You are here
It was Palm Sunday of Our Lord's Passion some years ago. I had the opportunity to visit one of our major cities. Participating in the liturgy at the city’s famed cathedral was on my liturgical bucket list. I was not disappointed. It was an experience Egeria would have written about had she lived in our times.
As prescribed and not entirely different from what we are accustomed to in Minneapolis, we gathered in "another place" for the first part of the liturgy. After the proclamation of the Gospel we processed to the cathedral commemorating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. On our way to the cathedral we walked by large cardboard boxes. Blinded by the beauty of the liturgy I had not noticed these until I nearly tripped over a man who crawled out of one of them. Apparently the procession drew his attention, maybe even woke him up. His appearance caused me and my fellow Christians to make a quick circle around him and continue on our splendid liturgical way.
When we entered the Cathedral the true quality of the liturgy was revealed. The bishop himself was presiding flanked by auxiliary bishops and a throng of other clerics. The service was marked by exquisite music, beautiful vestments, countless candles, bellowing incense... a liturgist’s delight.
Though I had thoroughly enjoyed the liturgy, it was the man crawling out of the box who stuck with me. More than that, his face haunted me throughout Holy Week. I saw his face in the man whose feet I prepared to wash and in the woman who came forward to receive Holy Communion on Holy Thursday. I saw his face in the child who knelt down to kiss the wood of the cross on Good Friday. And I saw his face in the many people who were baptized and confirmed on Holy Saturday. In all of these faces, reflecting the many cultures gathered for worship I saw one face, the face of Jesus.
For centuries we have tried to figure out what Jesus looked like. Thousands upon thousands of artists have presented us with their depictions of Jesus. We have even tried to recreate a three dimensional visual of the face that is imprinted on the shrine of Turin. And, there he was, right before me climbing out of a cardboard box. And there he was having his feet washed by me. And there he was in the many, many faces comprising the Body of Christ.
It was indeed a splendid Easter celebration, that year, thanks to the glorious cathedral setting, the extra-ordinary music, the flawless liturgical choreography, and the inspiring preaching. Yet, above all, it was an eye-opening celebration because of the man who climbed out of his cardboard box and woke me out of my liturgical daze so I might see Him as He is.
The weather last week was absolutely remarkable. I bragged about it to my sister. She lives in Belgium where March is usually warmer than here. I could just feel the weight of winter slide off my shoulders as the sun of spring touched my face. A deep sigh of relief accompanied by the somewhat vein hope for it to last relaxed my built-up winter tension.
Not surprisingly most Minnesotans spent as much time as possible outdoors. By contrast, I stayed indoors, though admittedly gazing longingly at the sun streaming through the windows of my home. I blame my ancestors for this odd behavior.
My grandmother and my mother instilled an irresistible desire in me to start cleaning at the first sight of spring. It is as if the first rays of warm sun cause the cleaning genie to come out of the bottle. So, I cannot but empty closets and drawers in preparation for an in-depth spring cleaning. The sweater that has not fit for years is finally gone. Dust bunnies that have evaded the vacuum cleaner for weeks have been collected. The comfortable chaos that reigned in certain drawers has been turned into perfect order. The house is clean, everything is in order and I feel great about it. Cosmos, once again triumphs over chaos.
While cleaning and organizing I feel very close to my family. They did this religiously, and so do I. And like my ancestors I do not refer to it as my spring cleaning, but rather, I call it my Easter cleaning.
From a very young ago I was taught that there is an interior as well as an exterior preparation for Easter. The exterior preparation includes fasting and other forms of penance as well as the cleaning of our home. And all of this is intended to assist us with our interior preparation which is no less satisfying than the exterior.
So during this season of Lent as we clean our homes in anticipation of Easter, let’s also open the doors and drawers of our spiritual lives so we may take an inventory of our spiritual lives and throw out, clean up or re-organize that which is not befitting of a Christian. Thus we will be ready both exteriorly and interiorly for the celebration of Easter when spiritual cosmos again triumphs over spiritual chaos.
So get out those brooms and mops and lets start cleaning.
During a recent morning Mass Pope Francis preached on humility. And though this is a laudable Lenten theme, I must admit, I have never been a fan. I mostly equate humility with weakness and with deprecation that is either imposed or self-inflicted. Further, humility and humiliation are too close for comfort. And of course, who can forget Mozart’s quote from the film Amadeus: “Humility is the little cousin of mediocrity.”
So when I received the transcript of the pope’s homily I did not reach for it immediately, as I am otherwise want to do. Still, I made myself read it and, to my surprise marveled at the fact that Pope Francis spoke about humility in a beautifully affirming way rather than in deprecating terms. Thus, in one short sermon he salvaged humility for me.
Since then I have been musing about authentic humility and have concluded the following: first, humility is part of our very identity as Christians. Second, Christian humility is informed by Scripture and Tradition. Third, Christian humility is branded by charity and mercy.
First, the fact that humility is an essential characteristic of Christians is based on two complimentary realities. One the one hand, we are created in the image of God. On the other hand, as Pope Francis said in his homily, God, throughout salvation history has appeared to us in the humblest of ways, culminating in the birth of Jesus in a humble stable and his death on a cross. Therefor, since we are created in the image of a humble God we are called to humility ourselves. It important to note though that, as salvation history reveals, God’s kind of humility in no way implies weakness. On the contrary, God’s humility and thus Christian humility is strong and decisive. In the same way as God made the radically humble choice to become one of us, even in a stable or on the cross we too are to be with one another, even in a stable or on the cross. This kind of humility is clearly not for wimps.
Second, Christian humility is rooted in Scripture and Tradition. A quick etymological search reveals that the word humility is derived from the Latin word for soil: “humus.” As such, one of the main characteristics of humility is rootedness. For Catholics, humility is the soil in which Scripture and Tradition are rooted, while in turn humility is rooted in Scripture and Tradition.
The Scriptures and Tradition teach us the history of God’s radically humble, yet extremely decisive engagement with the people God created. The Scriptures and Tradition also teach us how God wants us to relate to one another and to all of creation in the same radically humble, yet decisively engaging way.
As we let ourselves by guided by Scripture and Tradition it is good to remember that though God’s Word is eternal it is also in constant dialogue with each individual’s concrete life experience. Similarly, though our Tradition is ancient it is also ever new; dynamic and not static; shaping and reshaping itself holding on to the essentials yet adopting continuously evolving accidentals. Scripture and Tradition do not exist in order to cause deep sighs of shared nostalgic longing for a time long-since gone except in romantic minds. Rather, Scripture and Tradition which contain our shared past accompany us into our future. Scripture and Tradition are not a sacred relic, rather they are a lived reality.
Third, Christian humility is branded by charity and mercy. Better yet, everything we do as Christians is to be cloaked with the mantel of charity and mercy. Without mercy and love we can do nothing. It is this very understanding of Christian mercy and love, illuminated by Sacred Scripture and Catholic Tradition that is the “humus” or soil of all we do as Christians.
In the end true humility is nothing more or less than an unwavering commitment to radical love supported with copious amounts of mercy. This is the kind of humility God has demonstrated to us time and time again, most especially in the manger and on the cross. And this is the kind of humility God requires of us in turn.
Many years ago my father took me to the celebration of the Stations of the Cross in a small neighboring town. The one thing I remember to this day is the sermon. The elderly parish priest, wearing an old cassock and surplice climbed into the pulpit with great difficulty. He paused for a moment, catching his breath while glaring at the small congregation. When everyone was duly uncomfortable with the unexpected pause, he started to describe hell in frightening details, explaining the gruesome fate awaiting each one of us. Suddenly he stopped his loud ranting and stared at me intently. While pointing his wiry finger at me he whispered: “Even you, son, are a sinner.” And raising his voice he ended his homily dramatically stating: “Beware of Hell!”
It took days before I was able to sleep again and even to this day I really don’t want to end up in hell. Although I suppose that is for the best, maybe traumatizing people is not the preferred way to communicate the message.
There are two ways to invite people to better their lives: the via negativa or negative way and the via positiva or positive way. The via negative, on the one hand emphasizes our sinfulness and points out the awful things awaiting us, sinners. This approach often relies on someone other than ourselves to point out the wrong we did. The via positive, on the other hand invites us to be better and to live up to our baptismal mission, affirming the good in all of us. In this approach, we are the ones who take stock of our lives and commit ourselves to do better. The priest of my past clearly adhered to the via negative. By contrast, Pope Francis seems to promote the via positiva as he famously stated on a number of occasions: “Who am I to judge?”
The season of Lent is a perfect time to take stock of our individual lives, following the via positiva. We might ask ourselves: “How am I living out my Christian calling? Am I truly embodying the Gospel? Am I bringing Christ to the world, in deed and word?” This kind of self-examination is not a punishing or negative exercise. Rather, it is a positive and encouraging exercise and an essential part of our ongoing journey toward becoming better Christians. Other questions we might ask ourselves: “How do I promote Jesus’ vision for our world? How can I do that better?” And as we do this, it is very important that we don’t get stuck in details. We must embrace the broader picture of our spiritual and moral lives. Too often we fail to see the moral forest in favor of one sinful tree. Though admittedly, this approach is more often used when judging others.
And let’s remember that all of us have closets filled with moral and spiritual skeletons: skeletons of hatred, jealousy, envy, pride, self-righteousness, etc. This is what I suspect was the message the scary priest had for me so many years ago. Lent is a good time to open our closets and deal with those skeletons as it affords us the time to take a spiritual inventory and make changes where warranted. Once we embrace our own sinfulness, we will more than likely become more generous toward the sins of others. That was the message of the homily Pope Francis preached last Monday.
He ended his homily by saying: "May the Lord, in this Lent give us the grace to learn to judge ourselves” and say, "Have mercy on me, Lord, help me to be ashamed and grant me mercy, so I may be merciful to others". Let us all take this to heart.
It was noon and I heard the abbey bells announce that it was time for the Angelus prayer. The word Angelus, Latin for Angel is the first word of a simple prayer said three times each day: sunrise, midday and sunset. This prayer which dates back to the Middle Ages is intended to help people mark the beginning, the middle and the end of the day with prayer, helping them to focus on God from whom all good things come.
As was our custom in the abbey, when the bells announced the angelus everyone stopped to say this prayer quietly. That day, the cloister was dotted with praying monks. The sun illuminated the frescos on the cloister walls. It was beautifully quiet. After finishing our prayer I watched the monks enter the refectory while I remained behind. Father Remacle, a senior monk walked by me and quizzically turned around as he noted I did not move.
Little did he know I stayed motionless because I had decided to crank up the severity of my Lenten fasting. Being young and enthusiastic I resolved to limit myself to one meal each day for the entire season, with the exception of Sundays. And, having just learned about saints who spent their lives standing in the same position or sitting on a pillar I elected to stay in my “angelus spot” until the monks returned from breakfast or lunch. I joined them for dinner.
On his way back from lunch, Father Remacle found me still standing in the same spot. He stopped and asked what I was doing. I very enthusiastically told him what I was doing. He looked at me and asked me how it made me feel. “Hungry” I told him, as hunger and thoughts of food had filled my day. “And silly” I added, as standing there for 30 minutes seemed a bit over the top. “Is that what Lent is about” he asked? “Might it be better to sit with us at table and eat maybe a bit less, rather than stand here dedicating all your thoughts to food and displaying your Lenten vigor for everyone to see? Fasting is an interior discipline not an exterior display.”
The next day I sat with the monks and ate a bit less than normal. My thoughts shifted from hunger to the meaning of Lent. I have always been grateful for Fr. Remacle’s brotherly correction. Fasting, I have discovered, is a great spiritual exercise when it is done for the right reasons. He further helped me understand that we fast so we may re- focus. We fast to focus on Christ.
Our world is filled with distractions, more so than ever before. We carry our primary cause of distraction in our hand, our pocket or purse: the ubiquitous electronic device. Only sleep keeps us away from it and many of us even cut back on our sleep because of it. It distracts us from focusing on what we ought to do or on who we ought to be. Most importantly it prevents us from focusing on the one we should be focusing on the most, especially during Lent: Christ.
Reflecting back on my time in the abbey, I now realize that I was offered so many opportunities to focus myself, even outside of Lent. Listening to our Basilica bells ring the Angelus, I now realize that those three prayer times offered to me every day were and continue to be a great invitation to focus on Christ and my response to his calling. So, when you hear our tower bells announce the Angelus at 9:00am, noon and 6:00pm I invite you to stop for just a moment and focus on Christ and what He is calling you to do. And since we are called to focus on Christ during Lent, why not start now.
One day a friend of mine left his home early in the morning to attend the funeral of a neighbor. The deceased was a husband, a brother and a father. Driving home after the funeral my friend wondered what it might feel like to lose one’s father. That very afternoon he was forced to face that very reality as his own father, very unexpectedly died from a massive stroke.
When the news of his father’s passing spread, family and friends started to gather in his house. Sitting around the kitchen table they shared stories. They laughed and cried together. Suddenly my friend got up and left. To no-one’s surprise he ended up at the local supermarket. He gathered an assortment of foods to prepare dinner for those gathered in his home. When he approached the checkout counter he heard a familiar line, “paper or plastic?” He looked up and his eyes paused on the name badge of the checkout clerk. The name badge read: Hope. And hope he did.
We, Christians are a people of hope. No matter how dark our days or dire our dilemmas, we hold on to hope. Hope allows us and even almost forces us to go on when we think it impossible. Hope promises us light at the end of any tunnel of darkness. Hope not only provides us with the willingness to live but offers us life itself.
We, Christians are a people of hope because we believe in Jesus Christ who went through the darkest darkness of death in order to show us the brightest light of life. His resurrection is our invitation to hope.
Sometimes we are tempted to give up on this hope. Every morning as I read the newspapers and every evening as I watch the news I am struck by the pain and suffering that we inflict on ourselves and on others, both here and abroad. Where are we going? When will all this end. What can we do?
The season of Lent is an antidote to a dangerous spiral of despair and depression which often leads to a kind of paralysis of indifference. The season of Lent invites us to approach the pain and problems of our world anew, with a deep sense of hope rooted in the life, death and resurrection of Christ. The season of Lent encourages us to face our fears and challenge all that defaces humanity.
Most importantly, the season of Lent has the power to fill us with the Spirit who makes us cry out: “We can do better than this! We can be better than this! We will do better than this! We are better than this!”
I often dream of a world where everybody’s name is Hope. May it be soon.
Many years ago I came upon a church dedicated to Saint Valentine. Apart from the usual Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary I was not used to seeing so many hearts displayed in a church. These ranged from the doily kind adorning the bulletin board to the hearts carved into the heart-shaped granite baptismal font. If I hadn’t known any better I might have thought a heart to be the attribute for Saint Valentine. And yet, contrary to common belief and despite the recent onslaught of red heart-shaped boxes filled with mediocre chocolates, it is not.
Why all the hearts? And what is it about this obscure saint that is supposed to send the hearts of the romantic sort all aflutter? The meaning of his name, derived from the Latin word valens meaning worthy, strong and powerful may do it for some but surely not for all.
A quick search for Valentine reveals that the Catholic Church venerates not one but twelve saints named Valentine, three of whom are said to have been martyred on February 14. Among those three, two were martyred in Rome and one was martyred in the Roman province of Africa. Of the two who were martyred in Rome one was a priest while the other was the bishop of Terni. Father Valentine is said to have been martyred in the second half of the third century. The official history of the diocese of Terni mentions that Bishop Valentine was martyred while visiting Rome on February 14, 273. Some have suggested that both men were actually one and the same person, a claim which can be made because we know close to nothing about saint or saints Valentine.
In 496 Pope Gelasius, who established the feast of St. Valentine on February 14 admitted as much saying that St. Valentine ought to be reverenced though for reasons known to God alone. Because St. Valentine is cloaked in near perfect obscurity he suffered the same fate as many other obscure saints as was removed from the official Roman Calendar of Saints after the Second Vatican Council. However, his name is still inscribed in the Roman Martyrology, the official list of Catholic Saints. This means that churches can still be dedicated to him; people can venerate him and his feast may be celebrated when no other higher ranking saint is to be celebrated on that day. In the United States we celebrate Saints Cyril and Methodius, 9th C. missionaries to the Slavs on February 14, not St. Valentine.
As far as the connection between Valentine and the hall-mark romance he has come to represent, there simply is none. As a matter of fact the attribution of love is to the date (February 14) rather than to the saint. Its origin pertains to birds rather than humans. During the Middle Ages it was believed that birds found their mate by February 14, i.e. Saint Valentine’s Day. Because of this belief St. Valentine’s Day was thought a perfect day for romance, also for humans. A well-known reference to this may be found in Chaucer’s funny poem "The Parliament of the Fowles."
Once this connection was made, stories about Valentine’s commitment to love quickly were attributed to him. According to one of these stories he was put to death because he performed weddings for Roman soldiers while it was against the law for soldiers to be married. This infuriated the emperor and thus Valentine is said to have met his unfortunate fate.
The one question remaining pertains to the custom of sending written “valentines” to one’s “valentine.” This is rooted in the medieval courtly love custom of writing love notes and poems to mostly unattainable love interests. By the 18th C. this courtly love custom and the Valentine movement had intersected and given rise to our current valentine customs.
So, are we to celebrate St. Valentine or not? Celebrate of course, but it is always good to know what it is one celebrates. And if you plan to donate one of those heart-shaped boxes, please humor me and do yourself a favor by filling it with Belgian Chocolates.
I am sure you can’t wait to learn what I have to say about St. Patrick.
After a recent presentation a young man walked up to me and simple said: “It does not matter whether a priest is conservative or liberal, during the consecration he is just a priest.” He quickly modified his statement and said “well, not ‘just’ a priest, of course, but you know what I mean.” Then he simply walked away. The statement surprised me since I neither had spoken about the Eucharist nor about priests, be they conservative or liberal or anywhere in between. And yet, I did know what he meant: what binds us together is stronger than that which sets us apart. When Christ comes in our midst there is neither male nor female; neither young nor old; neither gay nor straight; neither rich nor poor; neither over-educated nor under-educated. We are all children of God and part of the Body of Christ.
This strong belief we have as Catholics stands in stark contrast with our day to day experience. When I read certain catholic blogs and the reactions to the blogs I often have to stop reading because I am embarrassed by the anger we at times have toward one another. And I wonder what non-Catholics think when they read about us.
The same holds for all Christians. It is surprising, to say the least how we think about one another and what we say about one another. And I wonder what non-Christians think about us.
And by extension, the same holds for all descendant of Abraham, Jews, Christians and Muslims who all believe in the one true God; and yet we kill one another in the name of that same God. And I wonder what non-Abrahamic descendants think about us.
And in the broadest sense, the same holds for all humans who are all created in the image of God and yet are so divided. And I wonder what God might be thinking about us.
Division is what seems to be the characteristic of our existence. We identify with those who are like us in their appearance, in their faith, in their political adherence, in their familial situation. And we distance ourselves from those who look differently, believe differently, vote differently, live differently. And there are many, many more people in the “different” camp than there are in the “same” camp. Worse, it looks like the “same” camp gets smaller and smaller as we find more and more difference that distance us from one another.
If ever we hope to rid our world of hatred, violence and war we will need to free ourselves of the lethal philosophy of separation and embrace the life-giving theology of encounter. We will have to tear down walls that divide us and build bridges that connect us. We will have to overcome our fears and ignorance and invest in courage and knowledge. This does not mean we have to lose our own identity and become like one another. Nor does it mean that we have to give up those beliefs we hold dear. Rather it means we have to welcome and accept one another embracing our differences as additions to the great and interesting tapestry that makes up our human family.
May every celebration of the Eucharist be an invitation to commit ourselves to celebrate what unites us, rather than what divides us. After all, what binds us together as Catholics, as Christians, as sons and daughters of Abraham and as adopted daughters and sons of God is stronger than that which sets us apart. Granted, love does take effort, yet so does hatred.
As we prepare to celebrate the feast of Saint Blaise next week I am reminded of a chapter in my book “What’s the Smoke for. And other Burning Questions about the Liturgy.” In it I recount how I was approached by someone who described herself as a new Catholic. She mentioned she had noticed how the priest placed candles around people’s throat while whispering something she could not understand. She found it all too strange and decided not to participate.
This made me think of the many rituals we have which might seen strange to people who are unfamiliar with them, and even to some of us who have celebrate them, year after year.
Of course, the woman who approached me must have attended Mass on February 3rd, the feast of St. Blaise, a 4th C. bishop and martyr. On that day we have the traditional blessing of the throats. And just to be clear, the words the priest used while he placed the candles around people’s throat were: “Through the intercession of Saint Blaise, Bishop and martyr may God deliver you from every disease of the throat and any other illness. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
The little we know about St. Blaise comes from descriptions of the lives of saints which were written several centuries after his death. From these writings we learn that Blaise was a celebrated medical doctor when he was elected as bishop of Sebastea, Armenia, today’s Sivas, Turkey. He was brutally martyred around 316 during a wave of Christian persecution.
From the 6th C. on in the East and the 8th C. in the West the intercession of St. Blaise was invoked by people who were ill. By the 12th C. St. Blaise had become one of the most popular saints in Western Europe.
Two stories told about St. Blaise relate to the custom of blessing throats. According to the first story a distraught mother rushed her child to St. Blaise. The child was choking on a fishbone. After St. Blaise said a prayer the fishbone dislodged and the child was saved. Based on this miracle the intercession of St. Blaise is invoked when suffering from ailments of the throat as well as to prevent such ailments.
According to the second story a poor widow’s pig had been saved from a wolf by St. Blaise. Out of gratitude the widow brought 2 candles to prison so St. Blaise could have some light in his dark cell. Blaise is often depicted with two candles held together by a red ribbon. The red ribbon refers to the martyrdom suffered by St. Blaise. Based on this two candles tied together with a red ribbon are used during the blessing of the throats.
Even in our postmodern society, which is suspicious of any hint of superstition this blessing like many other similar rites remains popular among Catholics. They are the visible signs of a deep yet invisible reality. The blessing of the throats is a tangible reminder of God’s healing and saving presence among us. It is also an acknowledgement that we entrust ourselves to God’s providential care.
So, will you join us for Mass at 7:00am or noon on February 3 this year?
Today we celebrate the Baptism of the Lord and thus the Christmas season comes to an end. This might come as Christmas outside the church has been forcibly erased from our memories with the red and green of Christmas gradually being replaced by the red-only of the next commercial holiday, St. Valentine’s Day. In the church, though, the evergreens still stand and the poinsettias, though visibly tired, persist.
The two main liturgical celebrations of the church: Christmas and Easter have a time of preparation, respectively Advent and Lent, and a time of celebration, respectively Christmastide and Eastertide. The Christmas season is punctuated by a number of liturgical celebrations, in chronological succession: the Feast of the Holy Family on the Sunday between Christmas and New Year’s unless January 1 falls on a Sunday when it is celebrated on December 30; the Solemnity of Mary the Mother of God on January 1; the Solemnity of the Epiphany mostly observed on the Sunday between January 2 and 8; and the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord celebrated on the Sunday after Epiphany unless Epiphany falls on January 7 or 8 when the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord is celebrated the next day.
The more ancient of these celebrations, namely Epiphany and Baptism of the Lord, together with the Birth of the Lord, were originally celebrated as one big celebration of the Epiphany of God in Jesus Christ on January 6. This unified feast predates the separate celebration of Christmas on December 25. There is evidence of the celebration of the Epiphany by the end of the second century, while the earliest known reference to Christmas is no older than 354 AD.
The word Epiphany is the English transliteration of the Greek Epiphaneia, meaning appearance, revelation, and manifestation. The Feast of the Epiphany is thus the feast of the revelation of Jesus as the Son of God. It was also known as the Theophany or Theophaneia in Greek, meaning the revelation or appearance of God.
The original Feast of the Epiphany celebrated the four major epiphanic moments in the life of Jesus all bundled in one. The first epiphany being the revelation of Jesus as God to Israel symbolized by the announcement to the shepherds which we now celebrate on Christmas. The second is the revelation of Jesus as God to the gentiles symbolized by the Magi which is celebrated on Epiphany in the churches of the west. The third is the revelation of God as the Trinity which is now celebrated on the feast of the Baptism of the Lord. The fourth major revelation is God’s desire to make all things new which happened at Cana when Jesus changed water into wine. Though not accorded its own feast, the reading recounting this event is now read on the Sunday after Baptism of the Lord every third year, thus in close proximity to the other three celebrations.
The main theological reason why these epiphanic moments are now spread out over several celebrations is due to the importance of each one of them in its own right. The goal of each celebration is twofold: first, we celebrate each epiphany so we come to know God better, and second, we celebrate each epiphany so we may in turn lead lives that reveal God to the world.
As we conclude the rich celebration of the Christmas season let us re-commit ourselves to reveal to the world in deed and in word what has been revealed to us. May each epiphany of God inspire us to become ourselves an epiphany of God to the world.