. Like all martyrs, they gave up their lives; these two also gave up the beauty of a holy marriage. They gave up each other. May God bless all Christian marriages with the same spirit, that spouses may rejoice in suffering together, encouraging each other daily to live more fully for Christ!

But what does any of this have to do with mercy? Well, we’ve talked about people who experienced God’s mercy and who offered it to sinners. Here I think we have a couple who showed God’s mercy by refusing to allow each other to settle. It would have been entirely reasonable for a woman in love to ask her husband to apostatize for her. It would have been expected for Timothy to suggest that his wife run and hide, even if he wouldn’t do it himself. But God’s mercy doesn’t mean saying sin is okay or holding people to a low standard. In his mercy, God demands everything of us. And I think Timothy and Maura show the mercy of God because they loved each other too much to be content with mediocrity. God’s mercy is sometimes severe and here we see the mercy of a God who is too good to be nice, who loved these Saints too well to allow them to cave to the desires of their flesh.

You see, everything God does is mercy. I’ve been seeing this more and more this year. God’s mercy isn’t opposed to his justice, as though his mercy excuses sin while his justice delights in punishing. God’s mercy is simply his love in action. Which means that the consequences of our sin are a result of God’s mercy and the fear we feel is a result of God’s mercy and our desire to be more than we are right now and our hunger for greatness and our nagging guilt. Mercy takes addicts to rehab. Mercy sometimes issues an ultimatum. Timothy and Maura show us God’s generous mercy in allowing them to be martyrs and his severe mercy in demanding it.

Perhaps this week there’s somebody in your life who needs not the world’s mercy (“It’s cool, no big deal.”) but God’s mercy. This week, let’s pray not to be nice but to be merciful, to demand greatness from those we love and to suffer along with them as they seek to be transformed in Christ.

 

1. Not that St. Timothy. [↩]
2. Not that Arian. [↩]

I wonder if there’s anything more compelling as a witness of God’s mercy than Christians who love those the world has deemed unloveable. Much like St. Vitalis, Bl. Jean-Joseph Lataste had a ministry to women the world had written off. His work and witness continue to impact the life of the Church (and the lives of those far from the Church) to this day.

Born Alcide Lataste in 1832, he was raised by a Catholic mother and an atheist father and though he struggled with the faith in his youth, his devotion to Christ was cemented through the experience of serving the poor through the Vincent de Paul Society. When his parents opposed his engagement to a woman he loved very deeply, Alcide was unsure whether to wait for them to change their minds or to pursue his childhood dream of becoming a priest. When his beloved died suddenly, Alcide knew just what to do. He entered the Dominican order two years later, developing a strong devotion to St. Mary Magdalene and taking the name Jean-Joseph.

Soon after being ordained, Fr. Lataste was asked to go preach a retreat at a women’s prison. He went, but with strong reservations. After all, what hope could there be for these inveterate criminals? But the Holy Spirit was more powerful than his prejudice and as he was preaching the retreat, he found himself struck by how similar these women were to his beloved Mary Magdalene. He spoke tenderly to these women society had written off, pointing out how dearly God must love them. After all, he might have left them in their sin, but instead he had them sent to prison that they might be saved. Imagine seeing incarceration as a sign of God’s merciful love!

Nor did their past lives change how much God loved them, he insisted. “When Jesus looks at souls he does not look at what they were, but at what they are–not at their faults, but at how much they love. He judges them as they are, by the strength of their love.” This would become a hallmark of Fr. Lataste’s preaching.

When he had convinced them that they were loved, he went on to tell them that their life had meaning, that even in prison they could serve the Lord. Just as nuns lock themselves up as a gift to the Lord, these prisoners could offer their monotonous lives to God, consecrating their very punishment. The eyes that had been dead only an hour before were now filled with new hope!

As the retreat continued, Fr. Lataste began to worry. These women had been transformed by God’s mercy, but what would become of them when they re-entered a world that despised them? What, especially, could be done for those women who felt that God was calling them now to religious life? No religious community would overlook the stigma of prison and accept a convict, yet to leave them to fend for themselves was unthinkable. “Dishonored in the past but long ago rehabilitated before God, they must now be rehabilitated before humanity. They must be saved, not only from the past dishonor, but from that inevitable return to crime; they must be saved, not only for this life, but for eternity; they must be saved out of love for him who said: ‘The Son of man has come to seek and to save what was lost.’”

And so Fr. Lataste began a new community, a community that would welcome women with unsavory pasts, indeed that existed for their sake. The Dominican Sisters of Bethany, he called them, “because the Gospel tells us that at Bethany lived Martha, of inviolable virtue, and Magdalene, the sinner. And Jesus loved to come and rest in their home. When Jesus looks at souls, he does not look at what they were but at what they are–not at their faults but at how much they love. He judges them as they are, by the strength of their love.”

This order offered a home to modern Magdalenes, a contemplative house of prayer that sent a few Sisters to women’s prisons to console and encourage the inmates. Though he lived only long enough to see the order established, Fr. Lataste’s community has lasted 150 years and today has houses at least in France, Switzerland, Italy, Latvia, Belgium, and the Netherlands.

In today’s world, I think we need a reminder that God’s love isn’t just for the immaculate but also for those who’ve been made pure. To be merciful like the Father is to look at each human soul and see not what she’s done or how she’s fallen but who she can be in the love of Christ. Bl. Jean-Joseph Lataste is a powerful witness of overcoming prejudices and seeing with eyes of mercy.

I honestly find the existence of this kind of community (as well as the Little Sisters Disciples of the Lamb, a French community that exists so that women with Down Syndrome can become religious) thrilling. There is nobody who is unloved, regardless of your past or your circumstances or your disability. The Dominicans of Bethany continue to draw women of all backgrounds. In their choir stalls, class presidents stand beside prostitutes, girls-next-door beside murderers; what a perfect foreshadowing of heaven, where the greatest sinners may wear the most beautiful crowns while petty sinners rejoice to call them friends. Mercy, indeed. To both.

 

Nobody’s really been linking up, but I don’t quit things, so….

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In keeping with last week’s Irish theme, this week’s Saint is St. Serapion of Algiers. He spent his 12^th century youth a crusader, fighting under Richard the Lion-Heart and Leopold VI to liberate the Holy Land, but a life lived by the sword didn’t satisfy him. When he met St. Peter Nolasco, founder of the Order of Mercy, he knew that his heart for liberating captive Christians was calling him out of the army and into religious life. Serapion asked to be received into the Order of Mercy, a religious order whose charism was the redemption of captives. In addition to preaching the mercy of God who redeems us from sin, Mercedarians proved that mercy by redeeming slaves from their Moorish captors.

Serapion took part in several of these missions of mercy before being sent to England to recruit new members to the order. On his way there, his ship was captured by pirates and Serapion was left for dead. Surviving, he continued on his mission, but his powerful preaching against the theft of church property in London got him in trouble. Ordered to leave the city, he spent some time wandering the British Isles as an evangelist¹ before he resumed his work of ransoming captives.

In 1240, Serapion had brought a ransom to Algiers to release 87 Christians when their captors demanded more money. When he discovered that some of the captives were considering renouncing Christ, he volunteered to stay in their place. Better to be a slave than to allow souls washed by the blood of Christ to turn from him. Serapion watched his brothers and sisters released and turned to his captors, ready to preach the love of God.

The witness of his life, handed over without a thought for strangers, combined with the powerful message of a God who did the same was incredibly compelling to the Muslim people Serapion encountered and he began to make powerful enemies when several Muslims came to him to be baptized. Though his brother Mercedarian raced home and horses were sent throughout Europe begging for funds to ransom Serapion, the money didn’t arrive in time. He was nailed to an X-shaped cross and dismembered, a martyr of Christ and a martyr of mercy.

Serapion is certainly not the only Saint to have been involved in the ransom of Christians but I find his particular circumstances compelling. His entire life was animated by the love of God’s mercy and the desire to bring it to others. Initially this was through war, but eventually he realized that the most powerful witness to the love of God was offering his life in peace. As one who was rather bellicose as a young Christian, I’m inspired by his ability to put away his sword and witness to the Gospel in such a profoundly counter-cultural way. More than just saving lives, Serapion was saving souls, laying down his life for those at risk of losing Christ.

This week, keep your eyes peeled for those in your life whose faith might be hanging by a thread. How can you love them back into the arms of Christ?

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1. A perfect friend for me! [↩]

It seems to me that the majority of hagiographies (Saint stories) fall into one of two categories: 1) he was so perfect his whole life that he practically walked on water, or 2) he bathed in a sea of his enemies’ blood until he met Jesus and became perfect. This can be discouraging for those of us who are just consistently jerks. We’re not holy enough or terrible enough to become saints, it seems, so we go on with our mediocrity.

But there are some–increasingly more, it seems, though perhaps I’m just meeting more Saints in general these days–who clearly struggled with sin and brokenness even after their conversion. Ven. Matt Talbot was an alcoholic, Bl. Elizabeth of the Trinity was angry, and St. Mark Ji Tianxiang was an opium addict. Really.

Moderns, mostly, but leave it to the Irish to understand sinning Saints before the rest of us. St. Columba (or Columcille, but not, it seems, Columban or Columbanus, as that’s somebody else) is a dear friend of mine, a powerful witness to our ability to fall even when surrounded by grace–and then to be raised up again.

Descended from an Irish high king, Columba (who lived in the 6th century) was educated by monks before deciding to join them himself. He studied under St. Finnian of Moville and then under the great St. Finnian of Clonard, one of the fathers of Irish monasticism and the “tutor of Erin’s saints.” After his ordination, Columba wandered the country preaching and founding monasteries.

So there he was, all educated and inspiring and fancy with his preaching. Everyone was amazed by him, but he was still very human. His former teacher, St. Finnian of Moville (not Clonard–try to keep up) had recently acquired a copy of St. Jerome’s translation of the Psalms and Columba was drooling over it. A very skilled copyist, he asked Finnian if he could make a copy. Finnian, an abbot and a Saint, said no. Evidently he was also something of a greedy jerk, refusing to allow others access to God’s word. But he did allow Columba to read it, so he did–by day. By night, he snuck into the room where the Psalter was kept and made a secret copy. Another monk saw him doing it and reported it to Finnian, who allowed it to happen. After all, Columba was a very skilled copyist.

When Columba had finished his copy, he got ready to return to his monastery. As he was leaving, Finnian approached. “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he declared, and demanded the copy Columba had so carefully made. He argued that a copy made without permission belongs to the owner of the original.

This became a nasty quarrel and eventually the two “men of God” appealed to the king. He sided with the miser over the thief and told Columba to leave the Psalter with Finnian. Ever obedient (ish), Columba did. And then went back to his clan and incited a revolution. The ensuing battle left 3,000 men dead and the holy abbot with blood on his hands.

Overcome with remorse at what he had done, Columba submitted himself to the judgment of the bishops of Ireland. Though they considered excommunication, they ended by exiling him instead. (Many Irish people would be hard pressed to tell you which is worse.) Columba sailed with 12 companions for Scotland, where he established a community at Iona and proceeded to evangelize nearly the whole of Scotland.

You would expect Columba to have spent the rest of his life doing penance for his terrible, murderous sin, but he didn’t. No more than anybody else, anyway. He fasted and prayed and lived a terribly austere life, but he didn’t spend the next 30 years begging God for mercy. He had already received it. He had been forgiven and received his penance and there was no more need to lament his youthful misdeeds. They had been washed away by the blood of Christ and he was made new. Even though he had known better, even though he’d been given every advantage, even though he’d had no excuse for what he did–getting men killed because he wanted his own copy of the Psalms!–he refused to allow that sin to define him. He knew he was fallen and he knew God was merciful and he let the mercy transform the sin.

Would that we could do the same! So many of us live in the shadow of our pasts, forgetting that God sees only who we are, not who we were. We wallow in our shame and refuse to let God transform us. But St. Paul–himself a murderer–will have none of it. “Forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”¹ Columba is a powerful witness to me of the fact that Saints sin–sometimes dramatically, even after their conversions. I will sin, sometimes dramatically, even after my conversion. That doesn’t mean I’m SOL and I might as well resign myself to sliding into purgatory by the skin of my teeth. My sin will have consequences but by God’s grace I can start again and let him mold me into the image of his Son. 

God’s mercy is bigger than your sin. I hope your past isn’t as ugly as St. Columba’s but I know your future can be as beautiful. Lord, have mercy. Let’s go be saints.

 

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1. Philippians 3:13-14 [↩]

Cornelia Connelly is a woman who knew suffering and yet managed to live with joy. Born into a wealthy Philadelphia family in 1809, Cornelia Peacock married Pierce Connelly, an Episcopalian clergyman, when she was 22. Shortly after their marriage, they moved to frontier country: Natchez, Mississippi. Pierce was very unhappy at what seemed to be a dead end position and began to question his Episcopalian faith. Before long, he had decided to renounce his priesthood and enter the Catholic Church. But Pierce, always very focused on success and worldly recognition, felt convinced that he needed to become a priest, even though to do so would have required him to separate from his wife and small children forever. Despite his wife’s devotion (and misgivings), the family sold their home and belongings so that they could travel to Rome to pursue this dream of Pierce’s.

On their way to Rome, the Connellys spent some time in New Orleans, where Cornelia’s attraction to Catholicism was confirmed. She was received into the Church, despite the opposition she knew she would experience, just before the family sailed for Rome. Pierce himself became Catholic in the Eternal City before the family returned to America a few years later, Pierce still a layman but desperate to do whatever it took to be ordained.

Deeply in love with her husband, Cornelia was distraught: “Is it necessary that Pierce sacrifice himself and me too? I love my husband and my darling children. Why must I give them up?” Nor would this be her only suffering during this time. Shortly after they moved to Louisiana, their fourth child, Mary Magdalene, died in infancy. Not long after, their third child, John Henry, was knocked into a vat of boiling sugar. Cornelia held him as he slowly died, 43 hours of agony. But her suffering had only begun.

Pierce had resolved to become a priest and asked Cornelia to agree to a separation and a life of perpetual celibacy. Mourning the loss of her marriage, Cornelia agreed to give all to God. Though she several times asked him to reconsider for the sake of their family, Pierce was blind in his insistence that he could not be happy if he weren’t ordained. So Cornelia moved to England, at the prompting of the Holy Father, to found the Society of the Holy Child Jesus. In order to do so, her bishop required that she put her two younger children, ages 10 and 5, in boarding school.¹ In anguish, she obeyed, and made vows as a religious sister within the year, finding peace amid all her troubles.

But Pierce was not at peace. He was becoming more and more unstable, eventually demanding to see Cornelia despite restrictions against it. Cornelia refused to see him. When he couldn’t influence her with persuasion, he chose to punish her by abducting her children and poisoning them against her and the Catholic Church.

Enraged by her resistance, Pierce brought a lawsuit against his wife demanding his conjugal rights, despite having relinquished them years before. He renounced his Catholic priesthood and his faith and declared that he was attempting to rescue her from the Church. The English press naturally had a field day with this court case, particularly when Pierce won. Mercifully, Cornelia was granted an appeal and never made to return to the husband who had forced her to leave him and then attempted to force her to break her vows as a religious. Her reputation ruined by allegations of improprieties with the bishop, her heart broken, her children stolen from her, Cornelia returned to life as a Sister.

Pierce ended his life an Episcopalian priest in Florence, bitter and cruel to his death in his attacks on the Catholic Church. Merty, their oldest, died at age 20; Ady returned to the faith after the death of her father; Frank died as angry and anti-Catholic as his father.

And what of Cornelia? Despite constant attacks from within her order² and without,³ Cornelia was a woman of radiant joy. Asked once why she wasn’t miserable, with all she had suffered, Cornelia replied with a smile, “Ah, my child, the tears are always running down the back of my nose.” Cornelia grieved her suffering deeply but chose still to live in the joy of Christ risen.

From what I can tell, Cornelia wrote very little of the sufferings of her life except to offer them to the Lord and to remind her daughters in religion of the good suffering can do to the soul. “We have all a large share of suffering, and if we had not, we should never become Christlike as we ought,” she said, speaking volumes about her ability to forgive. Indeed, the joy Cornelia exhibited could only have been possible if she was a woman of great mercy.

I can’t think how I would react to the constant attacks Cornelia underwent, but I’m quite sure those who knew me wouldn’t describe me as radiant with the love of God. Most of us, I’m sure, would become terribly bitter in such circumstances. But Mother Cornelia was always a beacon of peace and full of smiles. She even viewed smiling as an offering to the Spirit: “Give to the Holy Ghost many smiles and offer each smile as an invocation–a fidelity–a cooperation with grace.” All this amid more suffering than most of us will ever experience.

Cornelia Connelly has become a dear friend of mine in recent months as I offer her witness of interior peace in a difficult marriage to friends who are suffering from difficult marriages themselves. Her ability to cling to the Lord and continue to trust him, even when trusting him seemed to have destroyed her happy life, is a witness to us all. More than anything, perhaps, I’m struck by her willingness to accept the circumstances of her life as a gift from God when I would have called them a curse.

Certainly Cornelia spent her life offering mercy to her husband, but I see in her also a desire, if it’s possible, to be merciful to God. Rather than curse, abandon, or resent him, Cornelia chose love. It seems silly to suggest that we ought to be merciful toward the Father as well as being merciful like the Father. And of course he’s done nothing wrong, nothing that could warrant our forgiveness. But many of us still harbor resentment against the Lord for suffering we see as his fault. Perhaps this week we can walk with Venerable Cornelia Connelly and ask her prayers that we might accept God’s will–even when it’s awful–and love him all the more for it.

 

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1. The oldest had been in boarding school for some time. [↩]
2. She was several times betrayed by a one of her sisters in religion; other sisters wrote to Rome to have her investigated. [↩]
3. Her husband, younger son, a bishop who distrusted her, and most of Protestant England, among others. [↩]

St Vitalis of Gaza is one of my very favorites. He was a 7th century Egyptian hermit, so I imagine most of us expect to have nothing in common with him. And perhaps we don’t, but lots to learn.

When Vitalis was about 60 years old, after many years in the desert, he gave up the hermit thing and went to Alexandria. There he became a day laborer. He would work all day at back-breaking tasks to earn a wage and then proceed to the local brothel to spend it.

Every night, this former hermit found himself with a different prostitute. You can imagine what the local Christians thought! Vitalis was ridiculed and harassed. People even approached the Patriarch to try to have him excommunicated, but the Patriarch refused to act on hearsay. Vitalis’ life became rather miserable until one day he was attacked in the street and killed. When he was found, he was clutching a paper with 1 Corinthians 4:5 written on it: “Therefore, do not make any judgment before the appointed time, until the Lord comes, for he will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will manifest the motives of our hearts.”

But the Christians of Alexandria had already judged. “Good riddance,” they thought, until his funeral. Dozens (if not hundreds) or former prostitutes attended his funeral, and each testified that she owed her soul to Vitalis.

As it turns out, Vitalis’ life wasn’t quite as debauched as people thought. Each night, after Vitalis had paid for a woman’s services, he would tell her he had bought her one night without sin. She was free to sleep. He, meanwhile, would hold vigil over her and pray for her. Naturally, some were curious. They asked Vitalis what he was about and he told them: God loved them and wanted them to be saved. He told them of God’s mercy, of his death on the cross, of the way he delighted in them. And when they were ready to accept this, he found them a way out. He worked to arrange marriages, provide dowries, even find monasteries willing to accept them. The only thing he asked was that they keep quiet about what he had done. If his good deeds had been known, after all, he would have been barred entry to the women he wanted to serve.

So he submitted to ignominy, willingly offering his reputation for the sake of their souls. Whether he was killed by someone who was angry at his success with a favorite prostitute or by a self-righteous Christian, we don’t know. Certainly he was a martyr, one who offered his life for the salvation of souls, and with great success.

There’s something so compelling to me about St. Vitalis’ story. Here was a man so concerned with the salvation of others that he offered not only his life but his good name. What humility, to be willing to be condemned as a lecher in order to save souls! It makes me wonder how willing I am to be shamed for the sake of the Gospel.

Then there’s the fact of his ability to see the dignity of these women who were considered scum. Long before people understood that victims of human trafficking are just that–victims–Vitalis was looking at them and seeing not fallen women but chosen daughters of the King. He wasn’t just trying to stop them from sinning, he was trying, whatever the cost, to show them what they were worth and how deeply they were loved. What if we took it as our life’s mission to convince people around us of the same thing? Even if they weren’t converted, their lives would be the more joyful because we chose to live like Christ.

When I tell people about great evangelists, Vitalis always ranks up there with Paul and Francis Xavier. His entire life was given over to preaching the Gospel and he chose to do it in ways that weren’t flashy. It’s all well and good to be a hobo missionary (like Paul! And Francis Xavier! And me!!) but the world needs people who are subtle, gentle missionaries as well. Vitalis went without sleep or food for the sake of telling broken, suffering women that they were loved and for his troubles he got a rock to the head. And a heavenly crown.

This week, I’m going to ask the Lord to give me his eyes so that I can see the suffering heart instead of the sinner. And in every encounter I have, I’m going to try to treat the other person with the gentle compassion that makes preaching the Gospel possible. St. Vitalis, pray for us!

 

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It seems every talk I give this year the requested topic is mercy. Which is great–it’s one of my favorite things to talk about. But if I just say the same thing over and over, it’s going to get stale. Besides, the love of God reaching out to a sinner is never dull and never looks the same. So since my two current obsessions are Scripture and the Saints–and since we’re already hitting the Scripture thing pretty hard–I thought it would be helpful to spend Lent sharing how different Saints expressed or received God’s mercy. And I’d love it if you’d join me!

Each Monday this Lent, I’m going to be sharing the story of a Saint whose life reveals more about God’s mercy to me. For those of you who are bloggers and want to share your own Saint stories, I’m going to make it a linkup. You just write your post, then come back here for the post of the day and add your post to the list. Then–if you don’t mind–link back to my post in yours so that people can click over here to find more stories of new Saint friends.

Ideally, I’d love some more obscure Saints. St. Francis and St. Thérèse are great but we’ve got thousands of Saints you’ve never heard of, so let’s get to know them. Also, anyone whose cause for canonization is open is fair game. So I’m looking at St. Vitalis, Ven. Cornelia Connolly, St. Josephine Bakhita,¹ and St. Columban to start. If you don’t have a blog, feel free to share your Saints of mercy in the comments!

1. Is she too mainstream? [↩]