Custody of the Holy Land

Alongside the history of salvation there exists a geography of salvation.

~ Pope Paul VI

My first encounter with St. Francis of Assisi was at Seattle Pacific University, a Free Methodist institution.

I was taking a Church history class, and the cavernous reality of Roman Catholicism was just beginning to dawn on my evangelical consciousness. At one point, the professor gave us an assignment to read a biography of any prominent historical Christian. I headed to Weter Library, followed the Dewey numbering system over to the appropriate shelves, and there spied a small, worn volume with faded gold lettering.

“St. Francis of Assisi,” I muttered as I plucked it from the shelf. “I think he’s the bird guy.”

I checked it out.

Now, understand that I’d been a born-again Christian since grade school, and I was well familiar with the great figures of the Old and New Testament. Also, I was acquainted with many notable Protestant heroes – the missionaries who’d given their lives to bring the Gospel to forgotten lands, the martyrs of Nazi prison camps and Communist gulags, the fearless evangelists of our own country’s frontier territories and inner cities.

But this! I was unnerved as I read – nothing could’ve prepared me for it. Francis leapt from those pages fully alive, an icon of Christ, an affront to my tidy ideals and pious stratagems. What had been posed as a simple course requirement became a face smack: here was lived Christianity – an embodiment, not just an imitation. Could it be replicated? Who would dare?

Years later, after winding my way to Roman Catholicism, I had my answer: everyone must dare, even me. The Franciscan vision of nurturing mini-incarnations of Jesus in every place and everybody is the vision of the Church, bent on making saints of us all. “Every person must walk unhesitatingly according to his own personal gifts and duties in the path of living faith,” Lumen Gentium teaches, “which arouses hope and works through charity” (39). Francis’s life points the way for living the Gospel sine glosa – without excuse. No ginger tiptoeing around the minefields of sanctification; nothing short of total transformation will do.

Is it any wonder, then, that the followers of St. Francis are so closely identified with the Holy Land? We worship the God incarnate at Bethlehem, the one who wandered throughout Galilee and worked in the shop at Nazareth, a man-God who died atop Golgotha and was buried in a cave outside Jerusalem – these things all really happened, and so they happened somewhere. “One cannot desire to identify with Jesus,” writes Franciscan Father Pierbattista Pizzaballa, “and neglect the place where He lived.”

This is of particular importance to Pizzaballa, the major superior of the Friars Minor in the Middle East and the Custodian (Custos) of the Holy Land. He and his community oversee some 49 sacred sites associated with the life of Our Lord, not to mention numerous parishes and a wide variety of charitable works. 

The Franciscan relationship to the Holy Land is unique and stretches back to the earliest days of the order. The Saint of Assisi established his little community in 1209, and by 1217, a General Chapter was already divvying up the entire world into Franciscan provinces, including the territories of the Middle East – the “pearl” of the order’s realms of influence.

Starting most notably with a visit by Francis himself, a Franciscan presence in and around the Holy Land has been maintained with very little interruption for nearly 800 years. In fact, the order has long represented the primary continuity of Catholic influence in that volatile region, a state of affairs formally constituted by Pope Clement VI in 1342 and reiterated by Pope St. John Paul II 650 years later.

By order of the Holy See, the “friars of the cord” have a solemn responsibility to provide hospitality to pilgrims and to “animate” the land’s sacred geography. In short, as Father Pizzaballa puts it, they’re called to “to turn the stones into ‘living stones.’” Moreover, the sons of Francis join with all other Christians there in attempting to follow Pope Francis’s call, despite current hostile conditions, “to promote dialogue, to build bridges in the spirit of the Beatitudes (cf. Mt 5:3:12), and to proclaim the Gospel of peace.”
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A shorter version of this essay originally appeared in Franciscan Way, Franciscan University of Steubenville. 

In addition to contributing to the annual Good Friday Holy Land collection taken up throughout the universal Church, the faithful can further support the Holy Land Franciscans through prayer, voluntary service, and financial pledges. For more information, follow this link. 

One Book

"I read through Dorothy’s autobiography like a starving man tucking into a feast, and I well remember sitting in the Fishbowl at the University of Oregon when I turned the last page. 'I’ll never be the same,' I said out loud, and I was right."

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From "Ecumenism, Conversion, and the Catholic Worker: Dorothy Day's Appeal to Evangelicals," Dorothy Day and the Church: Past, Present, & Future, eds. Lance Richey and Adam DeVille (Solidarity Hall, 2016). 

Dr. Ruth E. Davidhizar (1946-2008)

I knew Ruth Davidhizar from afar my first years at Bethel College. She was the dean, a nationally known scholar, and an accomplished author; I was a second-career pre-licensure nursing student with a bunch of kids and very little self-confidence. She was the big cheese; I was a condiment at best.

In time, however, Ruth took me under her wing, and I came to see her as a mentor and even friend. After receiving my ADN and RN in 2000, Ruth had me come back to Bethel and tutor undergraduates in chemistry — not that I was a chemistry wiz, mind you, but only because I seemed to have a knack for helping people at least pass the class.

After two years of working in oncology nursing and hospice home care, I returned to Bethel to work on my BSN. Ruth made appearances in all undergraduate classes back then, presenting her rich insights regarding transcultural nursing and cross-cultural competence. At a school dedicated to missions and missionary training, Ruth’s expertise in this area was especially valuable, and it was particularly valuable to Bethel's nursing students regardless of their destination post-graduation. For, as you know, every family system — every individual — is a culture unto itself, and Ruth prepared us all to view nursing service as a cross-cultural encounter, whether it happened in the jungles of Asia, the steppes of Russia, or a med-surg floor at the local hospital.

And she was kind. Ruth was tireless in seeking out resources — i.e., money — for her nursing school and especially her beloved nursing students. Ruth, who had no children of her own, really did see us all as her family. She loved the art and science of nursing, and she was truly dedicated to instilling in her students — her heirs — a love for it as well.

When I was preparing to graduate a second time from Bethel with my BSN, I had some time to chat with Ruth during my exit interview, and she asked me what my intentions were in the future. I told her then that I hoped to begin a master’s program in nursing education and then someday come back to Bethel to teach. Pretty much at that moment, the exit interview concluded, and I saw Ruth’s eyes go glassy as the wheels in her head start to churn.

Within a day or two, she called me to ask if I’d consider taking a teaching post right away — with the proviso that I’d make steady progress on my master’s and graduate within a reasonable amount of time. I was floored and flattered, and I said I’d certainly think about it. Ruth then told me that she’d already set up an appointment for me with Bethel's President Bridges so that I could get additional information. This appointment turned out to be a pre-employment interview — something I only discovered at its conclusion when the president mentioned the starting salary for new associate faculty.

Ruth shepherded me through the application process and additional interviews, and she hired me to teach that next fall — and I’ve been at Bethel ever since. What a privilege it was to serve under and with Ruth in this tremendous profession — to have her feedback as I learned how to teach, to receive her encouragement and support, to know she had my back as a rookie nursing instructor.

I continued work on my M.A. throughout my first years as an instructor at Bethel, and I managed to complete it the same summer Ruth fell gravely ill. The last time I saw her, she was at home, and a number of us on the faculty were visiting to express our love and affection. Given how important Ruth was to me, both professionally and personally, it was hard to think of an appropriate token to present her, but in the end I decided on a copy of my final master’s research project. Anyone else would’ve (understandably) politely received such a “gift,” and set it aside to be disposed of at a convenient time. Ruth, though, recognized it for what it was: a milestone in an individual’s career in which she was hugely influential. Her expression of gratitude at that moment, I believe, was heartfelt and genuine.

I miss my colleague and friend. Rest in peace, Ruth.
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Ruth Davidhizar served the nursing students at Bethel College for over twenty years until her death on September 11, 2008. A version of this tribute appears on the Transcultural Nursing Society website.

An Aragon Ballroom Tutorial

 In Paradisum deducant te angeli (CCC 335).

Several years back, I took my two oldest girls to their first rock concert. At the time, Joan was a big fan of Janelle Monáe, and Meg liked Bruno Mars, so when we found out the two would be performing together in Chicago, I decided to spring for tickets. Besides, the venue was the Aragon Ballroom in Uptown, my former home – it was a cinch.

We made it to Chicago alright, and then parked at St. Thomas of Canterbury, my old parish. After a visit inside the church to show off where I’d become a Catholic a quarter century before, we walked the two blocks to the Aragon. Inside the tattered ballroom, it was festive and noisy – standing only, no seats. As the opening act, a local band, was warming up, Joan and Meg moved through the eclectic crowd closer to the stage. “We want to be up front,” they indicated – fine by me.

Then the band started playing – loud. “I think I’ll move a little further back,” I shouted to the girls. They nodded in time with the throbbing music, and I withdrew. When Monáe took the stage, I made signs to the girls that I was moving further back still, to the very edge of the crowd. And Bruno Mars? As he started his set, I removed myself as far back as I could go – to the back wall of the ballroom, behind the Miller Lite cart, next to a security guard. She must’ve seen the pain that lay behind my shrinking demeanor, for she pointed to her ears and mouthed, “Pretty loud.”

I slowly nodded, wide-eyed. “Where can I get some ear plugs?” I begged her. She smiled and pulled out a small packet from her pocket. “Here you go,” she said simply. God bless her – an angel of mercy.

As the clock inched toward midnight, my daughters and I made like Cinderella and hightailed it out of Uptown. They preferred to stay longer, but I wanted to be plenty alert for the long drive home to South Bend.

Wheeling along I-80 gave me time to reflect as the girls chatted about the evening's events. Clearly they had a good time, and that was the outing's main goal. My experience was considerably different, however, and it came down to two unanticipated object lessons:

1. My rocking days are over. It's not like that's a surprise, least of all to my kids. Nonetheless, my Aragon-induced bafflement – the standing, the din, the unexpected foreignness of it all – overwhelmed me and made it crystal clear that I had no business attending traditional pop blast-fests any more. If I'm going to tag along with my kids to events in the future, I'll have to be more selective – i.e., stacks of amps and screaming guitars will have to give way to indie performers and much lower decibel levels, which is consistent (hopefully) with my advancing years and accumulating gravitas.
2. Angels don't always announce. Usually, like St. Gabriel and St. Raphael, not to mention  Christmas's Heavenly Host, angels are commissioned to proclaim and "spread abroad." Apparently, like the security guard that night, they can sometimes mercifully muffle and obscure. It's not a form of deception nor avoidance, but rather a divinely appointed selectivity based on our ability to handle the fullness of whatever's going on. Revelation, that is, on a need-to-know basis.

With regards to Lesson #2: I'm recording this story here on the off-chance my security guard-savior will read it and recognize herself. If so, thanks again! If not, I sincerely hope to have the chance to reiterate my gratitude in Paradise someday...quietly.
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To a Discouraged Nursing Student

Nursing school has you overwhelmed, I know. You're questioning your choice to be here, and you're afraid that you "won't be good enough."

Hold on a minute.

It's clear that you have a compassionate heart, so I wasn't surprised to learn that you've wanted to serve others since you were little. I'm confident God will help you realize that desire – in His name, shun the doubt and discouragement when it comes up.

But the part about not being good enough? The truth is that we never will be good enough – not any one of us, nobody. That's why, for me, nursing is so intimately connected with faith, with Jesus. I can't do this job on my own power – I'm too selfish, too broken. If I nurse well – if I teach well – it's only because of grace and God's power. The only credit I can take is that I manage to stay out of his way from time to time, and let him get on with his working through me.

Hang in there. Take heart. Have courage.
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Trivia Night: A Note of Gratitude

A few years ago, our parish designated a previously scheduled Trivia Night as a fundraiser for our family. Here's the thank-you note I asked to be read that evening.
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It’s Trivia Night, so here’s a trivia question for you: Category, Movies. What 1985 movie is memorable for featuring an Amish barn raising?

I’m sure this elite gathering will have no trouble in naming the movie “Witness” – what a great flick! It starred Harrison Ford as a detective who hides out from the bad guys in an Amish community and attempts to adopt the Amish way of life.

If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll especially remember the barn raising – the way the community comes together to aid one of its members; how the men and women and children all instinctively gravitate to tasks for which they are best suited; the manner in which the workers seem to challenge each other, even compete with one another, in accomplishing the tasks at hand as rapidly and efficiently as possible.

Of course, it’s a Hollywood version of a barn-raising, complete with swelling musical score, and I’m guessing a real barn raising would be a bit bumpier, a bit sweatier, and maybe even a bit grumpier. Even so, it’s a beautiful image of what the Body of Christ is all about – the corporate unity of believers that witnesses to its faith through how it serves and suffers with and loves.

Here, now, we are the recipients of that service and love, and we are keenly aware of how the Body of Christ is suffering with us. As many of you know, our child is battling a complicated and deadly disease. It’s also very insidious, and we didn’t catch it until it was pretty far advanced. Consequently, she had to be hospitalized out of state, and she's still not home.

We’re happy to report that her medical condition is very stable now, praise God, and she has been discharged from the in-patient unit to an out-patient program.

As much as we’d like to have her home and have our family fully reunited again, we have elected to continue with the program for it offers great promise in helping her beat this rotten disease. The staff is estimating that she will be in this program for 6 to 8 weeks. We’re hoping, of course, that she will be home sooner, but we have to be prepared for a longer stay if necessary. As you can all appreciate, we will do anything and everything to get her the help she needs to beat this disease and regain the joy and freedom which she lived so fully before it showed up.

And here’s where the barn-raising imagery returns to the fore, because you have joined us in that “anything and everything” – by making us meals, by watching our other children for us and giving them rides, by your encouragement and advice and emotional support, and, most especially, by your prayers.

We have said this many times to many people throughout this ordeal: We would be lost without our parish, our community, our friends. Thank you. Thank you. A hundred, a thousand times, thank you. We love you, and we know we are loved. That is the church. That is Christ.

Deo gratias.
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Saint Amato Ronconi (1225-1292)

We don’t usually associate rock star status with sanctity, but there are exceptions – like Pope St. John Paul II, for instance, and Blessed Teresa of Calcutta. Both routinely attracted hordes of fans, and many of those groupies turned their lives around after their derivative brush with saintly fame.

Even hype is redeemable.

St. Amato Ronconi also generated a lot of publicity in his day, some of it good, some of it not so good – including money, fame, sex, and power, just like a real rock star! A son of privilege in the northern Italian region of Saludecio, Amato had a cushy start, but he lost his parents at an early age. The orphaned Amato moved in with his older brother, Giacomo, and took on the duties of a farmhand.

Giacomo’s wife, Lansberga, wanted Amato to marry her younger sister – mainly to keep the family estate intact – but Amato had other plans. Undoubtedly influenced by St. Francis of Assisi’s example (a saintly rock star himself and only recently deceased) and contacts with a neighboring Franciscan monastery, Amato ardently desired a celibate life given over to prayer and charity. He joined the Franciscan Third Order and adopted a penitential lifestyle augmented by extravagant generosity to the poor.

Lansberga complained that her young brother-in-law must be crazy, and she insisted Giacomo do something before Amato literally gave away the farm. To keep the peace, Giacomo divided the family estate and gave Amato his own piece of property – which the saint converted into a hospice for the indigent, the sick, and the many pilgrims on their way to Rome. Amato turned no one away, and when supplies ran out, he’d produce food seemingly out of thin air.

The pilgrim visitors spread stories about Amato’s wonder-working far afield, and it’s no surprise that the curious began flocking to Saludecio to gawk. The saint sought relief by becoming a pilgrim himself, making the Camino de Santiago to Spain on four separate occasions. Those trips capture the humility of St. Amato so well that depictions of him invariably include a pilgrim’s staff and the distinctive Camino scallop badge.

Amato’s sister-in-law, however, was not so impressed by her other-worldly relation, and she sought revenge for her thwarted schemes. She knew that Amato was particularly close to his sister, Chiara, who had herself adopted a Franciscan way of life in imitation of him. Lansberga started a slanderous rumor throughout the community that Amato and Chiara were having incestuous relations. When a city official investigated, a miraculous sign not only convinced him that the siblings were innocent, but that Amato himself was a saint.

On a fifth Camino attempt, an angel appeared to Amato and urged him to head back. Understanding this as a mortal premonition, he set his affairs in order and deeded his property to the Benedictines so that they could continue his apostolate to the poor. This they did for hundreds of years, and today a home for the elderly continues to operate on the same site.

Amato died on May 8, 1292, and Pope Francis declared him a saint on November 23, 2014 – the Feast of Christ the King. “Jesus has opened to us his kingdom,” the Holy Father declared at the canonization, but “his kingdom begins now – by being close in concrete ways to our brothers and sisters who ask for bread, clothing, acceptance, solidarity.”

In this, Amato excelled. May we follow in his footsteps.
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A version of this story appeared in Franciscan Way, Franciscan University of Steubenville.