 I recently read a story by a priest who wrote about bringing Holy Communion to a dying woman in the hospital. She had not been able to attend Mass for months. Her body was failing rapidly, and by the time he arrived, she was barely conscious. Family members surrounded the bed. Machines hummed softly. The room carried that strange silence hospitals often have near the end of life.
The priest was not even sure she knew he was there. He leaned close and whispered, “Mary, I brought you Holy Communion.” Immediately, her eyes opened. Not fully. Just enough. But her entire face changed. With great effort, she lifted her hands slightly from the bed and tried to make the Sign of the Cross. The priest placed only a tiny fragment of the Host on her tongue. Afterward, she closed her eyes again — peaceful now. One of her daughters began to cry and said, “She hasn’t responded to anyone all day.” The priest later reflected that in that moment he realized again something profoundly true: deep within the human soul is a hunger nothing in this world can satisfy. Not success. Not comfort. Not entertainment. Not even the love of family. We were made for communion with God. As it turned out, Mary died a short time after receiving that final Holy Communion — what the Church calls Viaticum, “food for the journey.” I can relate to this story because I have witnessed similar moments countless times as a priest. Receiving Communion near the end of life often seems to revive a person for a brief time, and then bring a deep peace as they prepare to meet the Lord. The Eucharist does something to us. It does something for us. Which raises an important question: Why do Catholics celebrate Mass so often and receive Holy Communion so regularly? There are many reasons: We do it because at the Last Supper Jesus told us to: “Do this in memory of me.” We do it because the Mass perpetuates the saving mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection and draws us into participation in that mystery. We do it because the Eucharist fortifies the spirit, increases charity, forgives venial sins, and strengthens our relationship with God. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says something shocking: “My flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.” In other words: “I do not merely want to teach you from a distance. I want to unite Myself to you.” That is the heart of Corpus Christi. Jesus does not simply want admirers. He wants communion. When He says, “Do this in memory of me,” He is not saying merely, “Think about me occasionally,” or “Remember my teachings.” He is saying: “Keep repeating this. Enter again and again into My sacrifice, My presence, My life.” On the feast of Corpus Christi, we celebrate that the Creator of the universe makes Himself small enough to be received, close enough to dwell within us, loving enough to feed us with His own life. And perhaps one sign that the Eucharist truly comes from God is this: the holiest people in history never seemed to move beyond it. The saints never “outgrew” the Mass. They became more hungry for it. Because when everything else in life is stripped away — health, strength, accomplishments, even words — the soul still recognizes Jesus when He comes near. While Viaticum is powerful food for the final journey of the dying, the Eucharist is intended primarily for the living. It is meant for us now. In Holy Communion, Jesus Christ — Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity — comes to us physically in order to nourish us spiritually.
Recently, I was reflecting on this connection while thinking about the Sacred Heart of Jesus (June is the month of the Sacred Heart.): Last September I visited Paray-le-Monial in France, where St. Margaret Mary Alacoque received the revelations of the Sacred Heart. In the chapel where she is buried, I noticed that the tabernacle — where the Eucharist is reserved — was shaped like a heart. Even the niche holding the sanctuary candle was carved in the shape of a heart. It struck me that the Eucharist is the Sacred Heart of Jesus reaching into our hearts. The image of the Sacred Heart shows Christ burning with love for humanity. The Eucharist is how He communicates that love personally and intimately to each one of us. Every Holy Communion is an encounter with the Heart of Christ. And when, after receiving Communion, we become aware of our own hearts burning with love for Him, gratitude, peace, repentance, longing — we are experiencing the beginning of what we were created for. That Communion sustains us as we live. And, God willing, that Communion will fortify us as we die. -Rev. James F. Hurlbert
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"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” For most Christians, those words are so familiar that we can say them almost unconsciously. We begin Mass with them. We pray them before meals. We trace them over ourselves in moments of fear, gratitude, grief, or hope. But those words are not sentimental. They are not harmless. They are words that get people in trouble. From the crucifixion of Jesus Christ to the martyrdoms taking place in our own day, countless believers have lost their lives rather than deny the truth contained in those words. Bishop Robert Barron once posed the sobering question: “What do their deaths demand?” It is a question modern Christians should take seriously. Christianity remains the most persecuted religion in the world. The twentieth century alone saw more Christian martyrs than all previous centuries combined. Today, more than 300 million Christians around the globe face significant hostility because of their faith, and an estimated 5,000 are killed every year simply for believing in God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. What is striking is that many Christians themselves struggle to explain the doctrine of the Trinity clearly. Why would people die for something so mysterious? Part of the answer is that the Feast of the Holy Trinity is not exactly a “warm fuzzy” feast. Christmas surrounds us with tenderness and beauty. Easter bursts with triumph and hope. Trinity Sunday feels different. It is deeply theological. It asks us to step back and consider not primarily how God makes us feel, but who God actually is. Last week, I reflected on how humanity seems almost genetically wired for spirituality. Across cultures and centuries, human beings consistently search for transcendence and the supernatural. We hunger for meaning beyond ourselves. But the Christian doctrine of the Trinity is not something humanity would ever have invented on its own. In fact, if we were inventing God, we probably would have come up with something much simpler and easier to explain. The Trinity is mysterious, difficult, and ultimately beyond complete human comprehension. That is precisely why Christians call it Revelation. It is not humanity climbing its way up to discover God; it is God revealing Himself to humanity. Imagine the human race as a person standing in a dimly lit room. We can vaguely make out shapes and outlines, but much of what we think we see is filled in by guesswork and imagination. Then, every so often, a guide briefly flashes a light. For a moment we see more clearly. Then the guide reaches for our hand and asks us to trust him as he leads us forward. God is that guide. Throughout salvation history, God has revealed Himself gradually and deliberately. The first flickers of light appeared in His covenant relationship with the Jewish people. The Old Testament is the story of humanity slowly, sometimes clumsily, but ultimately beautifully learning who God is and what it means to belong to Him. Then, in Jesus Christ, the light blazed forth in a radically new way. The Light of the World took on human flesh. In Christ, God did not merely send a message; He entered human history personally. At Pentecost, the Holy Spirit was revealed as God still actively present and at work in the world. Through the Spirit, the light of revelation continues to shine — not merely as a memory of ancient events, but as a living reality unfolding in the lives of those united to Christ through baptism. And somehow, this revelation is subversive. It provokes resistance and hostility. Truth is never neutral in the cosmic struggle between good and evil. So if God truly reveals Himself, then the powers opposed to God will react. That opposition sometimes erupts into violent persecution. More often in our culture, it takes subtler forms: dismissal, ridicule, marginalization, pressure to keep faith private, or the insistence that religion is merely a hobby rather than a claim about ultimate reality. Most Christians in the West are unlikely to face martyrdom. But many experience what could be called “soft persecution” — the steady cultural pressure to silence conviction and conform belief to the spirit of the age. The next time you trace the sign of the cross over yourself, remember what you are saying. You are not merely blessing yourself or performing a ritual gesture. You are declaring allegiance. You are placing yourself under the name of the Triune God. You are putting on spiritual armor. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Throughout history, these words have carried consequences. They still do. -Rev. James F. Hurlbert   Throughout history, societies throughout the world have embraced various religions and forms of spirituality—some simple, some sophisticated. Many of them seem similar, at least on the surface. In the past few decades, however, the number of people who claim affinity with the mainline Christian denominations and the Jewish faith has shrunk dramatically. In Bridgeport alone, I’m not sure how many Protestant churches have closed; at least one has become a Buddhist temple, and seven Catholic churches have closed. Yet despite this decline, there remains in our time a strong religious sensitivity, however unfocused it may be.
There are not many bookstores around anymore, but I remember when I used to visit them and see shelves and shelves devoted to religion and spirituality. Even now, there are YouTube videos, podcasts, blogs—and yes, still books—that focus on ancient mysteries, the occult, and the supernatural. In that sense, one could argue that despite all the talk of secularism, we remain in a very religious age. Conversations about spirituality abound. There has always been a fascination with angels, miracles, and unexplained phenomena. Those who study these things say it reflects a deep spiritual pull within the human person. Yet, let’s face it: very often it becomes a kind of religiosity without cost, spirituality without conversion. Keep things vague and loosely mystical, and you can sell books, attract listeners, and get plenty of likes on Facebook and Instagram. The reality is that many people prefer religion that requires little personal change. If religion criticizes “the world,” it is often welcomed as a needed message. But if it calls me to accountability, then suddenly the response becomes, “No, thank you.” If a religion requires society to change, many embrace it; if it requires me to change, it becomes much less attractive. One of the hallmarks of Christianity, however, is its insistence on transformation, its challenge to change, its call to conversion. Think of John the Baptist: to prepare people for their encounter with Jesus, he called them to repent. Jesus Himself consistently spoke about leaving aside the old and taking up the new. Becoming a Christian is not simply a modified version of a pre-Christian life with a few adjustments here and there. It is about becoming a “new creation.” Pentecost reminds us that we are not called simply to admire Jesus. Jesus does not want admirers. What He wants are disciples who will take Him seriously and follow Him with their lives. Are we willing to step away from “group-think” and accept being unpopular, or perhaps even shunned, in our effort to discern Christ’s will and live according to it? Are we willing to make personal sacrifices in order to live out our discipleship? Where do we draw the line? Are we willing to help shape a society that conforms more to the Kingdom of God than to the kingdom of Lucifer? To be sure, one person’s disciple may well be another person’s fanatic. Ask yourself: if you met the Apostles on Pentecost day, would you have been fascinated and attracted, or would you have run for the hills? When others around us begin talking about their personal faith or powerful spiritual experiences, does it make us uncomfortable? What kind of faith-sharing compels us rather than repels us? You might be surprised at how willing and open people around you are to adult conversations about their relationship with Jesus and the practice of the Catholic faith. Some years ago, I got a dog, and suddenly all my parishioners wanted to talk to me about their dogs. When I had shoulder replacement surgery, I started hearing about everybody else’s joint surgeries. Last weekend I was hobbling around with plantar fasciitis and immediately started receiving emails recommending treatments and therapists. And whenever someone in a casual setting discovers that I am a priest, they almost always want to talk about religion. People in OCIA regularly report that when coworkers discover they are becoming Catholic, it opens the door to conversations they never expected to have. There is nothing wrong with faith being deeply personal. But Christianity, by its very nature, is not truly Christianity if it remains entirely private. At Pentecost, the Apostles went from being a confused group of followers to an inspired band of witnesses. With the Holy Spirit in us, we move from being interested observers to active participants. With the Holy Spirit in us, we move from being students of Christianity to practitioners. With the Holy Spirit in us, we move from being merely friends and admirers to true disciples of Jesus. Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful and kindle in them the fire of your love. Send forth your Spirit, and they shall be created. And You shall renew the face of the earth. Amen. -Rev. James F. Hurlbert Last week I was at the seminary for a conference with about twenty-two priests from our archdiocese. The focus was on the role of a pastor as a disciple, shepherd, and steward, but one theme kept surfacing over and over again: co-responsibility. The church does not belong to the priest alone. A parish is not meant to operate such that the father does the "religious work" while everyone else watches from the sidelines. The church belongs to all of us. And co-responsibility means more than simply pitching in or helping keep programs running. It means we are co-responsible for the mission, co-responsible for the vision, and Co-responsible for helping people encounter Jesus Christ. One of the things we discussed was the remarkable number of adult baptisms this Easter. In our own parish, six adults were baptized. Across our archdiocese, more than 1,100 adults entered the church this Easter, including many who have previously been baptized in other Christian denominations and became Catholic. And it is not just happening here. In France this year, more than 13,000 adults were baptized - almost 30% more than the year before. What is going on? Why is this happening? There are all kinds of theories: social instability, loneliness, a search for meaning, dissatisfaction with materialism. But maybe the deepest answer is simply this: the Holy Spirit is moving. God is at work. Last week's feast of the Ascension of the Lord reminds us that God works through people. Right before Jesus ascends into heaven, He gives His disciples their marching orders: "Go out into the world and make disciples." He does not say, "Wait for people to come to you." He does not say, "Build beautiful buildings and hope curiosity brings people in." No - He says, "Go." At the conference, we were giving demographic information about our parish boundaries. Roughly 11,000 people live within the area entrusted to disperish. Eleven thousand. And somehow, we are co-responsible for helping those people encounter Jesus Christ-not through pressure, not through a hard sell, and not through arguing people into the faith, but through invitation, friendship, witness, and joy. The question is: what can each of us do, in our own way? And where do we start? Where is the "low hanging fruit?" For years, many in the Church assumed the most receptive group would be fallen-away Catholics - people who were baptized, may be confirmed, may be raised in the faith... but drifted away. And absolutely, we should continue loving and inviting them. But I sometimes wonder if there is another dynamic at work. Consider this: a vaccination works by exposing the body to a weakened form of a virus so that the immune system develops defenses against the real thing later. I wonder how many Catholics were exposed not to the fullness of the faith, not to a living relationship with Christ but only to a weakened version of Catholicism: rules without relationship, religion without wonder, obligation with our joy, and only a superficial introduction to doctrine and Scripture. Perhaps that experience inoculated them against the faith. So now, when they encounter Catholicism again, defenses immediately rise up, or they have become immune to the workings of the Gospel on their soul. Ironically, some of the people most open today maybe those who have never encountered Christianity at all. Within our own parish boundaries, about 20% of our neighbors are Chinese immigrants and their descendants. And projections say that number will remain steady. What an opportunity! Most of them have never really been exposed to Jesus Christ. They do not know the Gospel. They have never been invited. And maybe that matters, because they may not have been "vaccinated" against it. They can encounter the faith freshly. This means the church's mission field is not somewhere far away anymore. It is in a neighborhood, our workplace, our schools, and our friendships. At His Ascension, Jesus placed His Gospel and His mission into the hands of ordinary disciples - into our hands. He made us co-responsible, and when he entrusted us with a very clear command: " Go out into all the world and make disciples." Go out into all the neighborhood, all the family, all the workplace- not necessarily with grant speeches, but with simple invitations: "Come and see. Come with me. Come to Mass. Come top Alpha. Come meet the people of a parish. Come encounter Jesus." Because with the Ascension, Jesus did not disappear. His presence passed into the sacraments and into the community of baptized believers. Which means that now, in a mysterious way, people are meant to encounter Him through us. — Rev. James F. Hurlbert  |
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