by Albert Holtz
I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR of the monastery’s sickroom, not expecting to hear an answer. I opened the door slowly and peeked in to see the old monk sitting up in bed, propped up by some pillows.
“Hi, Father Maurus!” I called cheerfully. “I hope you’re feeling okay today.”
Father Maurus McBarron, O.S.B., had lived a varied and active life. For many years he had served as a chaplain in the U.S. Army, he had taught in our school, and at an age when most men would have retired he had become pastor of St. Mary’s, the inner city parish attached to the abbey church. In that role he became loved and respected throughout the city during the painful years of civil unrest and urban decay. But what made the biggest impression on me was the way he was living the final days of his life, debilitated by ALS, “Lou Gehrig’s Disease.”
I walked over to the bed and took his hand in mine for a minute, trying not to think too much about what it must be like to be slowly suffocating to death. “How’s it going?” I asked.
Since his lungs were not giving him much breath to speak with, he just stared straight ahead and gave a funny little “Bronx cheer” with his pursed lips, his eloquent way of saying that he was frustrated.
“Yeah, I hear you, Father!” was all I could think of in response.
This time he gave a shrug and a weak smile. Then he turned his head and looked down expectantly at the book I was holding in my other hand.
“Oh,” I said, letting go of his hand, “I brought this book for us to look at for awhile if you want. It’s a history of the city of Newark. It’s got some great old pictures. Want to see some of them?” For the past year or so, he and I had enjoyed reminiscing about his childhood or his days as a chaplain during World War II, or any other memories that came to mind.
He nodded, forming the word “Sure!” with his lips. So I pulled a chair alongside his bed, near the head, and sat down. I flipped open to a picture of Broad Street Newark in the 1920s and laid the book on his lap, tilting it so he could see it. “Do you remember when Broad Street looked like this?” I asked.
His eyes sparkled in recognition as he studied the old photo, and I could almost see all the memories of childhood shopping trips and streetcar rides materializing from the long-ago past. Three months earlier we would have had a lively discussion about his recollections, but now, with the disease relentlessly cutting off his breath, I had to supply the commentary. I pointed to different buildings and asked questions so that he could signal “yes” or “no” with a movement of his head. I could see how hard it was for him to be bursting with wonderful stories to tell, but not having the breath to communicate them. We did this for ten minutes or so and then suddenly his eyelids got heavy and his head drooped onto his chest. I could take a hint.
I gently took the open book and laid it on my lap and just sat there quietly with him. After a few minutes I flipped to the next page and saw a picture of the stately Essex County Courthouse that stands one block up the street from the monastery. My mind wandered back to the day when, as a student at St. Benedict’s Prep, I had walked over to watch my father, a lawyer, in action during a trial. At supper that night we had talked about strategies for questioning a witness.
As happens to me more frequently than I normally admit, when I looked at Father Maurus a Greek word actually popped into my head: the word for “witness,” martus.1 It is used in the gospels in phrases such as “every fact may be established on the testimony of two or three witnesses [marturoi]” (Matthew 18:6) or “The high priest tore his robes and said, ‘What further need have we of witnesses [marturoi]?’” (Matthew 26:65).
So many of the first Christians paid with their lives for witnessing to Christ and his resurrection that the word for “witness” was linked with bloodshed even in the earliest days of the church—and the Greek martus gave us our English word “martyr.” In the New Testament it’s often hard to tell which way to translate the word. Paul, for instance, had told Christ during a vision, “and when the blood of your witness [martus] Stephen was being shed, I myself stood by giving my approval . . . ” (Acts 22:20).
Christ’s first followers were constantly aware that they were marturoi, witnesses to his resurrection. In the first Christian communities the word “witness” was practically a synonym for anyone who followed Jesus’ teachings. When the apostles were choosing someone to replace Judas, for instance, Peter said that they had to find someone “to become with us a witness [martus] to his resurrection” (Acts 1:22).2
Speaking of witnesses, I thought to myself, Maurus has spent his life witnessing to the resurrection. As an Army chaplain in France shortly after the Normandy landings, he had witnessed to the hope of eternal life and God’s loving forgiveness when he said mass and heard the confessions of lonely, frightened GIs. As pastor of our inner city parish he had joined with a group of local ministers to walk into the nearby housing projects during the 1967 riots, acting as a courageous witness of God’s gentle love to people who were seething with pent-up anger and frustration.
I glanced at his sleeping form. Definitely a good witness. His chest was barely moving with his breathing. It occurred to me that by patiently putting up with the frustration and the terrifying shortness of breath that would eventually kill him, he was surely giving his greatest witness yet to the resurrection, to the fact that Jesus had conquered sin and death and was present right here in this room. This must certainly qualify him as a witness, maybe even a “martyr.” He stirred a little in his bed, but then went right back to sleep.
I started to realize, as if for the first time, that our first task as Christians is to be marturoi, witnesses to the resurrection, just as the first Christians were. What kind of witness am I, I wondered, when I’m frustrated with my students in the classroom? When I’m feeling overwhelmed, or when I’m frightened, as Father Maurus must certainly be, do I witness to Christ’s Easter peace and joy the way this old monk does?
I quietly closed the book and stood up. As I thought about his terrible difficulty breathing, I automatically took a deep breath, filling my lungs—as if the extra air might help my old friend. I gave his hand a quick squeeze and turned toward the door with a quiet prayer that someday I would be as good a witness as he was.
Reflection
1. Who are the people for whom the Risen Lord probably expects you to bear witness most often? Is that easier to do with some people than with others?
2. Have you ever taken a risk and been a witness to some unpopular value or belief? What did it cost you? When is it most difficult for you to bear witness to what you believe?
Sacred Scripture
1. In the following passages the word martus can be translated as either witness or martyr: “You did not deny your faith in me even in the days of Antipas my witness [martus], my faithful one, who was killed among you” (Rev 2:13); “And I saw that the woman was drunk with the blood of the saints and the blood of the witnesses [marturoi] to Jesus” (Rev 17:6).
2. In the Acts of the Apostles, Luke often uses martus in the sense of “witness” simply as a synonym for a follower of Jesus: Acts 1:21–22, 2:32, 3:15, 5:32, 7:58, 10:39, 10:41, 13:31, 22:15, 22:22, and 26:16.
Wisdom of the Desert
Abba Poeman said, “There is no greater love than that a man lays down his life for his neighbor. When you hear someone complaining and you struggle with yourself and do not answer him back with complaints; when you are hurt and bear it patiently, not looking for revenge; then you are laying down your life for your neighbor.”3
22. Surprised by Joy
“THE BODY OF CHRIST . . . El cuerpo de Cristo.”
I was distributing Holy Communion to the members of the small Sunday congregation during the bilingual mass in Saint Augustine’s Church, Newark, with the deacon standing at my left doing the same.
There was a second ritual, too, happening along with the distribution of the Eucharist: the blessing of children who weren’t old enough to receive Holy Communion. In fact, most of those on my line were little on
es—and a few adults too—coming to receive a blessing.
That morning for some reason I was especially aware of God’s beauty shining in the children’s upturned faces, their simple smiles and laughing eyes. I felt overwhelming delight and love welling up in my heart as God’s beautiful children kept coming forward to receive their blessing and a gentle touch on the head.
Next in line was one of the littlest ones; she seemed to know instinctively how to melt someone’s heart with her smile. I bent way down and peered into her wide eyes, struggling to keep from laughing with sheer enjoyment. I made the sign of the cross over her head: “May the Lord bless you and keep you always, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Then I placed my hand gently on her head of jet-black hair as her “big” brother stood behind her, a protective hand on each of her shoulders.
I looked forward each Sunday to this delightful if unofficial sacrament for children. But there was more happening there than you could see, because each child who came up for my blessing was unknowingly blessing me in return.
That particular morning I could feel each of them blessing me with God’s gift of joy. “I know what this is,” I said to myself, “this is chara” One of my best “friends” from the New Testament, chara4 means “delight, joy, gift, grace, being favored by God,” And that morning I was experiencing every one of these, all at once. Yes, this was definitely chara!
The children kept coming up in single file, and I kept making the sign of the cross over each, and they kept blessing me with their laughing eyes and captivating smiles. None of them had ever heard the word chara, of course, but they were surely offering it to me in all its senses: God’s favor and grace, a freely given gift, and most of all joy.
The words “joy,” “rejoice,” and “favor”5 keep echoing like a beautiful refrain throughout the New Testament. Words based on the root verb “char-” appear several times in the infancy narratives of Luke and Matthew,6 and joy continues as a major theme throughout Jesus’ public life. Jesus once told a parable about joy, “The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure buried in a field, which a person finds and hides again, and out of joy [chara] goes and sells all that he has and buys that field” (Matt 13:44). The noun chara normally means “a sense of calm delight,” but sometimes, as in that story, it can make you forget yourself, throw your hands in the air and do extravagant things, such as let go of everything else and accept the kingdom with all your heart. That was the kind of delight I was feeling that morning as I was being blessed by dozens of children. I was ready to throw my hands in the air and shout.
Oops! I had started to bless an eight-year-old girl when her insulted expression reminded me that I should be giving her communion instead of treating her like a child. We both smiled at our secret joke as I offered her the host: “The body of Christ.”
The next person in line was an older woman who had spoken to me just last week. Her heart was broken because her son back in South America had recently told her on the phone to stop calling. He had informed her angrily that he wanted nothing more to do with her, and that he would no longer answer any of her calls. I remembered looking into her tearful face and wishing that my Spanish were a little better so I could offer her more eloquent words of comfort than the simple ones I had managed to come up with.
Yet now when that unfortunate woman approached to receive communion she was smiling, and I could sense the joy and consolation that she felt as she received her Lord in the Eucharist. We traded glances of recognition as I said “El cuerpo de Crista” and offered her the host.
Her experience of joy in the midst of sorrow made her, I thought, like the apostles at the Last Supper. In John’s account of that final meal, an event filled with sadness and foreboding, Jesus kept speaking to the disciples about joy, assuring them that their sorrow would one day be transformed. “When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy [chara] of having brought a human being into the world. So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice [chair], and no one will take your joy [chara] from you” (John 16:21–22). The contrast between the woman’s present labor pains and her future joy was Jesus’ way of teaching us how joy can come out of pain and anxiety.
My parishioner friend knew what labor pains were. As she turned after receiving communion I hoped that she would be able find strength in Jesus’ promise that out of pain can eventually come joy.
But joy is not just something awaiting us in heaven. Jesus made it clear that he wanted all of us to have this gift right now: “I have said these things to you so that my joy [chara] may be in you, and that your joy [chara] may be complete” (John 15:11). In fact, joy is one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy [chara], peace, patience, kindness, generosity. . . .” (Galatians 5:22). We shouldn’t be surprised, then, when we experience the joy of the Lord in the love of people around us, in the beauties of nature, or in the closeness to God that we may feel during prayer or when receiving a sacrament. But sometimes joy surprises us at a time when we most need it and are least expecting it—even as we’re walking through some dark valley.
By now the woman was almost back at her seat, and the last of the little ones was standing in front of me craning her neck upward waiting expectantly. I raised my hand and began to say the blessing, trying to stay in my solemn, priestly role; but as I looked at her beautiful innocent face and into her sparkling eyes, any pretense of priestly gravity broke down and—I couldn’t help myself—I laughed. Out of sheer chara.
Reflection
1. Are there experiences that have filled you with “the joy of the Lord?” If so, reflect on one of them and thank the Lord for it.
2. The New Testament mentions people experiencing joy in the face of suffering (Acts 5:41; Col 1:24). Reflect on this seeming contradiction. Has that ever happened to you?
Sacred Scripture
Words based on the root verb chairo, “to be joyful” appear seven times in the infancy narratives of Luke. The angel Gabriel announces to Zechariah: “And you will have joy [chara] and gladness, and will rejoice [chairo] at his birth” (Luke 1:14) and greets Mary: “Hail ([chair]— literally “Rejoice”) highly favored one [charito]” (Luke 1:28). Then the angel announces to the shepherds (in a literal translation), “Behold, I proclaim to you a great joy [chara] that will be for all the people” (Luke 2:10). Matthew tells us that when the star they had been following came to a stop over the place where the child was, the magi literally “rejoiced [chairo] with joy [chara]” (Matt 2:10).
Rule of Benedict
During these days [of Lent], therefore, we will add to the usual measure of our service something by way of private prayer and abstinence from food or drink, so that each of us will have something above the assigned measure to offer God of his own will with the joy of the Holy Spirit (Chapter 49, “The Observance of Lent,” vv. 5–6).
23. Lifted Up with Christ
I WAS FILLING IN THAT SUNDAY MORNING for the vacationing pastor of Queen of Angels Church, an African-American parish not far from the monastery. The ten o’clock mass was filled as usual with spirit and energy thanks to the exuberant singing of the gospel choir and the rich, lively chords that the organist was coaxing from the old pipe organ.
I had just finished proclaiming the gospel, and now I walked to the center of the sanctuary and knelt on the floor, facing the altar, with my back to the people. The congregation and choir, still standing, began singing their customary “prayer over the preacher,” asking the Holy Spirit to help me to give a powerful sermon. Kneeling there I realized that I really needed their prayers in a special way that day, Sunday, September 16, 2001. Just a few days before, about fourteen miles from that spot, the two World Trade towers had collapsed and disappeared in clouds of smoke like a vision of hell itself. The horrendous images of the collapsing infernos were still being replayed constantly on tele
vision—and in everyone’s mind. Millions of people around the country and around the world were still stunned by the enormity and horror of the tragedy.
As I knelt there the chorus of the traditional hymn filled the church: “Sweet Holy Spirit, sweet heav’nly dove, stay right here with us, filling us with your love. . . .” I sensed that the people at mass that morning were hoping for a word or two of encouragement to help them deal with last Tuesday’s immense, unthinkable catastrophe. I realized that this was not going to be an easy time to preach, so I was grateful for their prayers, and added a few of my own. When the hymn ended I stood up and walked slowly back to the pulpit, hoping that I might find a word of hope to offer the church. As it turned out, I did indeed find a word—quite literally.
I began by reminding everyone that two days ago the church had celebrated the solemn feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. In my own meditation on the readings for that feast, I told the listening congregation, I had drawn a lot of comfort from the passage “And when I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw everyone to myself” (John 12:32–34). In fact, since then I had been meditating on one particular word in that sentence. And so I started to share as best I could some thoughts about the verb hupso,7 “to lift up.” Let me tell you a little about this extraordinarily interesting word.
Most of the time in the New Testament it was used figuratively for “lifting” someone to a position of honor or power: “Whoever exalts [hupso] himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted [hupso]” (Matthew 23:12). But John used it in its literal sense when referring to a scene from the book of Numbers: “Moses lifted up [hupso] the serpent in the desert” (John. 3:14a).8 This literal use of “to lift up” in the Old Testament provided John with exactly the image he needed to express Christ’s being physically “lifted up” on the cross: he wrote “And just as Moses lifted up [hupso] the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up [hupso] so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14–15).
