His Voice Says Come

His voice says, “Come.” He is always telling us to move forward, to take that step, to devote ourselves to service.

“Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You upon the water.”

My heart quakes within me. Perhaps it isn’t Him. Then I will not have to go, to step out, to change. I won’t have to take the next biggest leap of my life.

“Come,” He says.

It is Him, then. It is not the voice of my imagination, the sirens in my mind, or the lure of external evils. No, it is really Him, and His voice is the breath of peace.

“Come.” The first step is always the most difficult—a truth I learned while ziplining in the mountains. (Who knew high adventure sports could teach so much about the spiritual life?) The first step is always the hardest, and many steps follow it. This makes me shrink back.

“Come.” His hand is outstretched and, reaching out for it, I hurl myself into the roaring sea.

I Have Set My Hand to the Plow

Once again another semester has come and gone, and I, standing at this crossroads that is Christmas break, am given a chance to reflect on the whirlwind that was my life for the last four months. This past semester may have been the most difficult one ever, but because it was difficult it was also rewarding—spiritually and intellectually.

In October, I learned what it is like to be confronted with something that turns you bitter against the Lord and to choose that bitterness and to pretend that everything is still okay even when it isn’t. Losing both of my grandmothers three months apart from each other was not exactly my ideal plan for how life was going to go this year. And I refused to acknowledge for a couple weeks that I was angry with the Lord for taking them both so quickly. In a sense, I didn’t want Him to heal this grief in me. I told myself that I was okay with their deaths. I just didn’t want anyone to be involved—even God. And then one day, wondering why I was having such a difficult time praying, I realized that I had put this wall up.

I asked myself: What kind of disciple would I be if I stopped here, dropped the cross, and turned back now? I knew then that I couldn’t drop the cross, that I didn’t want to drop the cross. I knew I had to be faithful, to move forward, to allow this piece of the cross to shape me towards sainthood. I knew that I had already set my hand to the plow and that I could not look back. I wanted to be fit for the Kingdom of God.

Another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” 

– Luke 9:61–62

This image of plowing was one that continued with me through the rest of the semester, as I struggled with the difficulties of researching and writing my thesis, trying to complete my reading homework, and saying “no” to numerous opportunities that I would have taken if I didn’t have work to do. The image of plowing is one that will probably continue with me through the rest of my life. Why?

Plowing is an image that speaks to me of choice. It reminds me that I have chosen. I have chosen Christ. I have chosen holiness. I have chosen to plow until I reach the Kingdom. I have chosen to write. I have chosen to love.

Deliberately I have set my hand to work, knowing that it will be difficult—the soil is heavy, the plow is clumsy, my grip is slippery. I am going to sweat. There is going to be struggle, exhaustion. Perhaps sometimes I will fall.

And when I am overwhelmed in the midst of a furrow, I can abandon the field, leaving it unfinished and unable to bear abundant fruit. I can look back. But then my work will be unfit for the Kingdom of God.

Or I can plow ever onwards, ever so slowly, in the path I have already chosen, towards the Kingdom of Heaven. Christ Himself waits at the end of the furrow with open arms. All I need is to keep my eyes on Him—to persevere—and He will allow my plowing to make the field fertile.

Constancy that nothing can shake. That’s what you need. Ask God for it, and do what you can to obtain it: for it is a great safeguard against your ever turning from the fruitful way you have chosen. 

- St. Josemaria Escriva

Christ: In the Flesh

I am blessed to have an awesome internship in the same city as my college, which means that I get to stay here over the summer and continue with it. Hurray! One cool aspect of the job is that I frequently get to read the writings of the Popes, particularly of Pope Francis.

As I was skimming through Pope Francis’ most recent encyclical, Evangelii Gaudium, in hopes of finding a quote to use with one of the magazine articles I was copyediting, I stumbled across this gem: “God’s word teaches that our brothers and sisters are the prolongation of the incarnation for each of us: ‘As you did it to one of these, the least of my brethren, you did it to me’ (Mt 25:40).”

This is a profound idea—that each person I meet is Christ. Because that’s what Pope Francis means when he says that each one is “the prolongation of the incarnation.” The Pope really isn’t saying anything new, because the Church has always taught that each person is made in the image and likeness of God, but the way that he says this made me stop and think about the idea more fully.

When I desire to experience Christ physically present, my first instinct is to go to the Eucharist, since God has truly shown me that He is present within that tiny host. But if each person that I meet is “the prolongation of the incarnation,” then Christ is also physically present in each human being. Each person shows me Christ in the flesh, in his or her own flesh. That’s what incarnation means.

Like I said before, the teaching that God lives in each person is not a new idea for me or for the Church, but it is one that I am only now beginning to let impact my life. It means that if I want to love Christ, I must love the person right in front of me. I must be convicted that each person is Christ. And I have to act appropriately towards them—with an abundance of love and respect. No person is too small, too poor, too beautiful, too sick, too smart, too talkative, or too anything else for me to love them, since they are Christ.

But I fail at this all the time. So Pope Francis’ words are a challenge for me, a challenge to live out a deeper and more radical love of Christ by loving each person I meet. They are a challenge to seek the face of Christ in every single human being. It’s like a giant “Where’s Waldo?” game. Only with God.

Resurrection Encounter

A reflection on John 20:11-18

How deep His gaze into Mary’s eyes is when she encounters Him in the garden. “Mary.” His voice is tender and yet commanding so that she, through her sorrow, realizes that this man indeed is her Teacher and Master. “Rabboni!” She knows His voice; the sheep recognizes the voice of her Shepherd and immediately responds. He instructs her, briefly, and sends her forth.

In our own lives, Christ calls out to us – even in deep sorrow and suffering. He asks only for a response of love, a response of trust. When we hear our name spoken in the tenderness of His voice, how can we fail to turn quickly to Him in reply? He shows us, in his very body, that He is already victorious over all our human suffering. He brings us hope of the redemption of our bodies (Rom. 8:23) and of the glory that awaits us (2 Cor 4:17). After we turn to Him and have received with eager hearts the words that He speaks to us, we are sent forth to proclaim His triumph – that the Shepherd has died for the sheep and through His Resurrection has made each person into a new creation.