There’s a much quoted line from Leonard Cohen that suggests that the place where we are broken is also the place where our redemption starts: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”

That’s true, a major wound is often the place where wisdom flows into our lives and a weakness that habitually overpowers us can keep us aware of our need for grace. But that’s half of the equation. A fault, while keeping us humble, can also keep us in mediocrity and joylessness.

John of the Cross offers us this image by way of an explanation:

Jonathan recalled his conflict with a co-worker. In mid-sentence, he paused for a full minute, then said, “I’m not an angry person, am I? I don’t want to be an angry person.”

Why is it so difficult, sometimes, to acknowledge we’re angry? Even those of us who are pretty good at showing anger can find it hard to own. We might fear its power, or have experience of the ways anger can unleash terrible harm.  Yet some Church Fathers thought anger existed in Paradise: could we imagine anger an unfallen, pure gift of God? A force that works within us, creatively rather than destructively?

Body and Blood of Christ (Year B) June 10 (Exodus 24:3-8; Psalm 116; Hebrews 9:11-15; Mark 14:12-16, 22-26)

From the beginning of human history until our own day, blood has both repelled and fascinated humans. It has played a prominent role in religion, politics and, unfortunately, entertainment. 

The ancient Hebrews believed that blood was the bearer of life itself, and as such must always be treated with reverence and respect. People were forbidden to ingest the blood of animals. Human blood that had been spilled always required recompense and justice. Blood was powerful — it was offered to the gods or to God in sacrifice. It could both purify and ward off evil. The blood of Passover over Israelite doors turned aside the angel of death.

A number of years ago, accompanied by an excellent Jesuit director, I did a 30-day retreat using the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. In the third week of that retreat there’s a meditation on Jesus’ agony in the garden. I did the meditation to the best of my abilities and met with my director to discuss the result. He wasn’t satisfied and asked me to repeat the exercise. I did, reported back to him, and found him again dissatisfied. I was at a loss to grasp exactly what he wanted me to achieve through that meditation, though obviously I was missing something. He kept trying to explain to me that Ignatius had a concept wherein one was supposed to take the material of a meditation and “apply it to the senses” and I was somehow not getting that part.

Trinity Sunday (Year B) June 3 (Deuteronomy 4:32-34, 39-40; Psalm 33; Romans 8:14-17; Matthew 28:16-20)

We need to be constantly reminded of the ways in which we have been blessed. On the human level, we sometimes have short or selective memories regarding the kindnesses of others. It is helpful to periodically make an effort to remember the small but important acts of decency and kindness that have come our way. It is a good antidote to the negativity that threatens to hold us captive.

Recently a new expression has made its way into our theological and ecclesial vocabulary. There’s a lot of talk today about the New Evangelization. Indeed the Pope has called for a Synod to meet this year for a month in Rome to try to articulate a vision and strategy for such an endeavour.

What is meant by New Evangelization? In simple terms: Millions of people, particularly in the Western world, are Christian in name, come from Christian backgrounds, are familiar with Christianity, believe that they know and understand Christianity, but no longer practise that faith in a meaningful way. They’ve heard of Christ and the Gospel, even though they may be overrating themselves in their belief that they know and understand what these mean. No matter. Whatever their shortcomings in understanding a faith they no longer practise, they believe that they’ve already been evangelized and that their non-practise is an examined decision. Their attitude toward Christianity, in essence, is: I know what it is. I’ve tried it. And it’s not for me!

Pentecost Sunday (Year B)  May 27 (Acts 2:1-11; Psalm 104; 1 Corinthians 12:3-7, 12-13; John 20:19-23)

The spectacular and amazing nature of an event often distracts us from its deeper and more subtle meaning. Mystical experiences, apparitions and miracles are not given to dazzle or entertain us but to enlighten and empower. Luke portrayed the descent of the Spirit as something visible and palpable. Tongues of fire and the violent sound of a rushing wind alert the reader to the imminent manifestation of the divine presence. We should notice that those habitually gathered in that upper room were more than the 12 — they included a number of women and Mary the mother of Jesus. The tongues of fire settled on each one present, not on one more than another. Finally, the various languages that the assembled crowd heard were treated by Luke as a fulfilment of the prophecy of Joel (2:28-32) in the Old Testament. God had promised that in the latter days the Spirit would be poured out on all flesh — slave and free, young and old, male and female. Spiritual empowerment would be offered to all of humanity.

There are different kinds of power and different kinds of authority. There is military power, muscle power, political power, economic power, moral power, charismatic power and psychological power, among other things. There are different kinds of authority too: We can be bitterly forced into acquiescing to certain demands or we can be gently persuaded into accepting them. Power and authority are not all of a kind.

Ascension of the Lord (Year B) May 20 (Acts 1:1-11; Psalm 47; Ephesians 1:17-23; Mark 16:15-20)

We can only imagine the thoughts and emotions of those who watched Jesus ascend to heaven. Joy, to be sure, that He was risen from the dead — but also bewilderment and anxiety. Where was He going? When was He going to return? Was He going to restore the kingdom of Israel or not?

In his autobiography, Nikos Kazantzakis tells the story behind his famous book, Zorba the Greek. Zorba is partly fiction, partly history.

After trying unsuccessfully to write a book on Nietzsche, Kazantzakis experienced a certain emotional breakdown and returned to his native Crete for some convalescence. While there he met a man of incredible energy and vitality. The Zorba-character in the book is based on this man’s life; never before in his life had Kazantzakis been so taken by the life and energy of another human being.