​Composed by: Sr. Mary Magdalene     
​This post was originally posted in Feb 2016.  It is re-posted here to be read in the light of our present experience.

I just finished reading a recent post in the Dominican student brothers’ online publication known as Dominicana.  The February 25, 2016 edition supplied a link to the latest installment of Reflections on Ethics, Faith & Health Care, a weekly series from Dominican Friars Health Care Ministry of New York.  I come from a healthcare background so I found myself naturally drawn to the series. This week’s post was entitled, “The Consoling Love of Christ: A Reflection on John 11: 1-44.”  In it the author, Fr. Jonah Pollock, O.P., uses the well-known Scripture passage on the death of Lazarus and the grief of his sisters to explore 3 ways in which Jesus approaches the human person as consoler and healer.  If you’ll indulge me, I found it to be very well done and worth sharing.

First, a refresher on the story.  Jesus, we are told in Scripture, received word that his good friend Lazarus was ill and dying.  Rather than rushing immediately to his side, Jesus “delayed 2 days” before returning.  When he arrived, Martha came to meet him and exclaimed, “had you been here, Lord, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you” (John 11:21-22).   Lazarus had already been in the tomb about 4 days. A short time later, their sister Mary comes to the Lord.  She falls at his feet and sobs, saying “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” The familiar story culminates with Jesus going to the tomb and calling Lazarus back to life.

Fr. Pollock then went on to look at Jesus’ three main encounters within the story and how the Lord’s compassion and consolation are manifest in each.  The first is with Martha. When she approaches Jesus, she is both grieving and perhaps even a little bit frustrated with the Lord’s delay in coming.  Jesus responds by telling her that Lazarus will rise, and reminding her that Jesus, himself, is the resurrection and the life.  He asks her, “Do you believe this?” and gives her an opportunity for her own profession of faith, “Yes, Lord. I have come to believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.” It is significant to note that he asks her this even before he raises Lazarus from the dead.  Fr. Pollock notes that Jesus is asking Martha to “trust Him”.  The Lord asks the same of us.  To trust that He is “the resurrection and the life” and that “all who believe will have eternal life”

The next encounter, of course, is with Mary.  Mary, we are told, “fell at his feet….weeping."  And Jesus’ response was silence. He saw her tears and was “disturbed……and (He) wept."  Over many years in healthcare, I have found myself referring to this passage frequently.  When I’ve had friends or patients who are grieving the loss of a loved one and “apologizing” for crying, I have often referred to this line in Scripture, “And Jesus wept.”  Jesus wept even though he knew exactly what would come next!  Knowing, as he did, that he would soon be calling Lazarus from the grave, why did he weep?  Fr. Pollock reminds us that Jesus is “fully human."  He wept because he loved his friend Lazarus.  He wept because Mary was weeping and he understood her suffering.  He shared in her sorrow and he shares in our sorrows, as well.

And now for the third encounter.  It may have seemed that Jesus was unconcerned with Lazarus’ illness.  He did, after all, delay his return to Bethany.  But perhaps there is something more than this. When Jesus first hears of Lazarus’ illness, and before he begins the journey to return to his friend’s side, Jesus tells his disciples “This illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified through it.”  But our loved ones’ lives do end in death, we might bemoan.  In fact, even Lazarus, once brought back from death, will live out his natural life and die once again!  It seems there was a greater purpose in the experience for Lazarus and his sisters.  It was “for the glory of God” and it is said that “many came to believe in Him” as the result.

I’d like to tell you about a visit I just shared with an older friend who is in the hospital, on the psychiatric unit.  She shared with me that she was finding herself in a dark period.  She said that she could only manage to “pray words and did not feel God.” I found myself applying Fr. Pollock’s “consolations” to my friend’s experience.   As I told her about Lazarus and his illness bringing about “the glory of God," she told me how many of the other patients she’s in contact with have shared some of their stories with her and appreciated her ability to listen and respond with compassion. “You’re being the face of Christ," I told her, “even in your pain."  As her tears began to flow, we spoke of that short but powerful verse in Scripture, “And Jesus wept."  She was comforted in the knowledge that the Lord knows her sorrows and sits in the midst of them with her.  And Martha?  Even in those moments when we cannot sense God’s intimate presence, when he seems to delay in coming, He asks us to trust.  Trust that there is something on the other side of this present darkness. And this “something” is His wonderful light.

Perhaps these are “consolations” worth pondering during our Lenten journey.  This voluntarily accepted desert time we choose in the hope of drawing closer to our Lord.  Trust that the Lord is both the culmination of the journey and the companion along its way.  Allow this man of sorrows to sit with you in the midst of your tears and you, in turn, be willing to sit with another.  Recognize that now “we see dimly, as if through a veil” and we may not recognize the ultimate good that might come from our present experiences.  This, too, is a consolation.  It is the consolation of being allowed to (in some small way) participate in bringing about the glory of God.

Image: Duccio, The Raising of Lazarus

                                                                                                                                    by Sr. Margaret Mary Magdalene
​
St. Philip Neri re-evangelized Rome in seeking personal encounters with the people, engaging in conversations with the people, and assisting the poor.

St. Philip Neri was a Christian missionary and founder of the Congregation of the Oratory, a community of Catholic priests and lay brothers.  He was born in Florence on July 21, 1515, as one of four children of Francesco Neri.  From a very young age, Philip was known for being cheerful and obedient.  He was affectionately referred to as "good little Phil." He received his early teachings from friars at the Dominican monastery in Florence, San Marco.

The Lord himself announced the good news: 
“And he said to them: "Go forth to the whole world and preach the Gospel to every creature.”  Mark 16:15 CPDV
https://www.bible.com/42/mrk.16.15.cpdv

“And Jesus traveled throughout all of the cities and towns, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the Gospel of the kingdom, and healing every illness and every infirmity. Then, seeing the multitudes, he had compassion on them, because they were distressed and were reclining, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples: ‘The harvest indeed is great, but the laborers are few. Therefore, petition the Lord of the harvest, so that he may send out laborers to his harvest.’”
Matthew 9:35-38 CPDV
https://www.bible.com/42/mat.9.35-38.cpdv


This is our great work, opportunity--holy obligatory duty; to bring the Lord into conversations with those who have not heard or experienced the love of the Lord.  For those who know, we are to give.  

Start with one person; start with one small conversation.  Do it with great joy.  Look at our great examples, the Saints.  Human--just like us--and yet with a zeal to save souls.  They gave all to preach the gospel, to teach the ways of Our Lord.  We as lay people of the church surely can reach out to at least one.

                                                                                                              ​                                                                             by    Brother Thomas Aquinas

Near the beginning of the Summa Theologiæ, St. Thomas Aquinas provides five arguments for God’s existence that rely on human reason without recourse to articles of faith or revelation. Since the Summa is by title a summary, Aquinas’ presentation of the “Five Ways” is rather terse, but the philosophical details are clarified in other writings, both by the saint himself and by subsequent authors. Nevertheless, the abbreviated versions are valuable in their own right for one wishing to study the Catholic faith and all it encompasses.
 
In the second of the Five Ways, which we consider here, St. Thomas argues from the principle of causation, and his reasoning may be expressed as follows:

1.  We observe in the world effects brought about by causes.
2.  In some cases, the effect of one cause is itself the cause of a subsequent cause.
3.  Although every effect is the result of some cause, nothing is the cause of itself, for this would require it to precede itself in the order of causation.
4.  In the absence of any particular cause, neither does the corresponding effect occur.
5.  A sequence of causes cannot extend backward infinitely, for then there would be no first cause to bring about any of the others or the ultimate effect.
6.  But we do observe sequences of causes and effects, so there must be a first cause, which we call God.
​
Though many have challenged this argument in varying ways, it is the fifth point that seems to be the least understood. Indeed, there are two different ways to build a sequence of causes and effects, and the distinction between these ways is of crucial importance to the syllogism as a whole.
 
When discussing sequences of causes that may or may not “extend backward infinitely,” there is a strong tendency to envision a sequence that extends backward in time: a line of dominoes falls by successive collisions of one domino into the next. However, these are examples of what metaphysicians call accidental sequences: once a particular cause has produced its effect, it is no longer needed for any subsequent effects. A man can beget a child even though his parents have died. Since any particular cause in an accidental sequence depends upon only the prior cause and is necessary for only the subsequent effect, there is no theoretical reason such a sequence could not extend infinitely far into the past. As long as each domino knocks into the next, the line will continue to fall.
 
Aquinas’ argument fails if the sequences in question are accidentally ordered, but this is not what he had in mind. Instead, the Second Way appeals to essentially ordered sequences of causes. In an essentially ordered sequence, each cause depends from moment to moment on all prior causes, and in fact all causes exist and act simultaneously in a hierarchical structure. For example, an ornate chandelier is suspended above a foyer not only by the first link, to which it is directly connected, but also by every other link in the chain and, ultimately, the fixture on the ceiling. If any link breaks, the chandelier will fall.
 
The utility of this analogy extends even further. Notice that an infinitely long chain is useless to hold the chandelier without the force of a ceiling fixture. Indeed, although each link can be proximally explained by reference to the next higher link, we must eventually reach an agent with its own explanatory power. We achieve nothing by indefinitely deferring such an explanation.
 
The distinction between accidentally and essentially ordered sequences of causes is tantamount to a proper interpretation of Aquinas’ argument. Equally important, however, is the choice of analogy used to illustrate the argument. Therefore, against the multitude of ineffective examples, it will be profitable to identify another that is useful: given an exceptionally long train of boxcars rolling up an incline, we can conclude, even without directly observing it, the existence of a locomotive at the front (or, at least, some external force) that is ultimately responsible for the motion, since boxcars cannot move themselves.
 
It is in this sense—that of boxcars, rather than dominoes—that Aquinas intended his Second Way be read, and doing so establishes the necessity for a first cause, namely God, in order to satisfactorily explain the causes and effects we observe here and now. In fact, since it appeals to essentially ordered sequences, rather than accidentally ordered ones, the argument would be just as effective in a universe that had always existed. And with similar diligence to distinguish the precise meaning of Aquinas’ terminology, there is much to be gleaned from his other writings as well.