by Scott Hahn
Nor must we underestimate Jesus' power to lead us to the feast. He, after all, is God almighty, all-knowing. Eternal communion with the Church is what He wants, and what He wills, and it is surely what He accomplishes even now. Loving communion with His Church is the very reason that God became a man and bled and died; and it is the very reason He created the world in the first place. Thus, all the events of all time should lead us, inexorably, to the event we see mystically in the last chapters of the Book of Revelation.
RESISTING A REST
Hell, then, may seem to prevail in the world, but it does not. The Church is, in a sense, in charge. Our prayers, and especially the sacrifice of the Mass, are the force that propels history toward its goal. In fact, in the sacrifice of the Mass, history achieves its goal, because there Christ and the Church celebrate their wedding feast and consummate their marriage.
How, then, should we understand our ongoing combat? If history has, in a sense, already reached its goal, why should we continue to fight? Because not all the world has come to the feast, even if you and I have. So we must continue to ransom the time, to restore all things in Christ. Remember that when we go to Mass, we take along all our professional work, family life, sufferings, and leisure, and all of these become spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ, during the celebration of the Eucharist. God wills that you and I should play an indispensable role in salvation history. “The Spirit and the Bride say, “Come' ” (Rev 22:17). Note that it's not just the Spirit Who issues the call to mankind, but the Spirit and the Bride. The Bride is the Church—it's you and me.
Meanwhile, our enemy, the Beast, consecrates nothing. He works tirelessly, sometimes intimidating us by his industry; but his labors are sterile. He is 666, the creature stalled in the sixth day, perpetually in travail, yet never reaching the seventh day of sabbath rest and worship.
So the battle goes on, and we have enlisted for active duty. We must, however, begin the fighting very close to home. Our most dangerous enemies are those we'll find in our own soul: pride, envy, laziness, gluttony, greed, anger, and lust. Before we can advance on enemies in society at large, we need to identify our own sinful habits and begin to root them out. All the while, we need to grow in the wisdom and virtue that make us more like Christ.
We can advance only if we come to know ourselves as we really are, that is, as we appear to almighty God. When John faced the Lamb of God, he accurately sized up the situation, and he fell down to the ground in humility. We need to see the truth with the same clarity. Thus we need to see matters in the same divine light. Yet how can we, when all around we're beset by darkness? The only way is for us to step into that same clean, well-lighted place where John had his vision: worship in the Spirit on the Lord's day—which is, at the same time, the heavenly city where “night shall be no more” (Rev 22:5).
Only in the new Jerusalem will we see ourselves as we are, for there we will face judgment; there we will read what is written in the book of life. It's heaven, but we don't need to die to go there. The new Jerusalem is Mount Zion; it is the Church of the Upper Room; and it touches down for us in the Holy Mass.
CAN'T STAND UP FOR FALLING DOWN
We want to know ourselves. So we must use well the parts of the Mass that are set apart for self-examination: the penitential rite, for example, with the “Lord, Have Mercy” and “I Confess.” This requires recollection, an interior quiet that allows us to examine our thoughts, words, and deeds. If we want to be recollected, it helps to arrive at church well before Mass and begin our prayer. Interior recollection will enable us to concentrate on the reality of the Mass, no matter what's going on around us: come crying babies, bad music, or mediocre homilies.
To prepare for Mass, we should also take frequent advantage of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, confessing our sins after making a deep examination of conscience. Remember the counsel of theDidache, the Church's oldest liturgical guide: we should make confession before receiving the Eucharist, so that our sacrifice may be pure. Though the Church only requires us to confess once a year, the overwhelming teaching of the saints and popes is that we should go “frequently.” How often is that? That will vary according to your circumstances and the advice of your priest-confessor. We should follow good example, however, knowing that most saints went at least weekly, and the most trusted spiritual masters advise a monthly minimum.
If we are honest before God, then, we'll find ourselves, in our hearts, falling down in humility, as John did. We will pray with perfect sincerity the prayer before Communion: “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you. . . .”
IT'S CROWDED IN HERE
What do we see when we stand in light? We see that we are sinners and we are weak; but we see much more as well.
We see that, in this war, we are the stronger side by far. At Mass, we invoke the angels, and we worship beside them, as John did—as their equals before God! We call upon their help. Listen closely to the preface of the Mass, just before you sing the “Holy, Holy, Holy”: “Now, with angels and archangels, and the whole company of heaven, we sing the unending hymn of Your praise.” Some Eastern liturgies even dare to number the angels: “a thousand thousands and ten thousand times ten thousand hosts of angels and archangels.” The word “hosts” in this context connotes military might—like “legions” or “divisions.” The Mass, it seems, is like the Normandy invasion in the spiritual realm.
We also invoke the saints, acknowledging them by name. In the Roman Canon, Eucharistic Prayer I, the priest reads off a long list of Apostles, popes, martyrs, and other saints—twenty-four, to correspond exactly to the presbyteroi surrounding God's throne in the Apocalypse.
In spiritual warfare, the saints are powerful allies. Remember that, in Revelation, God's vengeance follows close upon the prayers of the martyrs beneath His altar. In some Eastern liturgies—for example, the ancient Liturgy of St. Mark—the congregations echo the martyrs' prayers: “Crush under our feet Satan, and all his wicked influence. Humble now, as at all times, the enemies of Your Church. Lay bare their pride. Speedily show them their weakness. Bring to naught the wicked plots they contrive against us. Arise, O Lord, and let Your enemies be scattered, and let all who hate Your holy name be put to flight.”
No doubt, we've got power and might on our side. We say so in the “Holy, Holy, Holy,” which we sing, together with the angels, at every Mass we attend. We should make sure to give that song all we've got. Did you ever watch a strong army march in formation? The soldiers move with unified precision, and they chant with gusto and confidence. That's how we should proceed through the liturgy: confidently, joyfully. It's not that we deny the enemy's strength; we just glory in the fact that God is stronger, and God is our strength!
SEND THE DEMONS SCREAMIN'
Knowing ourselves and the angels, of course, is not enough. We must come to know God more and more, and that is an endless (and endlessly rewarding) pursuit. Because the more we learn about Him, the more we realize we don't know, and can't know without grace.
Coming to know God, we will come to know what infinite strength and resources we can call upon in battle. So we should prepare for Mass, throughout our lives, by ongoing doctrinal and spiritual formation. No soldier would rush untrained into battle. Neither should we think that we can conquer demons if we're flabby in our faith. We need to put ourselves through the rigors of basic training, living a sustained and disciplined life of prayer, and studying the faith daily, reading the Bible, using Catholic tapes, TV, and books (especially the Catechism of the Catholic Church). All this is a lifelong task.
Our doctrinal study will invest the liturgy's every word and gesture with power. We will make the Sign of the Cross, knowing that it is the banner we carry into battle—and before that banner, demons tremble. We will dip our fingers into the holy water,knowing, in the words of St. Teresa of Ávila, that this water makes demons flee. We will recite every line of the Gloria and the Creed as if
our lives depended on it, because they do.
And what “happens” on the battlefield when we receive Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, in Holy Communion? The saints tell us that we rout the enemy at that moment, and that ever afterward we can keep watch with Jesus' watchfulness. A fifth-century monk of Mount Sinai testified that “when that fire enters us, it at once drives the evil spirits from our heart and remits the sins we have previously committed. . . . And if after this, standing at the entrance to our heart, we keep strict watch over the intellect, when we are again permitted to receive those Mysteries, the divine body will illumine our intellect still more and make it shine like a star.”
So the brightness of the Mass goes home with us as the perpetual day of the heavenly Jerusalem. As we grow in grace, our Mass becomes a light burning within us, too, even amid our work and family life. That's security in wartime; for the weaker army will rarely attack in the light of day. And the devil knows, when the light of Christ is on one side of the battle, the darkness of hell is the weaker.
D-DAY
Yet the battle remains a battle. Even if our victory is assured, the fighting itself won't necessarily be easy, and this is especially true at Mass. Knowing the power of grace, the devil will most forcefully assault us, says one ancient teacher, “at the time of the great feasts and during the Divine Liturgy—especially when we are intending to receive Holy Communion.”
What is our particular combat during Mass? Maybe it's warding off contempt for the worshiper whose perfume is too strong, or the man who sings the wrong lyrics off-key. Maybe it's holding back our judgment against the parishioner who's skipping out early. Maybe it's turning the other way when we begin to wonder how low that neckline really goes. Maybe it's fighting off smugness when we hear a homily riddled with grammatical errors. Maybe it's smiling, in an understanding way, at the mom with the screaming baby.
Those are the tough battles. Maybe they're not as romantic as sabers clashing in a faraway desert, or marching through tear gas to protest injustice. But because they're so perfectly hidden, so interior, they require greater heroism. No one but God and His angels will notice that you didn't mentally critique Father's homily this week. No one but God and His angels will notice that you withheld judgment against the family that was underdressed. So you don't get a medal; you win a battle instead.
REALITY CHECK—BEAR IT
The reality “unveiled” in John's Apocalypse is as terrifying as it is consoling. Yet the good news is that, with heavenly help, we can bear it. We are children of the King of the universe; but we live amid constant peril, surrounded by dark spiritual forces who want to destroy our souls, our crown, and our birthright.
Yet the winning is ours for the taking. How right that our tradition associates the Mass with the todah, ancient Israel's thanksgiving sacrifice. The todah was an expression of complete confidence: a prayer for deliverance from one's enemies, a prayer for deliverance from imminent death—and, at the same time, the todah offered thanks that God would answer one's prayers. Recall, too, how the rabbis predicted that, in the messianic age, all sacrifice would cease except the todah. Thus we pray with confidence in every Mass, “deliver us from evil”; and thus we give glory to God for our deliverance.
In Holy Communion, we receive the Bread that will sustain us, even during the enemy's longest siege. In the Mass, as we stand beside our heavenly allies, the devil is impotent. Before the altar, we approach heaven, the fount of infinite grace, which alone can change our sinful hearts. At the marriage supper of the Lamb, we ourselves are enthroned to reign over history by our prayers.
In this millennial season, many people will come to you shouting that the end is near, and that the latest skirmish across the sea is surely the battle of Armageddon. Don't be frightened. You can tell them that, yes, the end is near; yes, the Apocalypse is now. But the Church has always taught that the end is near—as near as your parish church. And it's something you should be running to, not from.
Any battle we're impatient to fight with earthly weapons we should first enter with weapons of the spirit. You want justice for oppressed people across the globe? You want relief for the martyrs overseas? Don't rush first to city hall. If you want to bring about the kingdom, you should first worship well, as often as you can, wherever the sanctuary of the King touches down in the Mass.
THREE
Parish the Thought
REVELATION
AS FAMILY PORTRAIT
HEAVEN IS A FAMILY REUNION with all God's children; and this is true, too, of heaven on earth: the Holy Mass. Let's go back to that telling passage from Hebrews: “You have come to Mount Zion . . . the heavenly Jerusalem . . . and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven” (Heb 12:22–23). Heaven touches earth in the Mass and encompasses the family of God Himself.
In Revelation, John only intensifies the image. John describes our communion with Christ in the most remarkably intimate terms, as “the marriage supper of the Lamb” (Rev 19:9).
FAMILY HISTORY
Yet, before we can understand this family bond, many of us will have to put aside our modern, Western notions about family. We live in a time when families are highly mobile; few people will die in the town where they were born. We live in a time when families are small; fewer children today experience uncles and aunts and countless cousins, as previous generations did. When moderns say “family,” we usually mean the nuclear family: mom, dad, and a child or two.
To appreciate John's vision, though, we have to glimpse a much different world, a world in which the large, extended family defined the world of a given individual. The family—the tribe, the clan—was a man or woman's primary identity, dictating where they would live, how they would work, and whom they might marry. Often, people wore a conspicuous sign of their family identity, such as a signet ring or a distinguishing mark on the body.
A nation in the ancient world was largely a network of such families, as Israel comprised the twelve tribes named for Jacob's sons. Unifying each family was the bond of covenant, the wider culture's idea of what constituted human relations, rights, duties, and loyalties. When a family welcomed new members, through marriage or some other alliance, both parties—the new members and the established tribe—would seal the covenant bond by swearing a solemn oath, sharing a common meal, or offering a sacrifice.
God's relationship with Israel was defined by a covenant, and Jesus described His relationship with the Church in the same terms. At the Last Supper, He blessed the cup of the New Covenant in His blood (see Mt 26:28; Mk 14:24; Lk 22:20; 1 Cor 11:25).
The Book of Revelation makes clear that this New Covenant is the closest and most intimate of family bonds. John's vision concludes with the marriage supper of the Lamb and His bride, the Church. With this event, we Christians seal and renew our family relationship with God Himself. In our bodies, we bear the mark of God's tribe. We call God Himself our true Brother, our Father, our Spouse.
THE GOD WHO IS FAMILY
In the Book of Revelation, believers bear the mark of this supernatural family upon their brow. The early Christians, for centuries, reminded themselves of this reality by tracing the Sign of the Cross on their foreheads. We do the same thing when we make the Sign of the Cross today; we mark our bodies “in the name of” our divine family: the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Thus, in the Apocalypse as in the Mass, the family of God—like any traditional family in ancient Israel—finds its identity in the family's name and in its sign.
Yet here's the most remarkable revelation: our family is not only named for God—our family is God. Christianity is the only religion whose one God is a family. His most proper name is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Said Pope John Paul II: “God in His deepest mystery is not a solitude, but a family, since He has in Himself fatherhood, sonship, and the essence of the family, which is love.”
To me, that's an earth-shaking truth. Notice he did not say that God is
like a family, but that He is a family. Why? Because God possesses, from eternity, the essential attributes of family—fatherhood, sonship, and love—and He alone possesses them in their perfection. It may be more accurate, then, to say that the Hahns (or any household) are like a family, since our family has these attributes, but only imperfectly.
God is a family, and we are His. By establishing the New Covenant, Christ founded one Church—His mystical body—as an extension of His Incarnation. By taking on flesh, Christ divinized flesh, and He extended the Trinity's life to all humanity, through the Church. Incorporated into the Body of Christ, we become “sons in the Son.” We become children in the eternal household of God. We share in the life of the Trinity.
The Catholic Church is nothing less than the universal Family of God.
AN AFFINITY FOR THE TRINITY
As Catholics, we renew our covenant-family bond in the marriage supper of the Lamb—an action that is, at once, a shared meal, a sacrifice, and an oath (a sacrament). The Apocalypse unveiled the Eucharist as a wedding feast, where the eternal Son of God enters into the most intimate union with His spouse, the Church. It is this “Communion” that makes us one with Christ, sons in the Son.
To prepare for this Communion—our New Covenant, our mystical marriage—we must, like any spouses, leave our old lives behind. As bride, we will forsake our old name for a new one. We will be forever identified with Another: our Beloved, Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Marriage demands that spouses make a self-sacrifice that is complete and total, as Christ's was on the cross. Yet we are weak and we are sinners, and we find the very suggestion of such sacrifice unbearable.
