We are not the vine

Sometimes, especially as parents in times of trial, we can feel very much alone. We can feel as if the world — or at least our children’s small worlds — depends entirely upon us. We feel as if we are the vine and they are the branches and their very lifeblood runs through us and only through us. Of course, this isn’t true at all. 

As we approach Pentecost, the daily Mass readings speak truth into the frazzled, overstretched minds of mothers everywhere. You’re not the vine. You’re a branch and so are your kids. Your Father, the creator of the entire universe,  and your Savior is the vine. It is from him that you draw strength and grace, from him that you gain sustenance. Wait, there’s more.

He’s the vine for your children, too. The greatest thing you can do for them is to teach them where to draw strength. Parents can be the very best providers and encouragers for our children, but we can’t be their whole world. We can’t ever be everything they need. Because they — like us — need God. They need to see how the branches abide in the vine and the vine feeds them. 

Children grow up. They strike out on their own. They still touch base. If the relationship is a good one, they’ll always seek counsel and wisdom from their parents. But we do them a grave injustice if we don’t point to a truer source of strength and grace and joy. Further, we take on far more burden than we can bear if we behave as if we are the vine, the source of their strength.

At first, it seems like a good idea. If we can just control enough, contrive enough, we can guarantee their success and their happiness. Maybe even if we can abide closely enough in the Lord, we can be sure our children will, also, grafting them to us as we graft ourselves to him. But that’s not how this works.

Instead, as our children head out into the world, we take comfort in the words of Jesus, who left his disciples — and us — with far better than a human parent. 

"But I tell you the truth, it is better for you that I go. For if I do not go, the Advocate will not come to you. But if I go, I will send him to you" (Jn 16:7).

This promise is one that gets even better as we drill down on translations. An advocate will come to you (New American Bible). A counselor will come to you (Revised Standard Version). A friend (The Message). A helper (New International Version).

Rooted in the vine who is Jesus, we are given the Holy Spirit. He advocates for us. He counsels us with wisdom. He is a friend even when no other friends are around. And he is our greatest source of strength and help. The Holy Spirit infuses us with grace so that we can live here on earth in communion with God in heaven.

That means that we don’t parent alone. We don’t have to provide for our children what good parents do without the help of Our Lord. It also means that when we are gone or when our children are far from us, or even when we’re all trying to live together peacefully, the Holy Spirit can do the heavy lifting. He is here and he will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment.

Take a deep breath; you don’t parent alone, not even close. Abide in the true vine and listen to the counsel of the Holy Spirit. God’s got this. 

Family mission and the Good Shepherd

Two things recently coincided to get me thinking about family culture. At first glance, they are fairly disparate. Look a little closer, and they dovetail perfectly. My adult son Patrick was asked to consider his family mission statement in a business school assignment. As part of the assignment, he asked me, his dad and his siblings what we thought our family mission is. That sparked some treasured conversation with Patrick. The other thing was pondering the Good Shepherd over three days’ liturgies during the fourth week of Easter. I promise: This all fits together.

One of the beautiful truths about the Good Shepherd is that he knows each of us intimately. He sees us and leads us and calls us by name. Whenever I read about this in John 10, it brings to mind my favorite verse, Isaiah 43:1: "But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine."

The Good Shepherd calls us by name. He redeems us. And he says that we belong. We belong. To him. Each of us has a deep desire to belong, to be assured that we are loved, to be seen and heard and validated. It is a longing in our hearts because God put it there. That desire is supposed to ultimately direct us to God. He’s the only one who completely satisfies it.

We are supposed to live life on earth in a way that is oriented toward heaven. Families are where we learn — in an ever-imperfect way — to belong. It is in our families that children are first called by name, that they are intimately known and that they are protected the way the Good Shepherd protects his sheep. It is in our homes that parents build a family culture that gives a child a good look at what it is to be safe and loved and cared for inside the gate, with parents who lay down their lives for their children.

We build a culture of grace, where the entire family enters into the abundance of life in Christ. But what really is grace? It’s living God’s own life. It’s tuning our hearts to his and acting accordingly. Just as the Good Shepherd leads all of us, parents lead children into this kind of life. 

Jesus asks us to follow him. In order to do that, we have to hear him. When we are familiar with Scripture, when we frequent Communion, when we sit in quiet adoration, we hear him. And when we hear him, we can lead our children to him; we can help them hear his voice, too. When we rest in the security of belonging to Our Lord, we offer the same security to our children. That gives kids a place to grow that is inside the gate, a place where they know they’ll always be called by name and claimed as our very own. 

It takes intention to develop a family mission and to shape a family culture. It takes time and effort and sacrifice. But growing in that sheepfold, with that kind of love and stability and protection, means a child grows healthy and strong. It means they are well-prepared for the trials and suffering that will come — because we know that as Christians, we are promised crosses. Growing in the sheepfold makes a kid strong enough to carry the cross.

We are Easter people

"Do not abandon yourselves to despair. We are Easter people and Alleluia is our song." St. John Paul II

Alleluia is our song. But do we dare sing it? Last year, our churches were closed for Easter. We thought it was all a temporary blip. In reality, it was just the beginning of a yearlong odyssey that has palpably changed the demeanor of the world. 

We have become angry people. We have become suspicious people. We are no doubt weary people, worn down by the burdens of our times. Collectively, it seems, we have forgotten that we are Easter people.

Alleluia means "praise the Lord." Can we do that? Do we do that? Do we dare to do that? I have found that noting beauty, goodness and truth these days is met with outrage. We are discouraged from taking time to praise the Lord in all things. Instead, we are supposed to be angry all the time, wary of the motives of our neighbors, keeping each other safely several arms’ distances away. Increasingly, a person who wants to live as an Easter person will find the world hostile to the message. Increasingly, the world chooses to stew in despair. The world wants to be afraid. The Easter people want to trust in the Lord.

God wants to offer mercy to the broken, fearful world. Because of mercy, there is reason for a hearty Alleluia. As the Easter season begins and we look to Divine Mercy Sunday, we grow in a deeper understanding that because of Christ’s great sacrifice, we have been extended glorious mercy. Because of the resurrection, we have a real, enduring reason for rejoicing. 

"Do not be afraid. Open wide the doors for Christ." St. John Paul II

We can live curled up in fear, hands tightly clenched, wary of our neighbor and angry at the world, or we can throw open the doors of our hearts and let love prevail. The church offers us all we need to proceed in love. (And yes, I am aware that the people of the church are flawed. The Holy Spirit can work with flawed people, so read on.)

We need confession and we need Communion. And the time is now. 

Sin is a breach of relationship with God and with other people. It’s also an injury to ourselves. When we sin, we distort God’s vision for who we are intended to be. We were created for goodness and holiness. We were created to be close to God. Sin puts distance between us and God. And then it distorts the way we think about ourselves so that our internal conversation is very vulnerable to the lies of the devil. We believe the worst about ourselves; we believe the worst about each other.

Carrying the burden of sin makes us less able to lean into the Christian life fully. It makes us less open to grace (or cut off entirely from grace). Grace is what enables us to do what God intends us to do. When we cut off the grace, we create a breach with God and we also create a breach with other members of the community.

When we cut ourselves off from God, we begin to suffocate. Our human, Christian relationships die. We become angry and resentful and suspicious of one another.

Confession is about both forgiveness and conversion. It is about the real and free grace of forgiveness, but it’s also about changing our ways, amending our lives, avoiding the near occasion of sin — it’s about true conversion. 

It’s about changing, about beginning again. And who among us doesn’t really need a new beginning right about now?

This is our time! It’s time for Christ’s infinite mercy. It’s time to kneel before the throne of grace and hear the beautiful words of absolution. And then it’s time to go forth, strengthened by the grace of holy communion, to do actual good in a broken world. It’s time to celebrate and pursue beauty, goodness and truth — not to be shamed for it. It’s time to live as if we truly trust Jesus, as if we know that we belong to him and he loves us dearly and the gates of hell will not prevail because of just that truth. 

"Those who sincerely say ‘Jesus, I trust in You’ will find comfort in all their anxieties and fears. There is nothing more man needs than Divine Mercy — that love which is benevolent, which is compassionate, which raises man above his weakness to the infinite heights to the holiness of God." St. John Paul II

Longer days, fresh hope

Lent.

The word has always signified a sacrifice to me — a subtraction, a forfeit, a paring down, a letting go. We try to eliminate the distractions, to focus on the most essential. Actually, though, a quick etymological discovery trail casts a different light on the very word.

Lent.

From the Old English lencten: spring, springtime.  From the West Germanic langitinaz: long-days or lengthening of the day. 

Lent is not about scarcity; it is about increasing abundance. It is about springtime and a world coming to life. It is about days becoming steadily longer, warmer, brighter. It is about the stirring of a world that had seemed to die. Lent is the season of lengthening days. Here in the Northeast, where each season stands in sharp relief, where the winter is cold and dark, and the summer is hot and un-air conditioned, I notice how the meteorological season is aligning with the liturgical one. 

My friends to the south of me are sharing pictures of fists full of blooms. Their Easter seems to be arriving before mine. I stop and doubt a moment. Will I, too, get to gather flowers in the sunshine? I’m digging beneath the thick blanket of leaves I layered last fall to see if maybe there are tiny tulip shoots. There are. I notice how the leaves closest to the soil have decomposed more than those on top. I see that with the lengthening days comes renewal, rebirth. Last fall we made great mounds of leaves and the children jumped in them and tossed them in the air with wild abandon. Tiny hands helped me dig holes and mound soft earth on top of cold bulbs. We pulled heaping handfuls from the piles of leaves and tenderly blanketed our bulbs.

We planted hope. The snow fell and it fell and it fell. From January to March, it never melted. Crystals of cold just accumulated over leaves and soil and bulbs and hope. Will there be renewal this year? Will the world spring to life? Will all the energy held beneath the surface of last year come rushing forth with the advent of Lent, with the lengthening of days, with abundance of life? 

When the days grew noticeably longer, they were accompanied by the sound of a steady drip. The earth began to warm, baptized by the water of melting snow. This is not a time of subtraction at all. See how the ground springs forth with new shoots every day? See how the sun anoints the earth with warmth and light? See how hope begins to grow?

We are a liturgical people. Within the confines of each year, we follow the footsteps of Jesus from conception to birth to active ministry to crucifixion to resurrection. We trace the tears of joy and the tears of sorrow along the cheeks of his mother. But we do it knowing the full story. We never walk the sorrow of Calvary ignorant of the resurrection joy. 

We never really watch the snow fall and doubt that it will one day melt. 

Last year tested us. It turned everything expected on its head and taught us that even the old, familiar rhythms can be disrupted. We spent Easter at home, away from our churches and the tabernacles contained within. We asked ourselves if it was Easter at all.

Of course, it was. He rose. He rose indeed.

These lengthening days of Lent offer us fresh hope. The last couple of weeks before Easter, in particular, are the space between winter and spring, between death and new life, between yearning for beauty and gathering fistfuls of blooms. This Lent seems longer than any other. We watch with bated breath as the shoots poke through the sodden soil. And they do. So, we start seeds, and we plow furrows, and we act as if we are people of faith. Because we are, and we know that “Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves” (Ps 126:6).

Folded towels, faith in God

The towels are folded in half horizontally and then in half vertically and stacked on the shelf every which way, instead of with the folded side lined up against the edge. I sigh. They fit so much better and they look so much better when they are folded in half horizontally, then in thirds, then in half again. So folded, they are easily tucked into the shelves, all folded edges out, and they look tidy and controlled. Glancing right and left down the narrow hallway, I wonder if I have time to refold them all before the person who folded them the "wrong" way finds me standing here. No chance of that.

I stop.

This is ridiculous. The towels are clean, dry, folded and put away. I can save the lovely linen closet lesson for another day. I can choose kindness over control, patience over being particular. I can surrender this minor annoyance and count it as good practice for surrendering bigger things.

I’ve chosen to give up this Lent. Give up what, you ask? Just give up. I’ve chosen to relinquish my illusion of control, to let God be God. Practically speaking, this looks like less frantic activity and fewer nights with not enough sleep. It looks like accepting imperfections a dozen times a day. It looks like repeating, "Be still and know that I am God" (Ps 46:10) as my mantra all day, every day. For me, it looks like making and keeping all those health maintenance appointments — doctor, dentist, optometrist — instead of putting them off in fear. God goes with me. He’s in charge. Procrastinating, manipulating, canceling and rescheduling until I find just the "right" doctor — none of those things gives me the control I think they do, and all of those things deny that God is for me and he will protect me come what may.

I’m reminded of the Israelites as they came out of Egypt. God had done so much for them. There was manna from heaven and protection from danger and the parting of the Red Sea. And still, they could not be still. They could not trust that God was good. 

Striving to control is a manifestation of fear. There is a certain irony here, because the only thing we have to fear is not having enough faith. We should fear not believing in the promises of God. When you believe in God’s promises and in his providence, you can be utterly fearless in the face of anything.

I remind myself frequently that there is a way to move forward with confidence while still surrendering control. There is indeed a font of confidence available to me.

"Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need" (Heb 4:16).

I can be confident in his mercy. I can be confident in his grace. Unbelief — lack of surrender — is the antithesis of this confidence. The spiritual warfare at work here is the temptation to doubt God is good. More so, it is the temptation to doubt God is good for me. 

So, what can I do? How can I get from panic to mercy and grace in every time of need?

I can take all the negative emotions that tempt me toward unbelief and redirect them. I can pester St. Michael and my guardian angel to help me use the energy of the fear and the doubt to push me into the safety of God. I can remain alert and aware of the danger of unbelief but beat it back with faith. 

The sacraments strengthen that faith. The grace of the sacraments make living in a state of surrender possible. There is a real and present throne of grace. It’s the ciborium. About the ciborium, St. Therese wrote, "Our Lord does not come down from heaven every day to lie in a golden ciborium. He comes to find another heaven which is infinitely dearer to him — the heaven of our souls."

God wants to impart grace and mercy. He wants to come down from the throne and enter into us and infuse us with confidence. He wants us to know in a real and personal way that he is good and he is in control.