One of the most striking sayings of Jesus is perhaps His simplest. It is one word, “Mary.” He is not referring to His mother or Mary of Bethany or any of the several other Marys of the Gospels.

Mary of Magdala is utterly distraught. She has come with other women to anoint the body of Jesus. The stone has been rolled away. The tomb is empty. She sees a man whom she mistakes as a gardener or caretaker and wants to know where the body of Jesus has been taken. (John: 20). Jesus utters her name, and through her, the Apostles and all of us learn of the unthinkable. Christ is risen.

This is Mary of Magdala, a woman that many of us don’t recognize because of a movement set in motion by Pope St. Gregory the Great, making Mary into the repentant prostitute whom Jesus forgives. In fairness to Gregory the Great, he was probably voicing a earlier tradition confusing Mary of Magdala with the penitent who washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair.

The restoration of the historical position of Mary of Magdala is recent. In 1969 the Vatican officially corrected the traditional misconception of her as a prostitute. This also coincided with the rise of the women’s movement. More recent scholarship on the gnostic Gospel of Mary shows that Mary of Magdala appeared to have played a more central role in the immediate circle of the Apostles. This is also part of a trend in historical scholarship of the early church indicating that women played a more prominent role in leadership and teaching and were supplanted by men as the church became established under the emperor Constantine.

Mary the Apostle? Mary the penitent prostitute? These questions are an uncomfortable reminder that male dominated societies place women on a pedestal while also exploiting them at the same time. This is not only a tragic double bind; it also contradicts what Jesus was about in His relations with women.

St. Camillus de Lellis is one of those saints that remain quietly in the background of our Catholic lives, despite having sown seeds that continue to bear fruit into our present day. He was born in Italy in the mid-1500s and lived to the age of 64. His mother died when he was thirteen and his father was in the military, so he did not receive as much attention and loving care as he should have as an adolescent. He grew up to be an agressive, hot-headed, compulsive gambler. He worked as a mercenary soldier, selling his services to whichever ruler’s army would pay him. Between stints as a soldier, he spent time working in a hospital for the incurably ill. But his gambling and agressive behavior cut short that employment and he returned to being a soldier, serving in the war against the Turks in 1569.

Following the war, when he was working in construction on a building at Manfredonia for the Capuchins, he was touched by a talk from the guardian of the community there and at the age of 25, his life changed. His legs had been injured when he was younger and they never really healed completely. He spent time in hospitals both receiving treatment and helping with the care of other patients. Following his conversion, he dedicated the rest of his life to caring for the ill and injured. He eventually became a priest and founded a religious order, the Fathers of a Good Death, in 1584. Wearing a red cross on their black cassocks, they cared for the sick, including victims of the plague, in hospitals, in the homes of their patients and on the battlefields. The order continued to grow through the years, and today they are known as Camillians (Clerks Regular Ministers to the Sick). Camillians work all over the world.

St. Camillus de Lellis was called the “Founder of a new school of charity” when he was canonized by Pope Benedict XIV in 1726. He taught that God is present in people confined to hospitals and sick beds, reminding his followers, “The poor and the sick are the heart of God.  In serving them, we serve Jesus the Christ.” 

A Camillian priest visited our parish last year, raising money for their work in the missions. He spoke compellingly about the people he had served and their stories. It was quite inspiring. When he introduced himself and his order, he told us that Camillians were the “original Red Cross” because of the color of the cross on their habits. Their work through the centuries in hospitals, battlefields and sick rooms would seem to bear that out.

Once again it seems that “God writes straight with crooked lines.” A mercenary, who is a compulsive gambler and brawler, with injured legs, becomes the founder of a group of men who spend their lives working to heal the sick and care for the dying - the patron saint of gamblers and nurses. Truly a life story to be told more widely.

Faith and reason are often seen as opposites in today’s controversies. Some people say that faith has to be subject to reason and others say that there can be no reason if one has faith. St. Bonaventure shows not only how faith and reason are reconciled but how they are fulfilled in each other and lead us to that transcendent mystical encounter beyond words and comprehension for which we were all created.

The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy clearly summarizes the life and teaching of St. Bonaventure:

Bonaventure of Bagnoregio (ca. 1217 to 15 July 1274), the religious name of Giovanni di Fidanza, was a Franciscan friar, Master of Theology at the University of Paris, Minister General of the Franciscan Order, and Cardinal of the Catholic Church. During his lifetime he rose to become one of the most prominent men in Latin Christianity. His academic career as a theologian was cut short when in 1257 he was put in charge of the Order of Friars Minor (O.F.M.). He steered the Franciscans on a moderate and intellectual course that made them the most prominent order in the Catholic Church until the coming of the Jesuits. His theology was marked by an attempt completely to integrate faith and reason. He thought of Christ as the “one true master” who offers humans knowledge that begins in faith, is developed through rational understanding, and is perfected by mystical union with God.

St. Bonaventure was a man of passionate intensity. In the Prologue to his famous Itinerarium Mentis Ad Deum - The Mind’s Journey to God - Dr. Ambrosio’s translation conveys the Saint’s great feeling and vision:

To begin with, the first principle from Whom all illumination descends as from the Father of Light, by Whom are given all the best and perfect gifts [James, 1,17], the eternal Father do I call upon through His Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, that by the intercession of the most holy Virgin Mary, mother of God Himself and of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and of the blessed Francis, our father and leader, He may enlighten the eyes of our mind to guide our feet into the way of that peace “which surpasses all understanding, [Eph., 1,17; Luke, 1,79; Phil., 4,7], which peace our Lord Jesus Christ has announced and given to us; which lesson our father Francis always taught, in all of whose preaching was the annunciation of peace both in the beginning and in the end, wishing for peace in every greeting, yearning for ecstatic peace in every moment of contemplation, as a citizen of that Jerusalem of which that man of peace said, with those that hated peace he was peaceable [Ps., 119,7].  

Although the Itinerarium Mentis Ad Deum is a classic of Western philosophy, its brevity and poetic beauty sweeps the reader up into a vision and a search for the Divine while synthesizing major questions about the nature of God, the universe and our existence.

St. Bonaventure has always played a special role in my life, since I grew up in the parish of Mission San Buenaventura in Ventura, California. Mission San Buenaventura was the ninth and last mission founded by Blessed Junipero Serra, who taught philosophy in Majorca, Spain before coming to the new world. These are some pictures of the mission and its gardens.

Benedict of Nursia is called the founder of Western Monasticism. He was born at Nursia around 480 AD to a noble family. According to tradition, his had a twin sister, Scholastica, who became the founder of a similar form of monasticism for women. As the son of a noble family, he was educated well and lived a comfortable life. The world and all its opportunities were open to him. Presumably he sampled some of its treats as a young man.

Around 500 AD, he decided to leave Rome for a quieter life in the country. He took his childhood nurse along as a servant and moved to a smaller town about 40 miles away. According to St. Gregory, who wrote the first biography of Benedict, his intention was to live a life more in tune with the Gospel than that of a typical young noble in Rome. He didn’t plan to become a hermit or to organize groups of men to live in religious communities or to develop a “Rule” for monastic orders. He simply wanted to have time for prayer and work and a life with a friends who shared the goal of living a Gospel centered life.

From a distance of hundreds of years, we see choices like the one he made as signs of holiness. Up close in our own lives, we often see them as somehow irresponsible or “crazy” - a judgement generally shared by the families of those, including Benedict, who made those choices in the past.

It’s easy to forget/overlook the fact that Benedict never set out to start a religious community. The rules he eventually developed and wrote down were ones that developed out of his experiences in living with other men and by himself. They were developed for lay people. Only later did his followers become priests.

So what were these rules about? They were about how to live a holy life in the world, as a person sharing life with other people. They were written not just for those who left family and jobs to live a life of prayer, but for anyone seeking holiness. They assumed that people would work. That a life of prayer without work is not healthy. And both work and prayer need to be undertaken with the support of other people in a community. We need friends and family to keep us going and to challenge us to continue when it would be easy to cut corners or take the easy way out of a tough situation. And - surprise - there must be time for fun and play in life!

For Benedict, balance was important. Work, prayer, play — all within the framework of a community/family. 

There is a saying from Buddhist tradition, “Before Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”  Benedict’s example and the rule he developed are very much in alignment with this wisdom. Prayer includes deep awareness of the presence of God in all things. So as we work, we pray if we are “present”  in what we are doing and aware of God’s presence in it. When we come together in community to pray, as monks do at regular times in the day and night, or as families do over meals or at bedtime, we pray most deeply when we are again “present” in the moment of prayer. When we have time by ourselves for personal, quiet prayer, and we find ourselves in the presence of God, we are to stay rooted in that experience too. The trick is to stay aware and present to the reality of what we are doing. “Chop wood, carry water.” And when we play, we are to play wholeheartedly as well - like happy children. Not worrying about how we look or who will win or what else we should be doing that would be “holier.”

Benedict’s life was not easy. The lessons he learned came through many twists and turns. He spent time living alone and time living in communities. He started some communities. Lived within others. Was rejected by some. One community even tried to poison him! But through it all he kept his eyes and ears open to God’s presence and call. And the witness of his life drew other people, men and women, who passed on what he learned down through the generations to us. How to find holiness in the balance of a life of work, prayer and play as individuals and as members of families and communities.

Somewhere, lost in the depths of a bookcase, my family has a comic book about Junipero Serra. It is set in the year 20something, still in the future from now, on board a space craft. The story is about a priest telling a friend of his about Serra. I first picked up the book, (actually I found it), in fourth grade, the time when all California kids study the California missions. That was the first real intro I had to Serra and the founding of the missions, because I found the book just before we started studying the missions in school. His story fascinated me, but soon I forgot about him and the book, until today when I started doing research for this post. Some might say that comic books never tell the truth, but they would be wrong about this one. The research I did showed me that the comic book is actually rather accurate at portraying his life.

Blessed Father Junipero Serra was born Miguel Jose Serra on November 24th, 1713 in Petra, Majorca, Kingdom of Spain. Later, he took the name “Junipero” in honor of Saint Juniper. He entered the Order of Friars Minor on September 14th, 1730.  Because he was so good with his studies, Serra was appointed Lector of Philosophy (some sort of professor) before he was ordained a priest. Later on he also received his doctorate from Lullian University in Palma De Mallorca.

In 1749, Serra travelled to Mexico City. On the way from Vera Cruz to Mexico City, he was bitten in the leg by an insect. The bite never got better, and that leg bothered him for the rest of his life. He never wanted any help with it though, and preferred to walk whenever he could.

From Mexico City, Serra requested transfer to the Sierra Gorda Indian Mission. He spent nine years there, learning the language of the Pame Indians, and translating the Catechism into their language. He was soon recalled to Mexico City and gained fame as being the most fervent and most effective preacher, because he would do ridiculous stuff in order to get people to repent. It is said that he used to pound his breast with rocks at the pulpit, scourge himself and hold a lit torch to his chest. Whether or not he actually did any of that is debated.

The years went by, and in 1769, Serra acompanied Govenor Gaspar de Portola to Nueva California. On July 1st, 1769, the exedition landed in San Diego, where Fr. Serra founded Mission San Diego de Alcala, the first of 21 California missions. After founding Mission San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo in Montery, Serra relocated his head quarters to Carmel. Under his rule as ”Father Presidente of Alta California”, the missions expanded to include: Mission San Antonio de Padua, Mission San Gabriel Arcangel, Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, Mission San Juan Capistrano, Mission San Francisco de Asis, Mission Santa Clara de Asis and Mission San Buenaventura. Each of the California missions is located within one day’s walk of each other. He also pressed for laws to protect the Natives from the abuses of the military.

Around 1778, Serra was given dispensation to give the sacrament of Confirmation. He went around confirming people for a year until Felipe de Neve told him to stop until he could present a Papal Brief. Serra waited for two years, until the Viceroy Majorga gave instructions to the effect that Serra was within his rights. Over the next three years, Serra traveled from San Fransico to San Diego, over 600 miles, and confirmed 5,309 people. 600 miles may not seem like a lot now days, but it was a lot then, on foot, with a bad leg.

Blessed Father Junipero Serra died of a snake bite on August 28th, 1784. He was beatified by Pope John Paul II on September 25th 1988. He is buried in the Carmel Mission.

P.S This is not actually Kathy writing. I am Rosie her 15 year old daughter. Gotcha!

It’s the time of year when we remember and celebrate the witness of two men who played foundational roles in the community of believers that has grown to include well over 1 billion people - St. Peter and St. Paul.

Peter was a fisherman from Galilee. He was known as Simon. He was brash and decisive and protective of his friends. He didn’t hesitate to argue if he thought a request was unreasonable (but we’ve been fishing all night and haven’t caught anything!) or a plan was unwise (they want to kill you in Jerusalem!). Yet when Jesus came into his life, he was open enough to the Spirit that he left everything and followed when he was called. Jesus named him Peter, calling him the Rock on which the community would be built. (Jn 1:42)

Peter became the leader of Jesus’ followers, at least in part because he spoke his mind and looked out for the safety of them all. He was the one who answered Jesus’ question, “Who do you say that I am?” with the profession of faith, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” (Mt 16:15-16)

Peter was not perfect. He expressed his doubts about Jesus’ plans to go to Jerusalem, trying to dissuade him from that plan, and was rebuked as “Satan” for his efforts. He walked on water towards the Lord, and sank into the waves when he stopped to think about what he was doing. He promised undying support for Jesus at the Last Supper, and denied him 3 times before the sun came up.

No, Peter was not perfect. But he was a perfect leader for the new community because he knew he was imperfect and still loved, chosen, and trusted to do his best. It was a big job for a big person. Figuring out who this Jesus was and is, how to live as a community who follow His ways, how it all fit into the faith in which he was born and raised, what to do about all those non-Jews who also received the Spirit and wanted to be part of the community. A big job.

Paul was from Tarsus, a Roman city. So he was a Roman citizen. He had been trained as a tent maker, but he had also been educated. He was a Pharisee, the son of a Pharisee, and a student of the great teacher Gamaliel. He was not a follower of Jesus before the Crucifixion and Resurrection. In fact, he was one of those who saw the new Way of living as a huge threat to the larger Jewish community and to their faith. The Romans were not gentle with those who opposed them or to those who upset the day-to-day routine of life in the provinces. And certainly, the Jews had seen time after time through history what happened to the whole people if groups of them stopped worshipping according to the traditional ways of their people. War, exile, persecution by conquerors. It was not something to risk.

The first time we hear of Paul is at the trial and stoning of St. Stephen, the first martyr. He was called Saul at the time and he consented to Stephen’s death. Saul was an enthusiatic participant in the persecution of Jesus’ followers that followed. He saw that the new teachings were doctrinally quite different from those of traditional Jewish Law and worship at the temple. He was determined to crush the new movement. (Acts 8:3)

When the persecution began in Jerusalem, followers of the Way (as Christians called themselves at that time) had scattered throughout the surrounding area. So Saul got letters from the authorities and traveled north to Damascus, to arrest them there too and bring them back to Jerusalem for trial. It was on the road to Damascus that he met the Lord. A bright light flashed around him. He fell down. A voice called to him, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” He asked who was speaking and was told, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. …” Acts 9:1-30 tells the story of his conversion, his first preaching, the reactions of his fellow Christians and of his fellow Jews, and his return to Tarsus (where he would be safe from those who wanted to kill him). And then in Acts 9:31 we read, “The church throughout all Judea, Galilee and Samaria was at peace.”

Peace. A lovely thought. But peace is a state that seems never to last very long - perhaps because growth so often brings unexpected changes, stresses, and strains in its wake. Perhaps because some growth can’t happen except in times of difficulty, when new ideas and new solutions must be discovered. Perhaps because God is too unlimited, too expansive, too inclusive, TOO BIG to be kept in any of our human boxes.

And so the Fisherman baptized a Gentile, Cornelius, and his family. And the community adjusted its thinking about who could be called to the new Way. (Acts 10:1-49, 11:1-18)

Those who had been scattered from Jerusalem shared their faith in new communities in Phoenicia, Cyprus and Antioch. They spoke not just to Jews, but also to Greeks and many believed. The community in Jerusalem sent Barnabas to meet them. Barnabas was so impressed that he went down to Tarsus, collected Saul, and went back to Antioch for a year, teaching the growing community there - where followers of Jesus were first called Christians.

Saul and Barnabas were sent forth from the community at Antioch, to proclaim the word of God in Cyprus. It was the first of Saul’s many missionary trips. (From this point on, he is called Paul in the Acts of the Apostles.)

And things would never again be the same. The Fisherman and the Pharisee didn’t always see eye to eye. They argued. They tussled. They sent letters and messengers back and forth to each other. They had meetings. And through it all, they (and the community) worked things out. And the Christian community became more and more a separate community and faith from the Jewish one into which they had been born.

It was not a time of perpetual peace and smiles. But at the end of their lives, both Peter and Paul, in Rome, died as witnesses to their faith in the Lord - Peter upside down on a cross and Paul, the Roman citizen, by the sword. And the tensions and struggles within the growing community, as well as the growth in understanding of the Good News, and of who Jesus was/is, and of how we are to relate to the Father, and of many, many other things, continued.

In future posts, I’ll talk about some of those “other things” that came along, and use some of the tools of anthropology to look at them. For now, it’s enough to say that Peter and Paul can be seen as representing two essential roles within our community of faith. Their passion and courage in hearing the Lord’s call and stepping out faithfully to spread the Good News is a gift to us all.

Fr. Kevin Burke, S.J. of the Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley offered this image as a member of a panel on Jon Sobrino’s work at the meeting of the Catholic Theological Society of America.

“Theology is like a wild animal, like a wolf or an eagle or a great white shark. It’s dangerous, and given the propensity of human beings to domesticate and dominate what frightens them, it’s also endangered.”

Not a bad insight.

St. John the Baptist is the last of the prophets and the first of those to approach the Kingdom. He occupies a place of transition. Christ acknowledges him in a strange way in Luke 7:24-28:

When the messengers of John had left, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John. “What did you go out to the desert to see - a reed swayed by the wind?

Then what did you go out to see? Someone dressed in fine garments? Those who dress luxuriously and live sumptuously are found in royal palaces.

Then what did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet.

This is the one about whom scripture says: ‘Behold, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, he will prepare your way before you.’

I tell you, among those born of women, no one is greater than John; yet the least in the kingdom of God is greater than he.”

Somehow the least in the Kingdom of God is greater than John. The least are greater than this courageous prophet who spoke truth to power and was beheaded for his efforts. Aren’t those of the Kingdom not born of women? Isn’t John’s courage and faithfulness a model for all Christians? Christians are born again of water and the Holy Spirit. John announces the coming of the Lord and for all of the wonder and importance of this role, it is not as privileged as the least in the Kingdom of God.

The feast of St. John the Baptist is a time to reflect on the privilege and grace of our invitation to the Kindgom. In the earlier verses of this chapter, Jesus tells the the messengers of St. John to report to him what the signs of the Kingdom are: the blind see, the lame walk, the sick are cured.

Maybe it’s time to see where we are in the Kingdom.

St. Aloysius Gonzaga (1568-1591) is often portrayed as a weak dreamy sort of figure. Worse, he has been presented to young people as a patron and role model who rejected all of the fun, adventure, and rebellion of youth. The real story is far more compelling.

How St. Luigi Gonzaga became St. Aloysius in English is not clear. The Latin for Luigi would be Ludovicus. Alois would be the German equivalent.

The “spin” of 17th and 18th century writers on his life was more a pietist anti-intellectual critique of the secularist Enlightenment. To be impolitic, he comes across as some sort of bloodless, lily toting wimp with upward cast eyes. Although it is not uncommon for saints to be “martyred” posthumously and their lives used to advance a contemporary cause, the Renaissance Luigi Gonzaga, Marquis of Castiglione is more relevant to us as post-modern Christians.

The overall sketch of his life is a simple as it is dramatic. Luigi was the oldest son of Ferrante, the Marquis of Castiglione, and named for the founder of the Gonzaga family Luigi, Lord of Mantua (1328). He was a pious youth, despised the things of this world, joined the Jesuits, and died of the plague after contracting it from nursing its abandoned victims in the streets of Rome when he was barely 23.

The context of his life and his status as an imperial prince give us a fuller understanding of who he was. According to John Coulson, the editor of The Saints: A Concise Biographical Dictionary:

It is impossible to estimate Aloysius’ (Luigi’s) career without some idea of his appalling heredity and environment. The Gonzaga tyrants rank with the Visconti, the Sforza, and the D’Este. They entered history about 1100; the first Gonzaga, lord of Mantua, was Luigi (1328), whose third marriage took place on the same day as his son’s and grandson’s: the three brides entered Mantua together in triumph. Already their cliff-like fortress was looming over the city. These despots displayed an amazing mixture of qualities. The Gonzaga clan survived one assassination after another and became allied to most of the reigning houses; but Luigi Gonzaga (141), grimly surnamed ‘The Turk,’ kept up three printing-presses and had for clients men like Platina, or Mantegna, who painted the scenery–now at Hampton Court–for the plays to which the Gonzaga were devoted. The French Parliament petitioned against the introduction of these plays into France–they were a ‘high school of adultery’–and no one would now dare paint the pictures with which some of the Gonzaga palaces were adorned. Yet these princes could care for agriculture, irrigation, checks on usury; and their insane debaucheries alternated with explosions of a genuine underlying faith. Their subjects, bled white by taxation, thrilled by their exotic pageantries, worshipped them till they broke into bloody but useless revolution.

The life of a Renaissance prince was far from any story book. St. Aloysius’ primary schooling was at the Medici Court in Florence. While he received the best academic training of the day, there was a bigger focus on swordsmanship, riding, and intrigue. He also spent significant time at the Spanish Court of King Philip II. His mother was a Valois and a relative of the Queen and his father had turned down a position of Master of the Horse in the English Court of Henry VIII in favor of Spain. At the time, the Spanish Empire was at its height of power and global dominance. Philip II also became king of Portugal as Philip I and ruled the Portuguese Empire as well.

As the oldest son, Luigi was trained to fulfill the duties of a prince and to prepare to succeed his father in the wealth, power, and literal back stabbing of the Gonzagas. As a child, though, he was appalled at what he saw and experienced, including the murder of close relatives. Fortunately, he came under the influence of St. Robert Bellarmine, who gave him his First Communion as a teenager. His rebellion was to reject it all and to enter the Church. His mother was not opposed to the idea, since it was not uncommon for powerful families to place prominent younger sons in key church positions that controlled considerable wealth and property. Luigi’s desire to join the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) was another matter. It would mean that he would forgo any type of service that could make him a powerful or wealthy cleric. Ironically, it was a wealthy and powerful churchman - Luigi’s cousin Cardinal Scipione Gonzaga - who prevailed on Ferrante to permit his son to join the Jesuits.

However, even as a Jesuit scholastic (student for the priesthood), he was still a celebrity who received celebrity treatment by those outside the order. Luigi probably over-compensated for this and his spiritual director and personal mentor, St. Robert Bellarmine, told him to ease up on prayer and penance and live a more moderate life. If we look between the lines, fitting a Renaissance prince into a religious house was not the easiest task for Luigi or his fellow religious. In fact, St. Ignatius’ famous letter on obedience was motivated in part to try to redirect the religious enthusiasm of these men to the ultimate in penance - to do what you are told whether you like it or not.

One can only imagine what it was to see a Gonzaga nursing victims of the plague on the streets of Rome.

There is a wonderful statue of St. Luigi outside St. Aloysius parish on the grounds of Gonzaga University in Spokane, Washington which shows a vital, caring, young man tending to a plague victim.

For some time when Gonzaga University was at the height of its fame as a basketball champion, there was a slogan which the University ran on national TV - Gonzaga: a Way of Life. The possibility of taking a brand like “Gonzaga” and making it stand for an impassioned life of faith inspired service is due to a young man caught up in grace. Isn’t that what we want for all young men and women?

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