Peace of Christ.

Walking into the Church of Saint Francis Xavier on 16th Street in Chelsea is quite an experience. In creating an imposing example of what could only be called Victorian Baroque architecture, its architect went out of his way to build a church that was at the same time inviting and imposing. Inclusive and dramatic. Welcoming and eye-popping. All at once.

You are tipped off to the numinous experience that awaits you within when you step into the narthex and are greeted with these words from the Third Book of Kings: Sanctificavi domun hane ut ponerem nomen meur ibi et erunt oculi mei et cor meum. (For those whose Latin may be a bit rusty, the parish staff have—thank God—supplied a handy translation: I have sanctified this house and put my name there forever, and mine eyes and my heart shall be there always. 3 Kings ix, 3.) Ah, you are forewarned: You are entering the home for God’s own heart. Quite a promise or warning. Brace yourself.

If anything, the bold proclamation/warning is a bit too tame. “Sensory overload” may be an understatement. No. I take that back. “Sensory overload” is an understatement. As soon as you walk through its imposing front doors, you find yourself in a church filled (crowded really) with statues, murals, and stained-glass windows that give you the inescapable suspicion that the architect issued a casting call for the Communion of Saints as he decorated the place. (And the saints seem to have to been delighted to respond to his call. They are everywhere. In quite extraordinary numbers. On pillars. On the walls. On the ceiling. On altars. In niches. In murals (including a dizzying mural of the apotheosis of Saint Francis Xavier high above the main altar). In stained-glass windows. As I said, they are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. O, and by the way, it seems that Saint Ignatius made it very clear to his canonized brethren that he expected all of the Jesuit saints to show up in force so that his best friend from college—that would be Francis Xavier—was honored appropriately in the New York church named for him. As I said, it’s an eye-popping, sensory-overloaded experience.  As you stand there, you find yourself saying, “That quotation from Third Kings was right. God’s heart really is here.” And that sacred heart must be delighted to be in the presence of so many of His friends in a place where He breaks bread daily with them and His latter-day companions.

But then, as you prepare to leave this swirling sanctuary of holiness, you find yourself face to face with another quotation from Scripture, a quotation from Genesis 28 that is downright confusing. Provocative. Unsettling. A quotation that calls into question your judgment that this is, indeed, the home for God’s heart. For you see, when you face the back of the church on your way out, you are confronted with this challenging inscription: Non est hic aliud nisi domus Dei et porta coeli. (Interestingly enough, the kind staff doesn’t provide a translation for this one. Therefore, let me supply it here: This is nothing other than the house of God and the gate of heaven.)

Huh? I must confess that the first time I saw it, I was thrown for a loop. I wondered if the architect had intended to have it greet the congregation as they entered the church, but the contractor put it in the wrong place. I wondered if some clever Jesuit had put it there to nudge the congregation to turn around to take a final glance at the magnificence of the church before they went back to their daily lives. Or was there some hidden meaning to its placement? Was there a deeply Ignatian insight involved in its placement? Was the inscription not referring to the church at all, but to the world that we enter when we leave it? I was stumped. I was at a complete loss.  Until. Until. Until I remembered the message that Jesus asked the angels to deliver to the apostles on Easter morning. You remember it. As well and as lovingly as I do. “Tell my brethren to go to Galilee where I will meet them.”

Hmmm. What was He telling them? And what are we to make of His instructions? A lot. When the apostles finally made their way to Galilee, however, it was not apparently with the intention of meeting up with Him. Rather, as the story opens up in the 21st chapter of Saint John’s Gospel, they seem to have gone back to their trade. That is to say, they went back to fishing. Business as usual. After the Resurrection. Skilled fishermen that they were, they knew that night fishing offered them the best chance of landing a big haul. (Who knew?  I certainly didn’t, and I suspect that you didn’t know either. Come clean.) In any event, they struck out. The night was long. And frustrating. In other words, they landed nothing. Nada. And so, they made their way back to shore with embarrassingly empty nets. As they were pulling close to the beach, a decidedly playful Jesus, acting as a friendly “spotter,” asked them if they had any fish. No. None. Then, He told them to throw their nets out again. They followed His instructions and landed a catch of 153 fish. (Don’t ask. After 2000 years, no one knows the significance of that number.) In any case, the catch was so large that their nets began to break. Then and only then were their eyes opened. The ever-impulsive Peter threw on his clothes (again, don’t ask) and jumped into the water to make his way to Jesus. When they all got to the beach, Jesus prepared breakfast for them: a breakfast of fish and bread, enriched by some of the fish they had just caught. How typical of Him. How very Jesus of Jesus. Breaking bread with them. Serving them. Just as He had done at the Last Supper. After what must surely have been a playful and loving meal with His companions (those with whom He broke bread and welcomed into His own family), Jesus commissioned Peter to tend and feed His sheep.

Please note that this encounter did not occur in Jerusalem. It occurred in Galilee. It occurred, therefore, where the apostles lived. Where they plied their trade. The Lord encountered them there. Moreover, in this encounter, Jesus didn’t intrude on them (as He had in the Upper Room).  He didn’t catch up to them (as He had on the road to Emmaus). In this encounter, Jesus was there before they arrived. Waiting for them. On their home turf. And it was there that He broke bread with them. Where He added the fruits of their own labors to the ingredients of the breakfast He prepared for them. It was there that He served them. It was there that He drew them once again into His family. And it was there, on their home turf where they made their living, that He commissioned them to feed His sheep and confirmed their call to be His companions in the mission that He had received from His Father. To tend His flock. So that they could draw them (the flock they tended) into the same circle of love that the Apostles occupied.

“This is nothing but the house of God and the gate of heaven.” Where are these (the house of God and the gate of heaven) to be found? In the world. The world is the arena of God’s grace. That is where He wishes to be. Always has. Always will. And so, the inscription over the exit doors in the Church of Saint Francis Xavier is quite correct. The world (that arena of grace) is where we find (or are called to find) the house of God and the gate of heaven. Trust me. It is.

As we shoulder this new burden, this work of grace, let us always remember the advice that Saint Alphonsus Rodriguez gave to his young friend, Saint Peter Claver: “Look for [and find]God in all men [and women]and serve them as images of Him.” In the world that God has placed in our hands as we begin to emerge from the hunkered down existence through which we have been living. For that is where God has placed us, and where we can find, celebrate, and serve Him.  In the tangle and the glory of human life.

When I began this series of pastoral reflections, I promised myself that I would send you one each Sunday till the end of the school year. That year ended yesterday, with the (virtual) Commencement Exercises for the Class of 2020, the Visionary Class, the 175th class to graduate from our beloved Fordham (and hence our Dodransbicentennial Class). And so, my sisters and brothers, this is the last time that I will intrude on the blessed quiet of your homes on Sunday morning. (Thank you for welcoming me to your kitchen tables with such warmth.)

In spite of the fact that I will not be sending you regular pastoral reflections, please be assured of my prayers every day. Every waking hour of every day.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:
To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health-care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, Your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend
ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

In the midst of one of my solitary walks around the Rose Hill Campus this week, I found myself drawn to Loyola Hall. Although Loyola is now a residence hall for freshmen, for 85 years it served as the primary residence for the Fordham Jesuit Community. Therefore, I know Loyola quite well. I wish that I could tell you that I just kind of drifted into the building, but that would be a lie. A damnable lie. As I said above, I was drawn to the building and drawn there for a reason. I wanted to visit two old friends in the chapel. That is to say, I wanted to pray in front of one of the stained glass windows in the old house chapel on the first floor.

And so after I slipped into the chapel by the back door, I walked past the windows featuring the “bigs” in Jesuit history: Saint Ignatius, Saint Francis Xavier, Saint Peter Canisius and Saint Aloysius Gonzaga and made my way right to the window I was looking for. And there they were: Saint Alphonsus Rodriquez (1533-1617) and Saint Peter Claver (1580-1654). Old friends to me and to one another. Friends in the Lord. Companions in Mission. Jesuits from the Society’s golden age. Engaged in an earnest conversation on a rise overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And what a conversation it was.

Saint Alphonsus (whose name the English majors among you may recognize from a poem written about him by Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J.) was a Jesuit laybrother who served as the porter of the Jesuit residence on Majorca, an island in the Balearic Islands, for forty years. A mystic, he was revered in Spanish Jesuit circles as both an insightful spiritual director and a master of the inner life. As for Peter Claver, he was the youngest son of a well-to-do family from Catalonia who entered the Society in 1602. Shortly after he pronounced his first vows, he was missioned to Majorca for further studies. Almost immediately after his arrival on the island, he met the 72-year-old Alphonsus and became one of his spiritual directees. In the course of their almost-daily conversations on a bluff overlooking the sea, Alphonsus sensed that Peter was eager to do great things for God. Therefore, Alphonsus urged him to offer himself for service in the Americas. Peter listened to him and found that his heart burned whenever he considered giving himself to the work that the members of the Society were doing in their missions in South America. The seed was planted. In the conversation captured in the stained glass window in Loyola Hall. A conversation between a wise old man and an earnest young man dreaming of doing great things for God.

Moved to action by his conversations with Alphonsus, Peter wrote to his Provincial and begged him to send him to South America. His prayers were answered when, in 1610, he was missioned to Colombia. After completing his studies there, he was ordained in Cartagena in 1616 (the first Jesuit to be ordained in Colombia). Immediately thereafter, he began what would be his life’s work: service to the African slaves who were transported from West Africa to Cartagena to work in servitude on the vast plantations around the city. (It was at the beginning of his ministry that he took a private vow to “be a slave to black slaves” for the rest of his life. When he was solemnly professed in 1622, he made that vow more public when he signed his vow formula Petrus Claver, aethiopum semper servus (Peter Claver, servant of the Ethiopians [i.e. Africans] forever). He fulfilled that vow. Humbly. Energetically. Lovingly. Completely. Till his death.

Now, Peter Claver may have been a dreamer, but there was nothing dreamy about him. He was practical to the core. Whenever he heard that a slave ship was about to arrive in the port of Cartagena, Peter would work his way through the city begging for fruits, biscuits and sweets that he could offer the slaves as soon as the ship docked. When it did, he went on board and first attended to those who were strong enough to get to the decks. Then, he would descend into the stifling cargo holds to visit and minister to the most compromised and vulnerable slaves onboard: the sick and the dying. He washed them. He nursed them. He bound up their wounds. He clothed them. He fed them. He held the hands of the dying. Then, he carried them on his back to the decks above so that they could get fresh air after their hellacious journey to Colombia.

Year after year (for thirty-five years), Claver gave himself to this work. In the course of his ministry, he baptized over 300,00 of the slaves (and spent the off-season when no slave ships arrived in the harbor visiting and ministering to his flock–and demanding that they be given their rights as Christians). He treated them with love and dignity. He saw what he did for those whom he attended and cared for as simple Gospel-driven Christian charity. Others saw things differently. The powerful of the city saw his actions as downright dangerous—even seditious. Therefore, he was scorned by the slave owners and denounced as a disruptive nuisance by the royal and civil authorities. He didn’t care. For him, service was honor. And honor was service. He refused to stand down. He refused to abandon his beloved flock. His heart simply would not let him do so. Rather, he defended them. He stood with them. And he considered himself to be the most fortunate of men because he had the honor of being “their slave for life.” In explaining why he did what he did, he recounted the advice that he had received from Alphonsus when he was a young Jesuit yearning to do great things for God: “Look for God in all men and serve them as images of Him.” And so he did.

When a plague swept through Cartagena in 1650, Peter was not surprisingly on the front lines tending the sick, comforting the dying and consoling the grieving. His kindness and devotion, however, cost him his own health. He never really recovered from the ravages of the plague and spent the last four years of his life as an invalid. Hunkered down in his room in the Jesuit residence to which he was assigned, he prayed for the men and women to whom he had devoted his life and received them with his characteristic warmth whenever they snuck in to visit him. When, in early December of 1654 word got out that he had been anointed and received the Eucharist as Viaticum (food for his journey to eternal life), the citizens of Cartagena (slave and free, mighty and poor alike) flocked to his room to bid him farewell. (Convinced that he was a saint, they stripped his room bare to get relics by which they could remember him.)

And so, my sisters and brothers, I hope that you will understand why, at this perilous time, I found myself drawn irresistibly to that window in Loyola Hall. To visit two old friends. The old lay brother porter/mystic and the earnest young scholastic who dreamed of doing great things for God. One never left home. Rather, he spent his life lovingly welcoming anyone who knocked on the door of the Jesuit residence on Majorca. The other never returned home. Half a world away, he found a new home for his heart. There, he spent his life lovingly doing all he could to serve and to bring dignity to those whose journeys in life were filled with sorrow, hardship and abuse. Seeing in them the image of God Himself. Offering them a welcome from his heart and into his heart. As I gazed at them deeply engaged in what turned out to be a life-changing conversation, I got a catch in my throat. My eyes filled with tears. My heart was washed over by waves of powerful emotions: pride, gratitude and awestruck wonder. And I prayed. Earnestly. Lovingly. I prayed in thanksgiving for the generosity of heart that each of them had. As I prayed, I also commended our wounded nation to the prayerful care of the two saints on whom I gazed through tear-filled eyes in the stained glass window in my old home: Alphonsus and Peter, men who learned how to “Look for [and find]God in all men [and women]and serve them as images of Him.”

I hope that you will not mind if I tell you that in my final prayer before their images, I prayed for all of you (and myself): that we might have some share in their selfless goodness, and that we might never lose our ability to dream of doing great things for God and His people. Dreams of doing great things for God. Great Things for God. And for His people. Especially for His beloved poor. This is certainly the time and the moment for such dreams. May we all live to realize them.

Be assured of my prayers every day. Every hour of every day.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:
To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, Your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

More years ago than I want to admit (especially to myself), my Provincial sent me to Berkeley to complete my theological studies (the last step in my formation prior to ordination). While I was there, I had the great fortune to get to know an older Jesuit who was a scholar-in-residence in our community. Broadly educated and well-read, he was a peerless preacher, a compelling lecturer, and a wise spiritual director. Therefore, his classes sold out. His Mass attendance was famously large. Other Jesuits all but fought to sit with him at dinner—to take notes on what he said. My classmates and I may have been young, but we were not completely clueless. Therefore, it didn’t take us long to realize that he was the Real Deal—in Jesuit terms. A man of great stature. A wise man. A holy man. A compassionate priest. A perceptive mentor. An exemplary Jesuit. Now, don’t get me wrong. He was no plaster saint or sappy holy picture. He had an infectious laugh and a wicked sense of humor. Fortified with all of these gifts, he made it a part of his ministry to us to engage us in what St. Ignatius calls “spiritual conversations.”

In the course of one of those conversations, he suggested that since our lives in ministry would revolve around the “breaking of the bread” (the celebration of the Eucharist), it would be wise for us to look long and hard (and with open eyes, ears, and hearts) at what he loosely called by turns “the theology of dining” or “ministry of the table” contained in the Gospel stories that focused on Jesus as He ate with others. He challenged us to begin our explorations by letting go of our preconceived notions of God and how He acted. (Not to put too fine a point on it, he told us to “let God be God.”) He then encouraged us to switch on “Ignatian mode.” Hmm. We were to watch Jesus in action. To listen attentively to what He said. And to learn with our hearts. (He warned us that what we saw would challenge our preconceived notions as to just who God was. It turned out to be an open-ended seminar. In fact, it is a seminar that has continued till now (and I suspect that it will continue forever).

As I began the assignment, I discovered that (sure enough) Jesus liked to eat. A lot. And seemingly everywhere. From the wedding feast at Cana, to a dinner at Peter’s house, to the dinner to which He invited Himself at the house of Zacchaeus (a tax collector), to the dinner at the house of Matthew (another tax collector), to the dinner in Bethany at the home of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, to the multiplication of the loaves and fishes to feed the five thousand who had followed Him into the wilderness, to the dinner at the house of Simon the Leper, to eating grain on the Sabbath with the disciples on the road, to the uncomfortable dinner at the home of a Pharisee where his feet were washed with the tears of a sinful woman, to the Passover dinner He celebrated on Holy Thursday. As I said, He loved the company of others. And He indulged that love by sharing meals with others.

And just what have I learned so far about the “theology of dining” and the “ministry of the table” found in the Gospels in this ongoing seminar that I began in 1975? First, that Jesus went out of His way to welcome and eat with sinners (the tax collectors and the woman who washed his feet with her tears), outcasts. and those who suffered from physical infirmities (Simon the Leper) to identify with them and bring them to Himself. Second, He took special delight in sharing meals with His disciples—meals at which He taught them, encouraged them, and drew them ever closer to Himself as true companions (those with whom He shared bread). Third, in His stern reactions to those who were scandalized by the audacity He showed by eating with outcasts, He made it very clear that God’s heart and love are far more expansive than the self-righteous can ever understand.

The Resurrection did not erase or diminish the delight that the Lord took in engaging in table fellowship with those whom He loved. Far from it. The Gospel accounts of the meals that He shared with His disciples in the Upper Room, on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, and on the road to Emmaus are suffused with warmth and speak quite powerfully of His heartfelt desire to comfort, console, and embrace them in their time of loss. And to teach them what being “companions with Him in His mission and ministry” entailed.

Of all the stories of Jesus’ post-Resurrection meals, the story of the encounter on the road to Emmaus is probably the most loved. In it, Jesus catches up with two dispirited disciples on their way from Jerusalem to Emmaus. He falls in with them and asks them what they are talking about. Shocked at His question, they ask Him if He is the only person who doesn’t know about what had happened in Jerusalem during the days leading up to their encounter. Feigning ignorance, Jesus asks them to enlighten Him. After they finish pouring their hearts out, it is His turn to enlighten them, which He does straight away, explaining to them how and why the Son of God had to suffer and then rise from the dead. When they arrive at Emmaus and Jesus excuses Himself so He can continue His journey, they beg Him to join Him for a meal. He relents. Then, as He breaks the bread, they recognize Him. When He disappears from their sight, the disciples hightail it back to the Upper Room to share the news of their encounter with the hunkered-down disciples.

The story of the Lord’s encounter with the disciples on the road to Emmaus is not only a much-loved story, it is also an oddly (or wonderfully) unfinished one. What do I mean? Much to the consternation of scripture scholars, the location of Emmaus has never been identified. Therefore, its timeless message about the Lord’s deep and loving desire to catch up to and console all who are weighed down with sorrow, grief, or perplexity is what is important. The exact location of the encounter is not. But what does that mean for us? You know where I am going.

My sisters and brothers, if the truth were told, we would have to admit that in the course of the past few weeks, we have been modern-day disciples on our own road to Emmaus. Like the first disciples on the way to Emmaus, our lives have not been easy. Rather, our every waking hour has been dominated by conversations about and reflections on the present crisis, conversations focused on heart-wrenching stories about lives lost and shattered dreams. About how lost we feel. Alone. Frightened. Hungry for meaning and understanding. Above all, hungry for God’s presence and consolation. With our hearts filled with these emotions and with tears in our eyes, we want to say to God: Where were You? Where are You?

He has been there. And how could He not have been? After all, His heart is always drawn to those who are suffering. Trust me. It is. The Lord has quietly rushed to catch up to us as we have walked a road filled with sorrow. He has eavesdropped on our grief-filled conversations. If He were to ask us what we are talking about or grieving about, we would probably respond with more colorful language than the disciples did. (Since we are all Americans and many of us are New Yorkers, we would probably answer His question with: “Are ya kidding? Where’ve you been? Don’t they have CNN where you live?”) Then, we would let it all spill out. No holds barred. Full-on. And He would listen. Attentively. From the heart. He would not interrupt. He would take it all in. And, as He did with and for the weary disciples in Saint Luke’s Gospel, He would then share with us a great, consoling, and reassuring secret: that in the Resurrection, God says in an unforgettable way that anyone who is brave enough to live a life of unselfish love in imitation of Christ’s life will share in the power of the Resurrection.

Emboldened by the Emmaus story, then, let me propose that you invite Him to take a seat at your kitchen table, where real life plays itself out with a rich mix of strong words and stronger love. No ceremony, please. No Sunday best. Just the knock-about garb of a hunkered-down family. Be honest with Him, for that is what He has always preferred. Speak from the heart. Break bread with Him. As you draw Him into your family, He will draw you into His. That is the magic of table fellowship. The Lord’s way. And then, let your prayers flow. You know what I mean. Ask Him to watch over your family and all whom you love. Ask Him to strengthen and sustain all health care workers. Beg Him to hold the hands of those who have no one with them as they prepare to enter eternal life. Commend to His loving mercy those who have died. Remind Him to embrace the grieving. He will listen from the heart. He surely will, for they are all (in His eyes) His companions and members of His household. They are all close to His heart. Trust me. They are and will be forever.

Please be assured of my prayers every day, especially when I am at the Lord’s table with all of you in my heart.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:
To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, Your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

All right. I admit it. I missed it. I really missed Easter as I have always experienced it. Every detail. Large and small. I missed the solemn majesty and the warm, energizing chaos of it.

If the truth were told, I think I missed the drama of the Easter Vigil most of all: from the lighting of the Easter fire and the Paschal Candle, to the soft glow of the flickering tapers (lit from that candle) that suffused the darkened church with an ethereal light, to the sudden blinding illumination of the Church as the first strains of the Gloria are heard. From the staid chanting of the Exultet to the full-throated singing of Easter hymns accompanied by a thundering pipe organ, a veritable exaltation of trumpets, and the full, rich pealing of bells. Clouds of incense filling the church with celestial fragrances. I missed leaving the Vigil singing The Strife is O’er, The Battle Won as I walked home. Off-key, of course. But let’s be honest. Easter is one of the only days of the year when even the tone-deaf find a few right notes and create rhythms, harmonies, and descants that rival those of the angels. (At least that is what I tell myself.)

And so, yes. I admit it. I missed a normal Easter. The kind of Easter that I remembered. The kind of Easter that I needed, especially this year. Admit it. You missed it too. While we are at it, I will also admit that I find it hard to speak of Easter in the oxymoronic terms that have been used to describe this year’s Easter. Subdued exuberance. Understated splendor. Muted glory. Spare beauty. Admit it. You find it hard too.

How then, can we describe the Easter that we have just celebrated? To tell you the truth, I honestly think that the best (and perhaps only) way to describe it is that it was an Easter of biblical proportions. Now, don’t get carried away. Or at least let me explain what I mean before you do get carried away. But before I tackle that challenge, let me come clean on another point. What I said above is absolutely true: I did miss having the chance to celebrate a “normal Easter” this year, but I have to confess (it would appear that I am doing a lot of confessing these days) that the Easter that we celebrated (with its subdued exuberance, understated splendor, muted glory, and spare beauty) was an Easter for the moment in which we find ourselves. To celebrate the feast in any other way would have been reckless and irresponsible. And yes: It did have a powerful beauty to it, just a kind of beauty that we were not expecting. Among other things, this Easter of Solitude (as Pope Francis has called it) was a defiant exercise of spiritual closeness in a time of social distancing. And spiritual closeness touched our hearts and carried the day. It allowed us to experience in a rich new way both our deep longing for God and our need to experience God’s presence in the sanctity of our homes in these very difficult times, surrounded by those whom we love most dearly. So there. I know that you will accuse me of being Jesuitical for saying this. So be it. I don’t mind. I am, after all, a Jesuit.

But back to what you may think is an absurd claim, namely that this year’s Easter was an Easter of biblical proportions. Let me stare down your doubts and allay your suspicion that I am being either insane or disingenuous in making that claim.

My dear friends, the first Easter was not a moment of splendor, exuberance, or trumpeted glory. Rather, it was a moment and an event that was experienced by the Apostles and the Holy Women in a surprisingly intimate way and on what we would call a small scale. Reflect on it. The appearance to Our Lady, the encounter with Mary Magdalene, the interrupted dinner at Emmaus, the first appearance in the Upper Room. They were all quiet, even understated, encounters with the Risen One. As intimate and consoling as they were, however, these encounters still left the Lord’s followers with questions. How could it have been otherwise?

Even though they had indeed seen Him on Easter, the disciples and the Holy Women could not make complete sense of what they had seen and heard. Moreover, since they were known to have been Jesus’ friends, they lived with a strong suspicion that they were marked people. Therefore, they locked themselves away in the Upper Room and got to work trying to figure things out. Having lived in lockdown mode of late ourselves, we can imagine what that experience must have been like. The anxiety in the Upper Room must have been palpable. The smell of fear must have clung to them. And then the debates. Spirited, heartfelt debates during which they weighed what they had clearly seen and heard against what their minds told them, namely that what they had seen was utterly impossible. And let’s make no mistake here. The disciples were not rubes. Far from it. They were savvy sorts. Just think of Matthew, a man who knew his way around numbers. Or Peter, a man who was clearly a practical entrepreneurial guy very much at home in the challenging world of business. A worldly wise group, then, they knew that the outside world would find the secret that had been revealed to them simply incomprehensible. And so, as I said, they spent the week after Easter trying to figure out just what Jesus’ “rising from the dead” actually meant. Both for them and for the world. And trying to find words they could use to explain what they had seen to anyone outside the safe (but frightened) circle gathered in the Upper Room. Ah, my friends, the issues they debated were titanic, but the setting in which their debates took place was small, tight, and crowded. The biblical proportions of the first Easter.

And what of us? Well, my sisters and brothers, our experience of Easter this year was much the same as the disciples’ experience on the first Easter. Ours was an Easter celebrated (or experienced) in a locked-down setting, heavy with weariness, tinged with (mortal) fear, and filled with questions about what the Lord’s Resurrection means for us and our wounded world. Ours was an Easter dominated, therefore, by a desire for comforting certainty. And since our Easter was like the first Easter, I think that we earned our way into the Upper Room this year. Therefore, let us cross the threshold and join the disciples there.

Tucked away in a small corner of the Upper Room seven days after the Resurrection, in the company of the Apostles and the Holy Women, we get the answers to our prayers and questions in and through the Gospel for today. (Today’s Gospel in two ways: the Gospel that will be read in Christian churches throughout the world today, and the Gospel for the wearying today that we are living through.) Taken from the twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel, the scene opens with the appearance of Thomas the Apostle. A member of the Lord’s inner circle, he had not been in the Upper Room on Easter when the Lord had appeared after His Resurrection. Although he loved both Jesus and His companions, Thomas utterly refused to believe what the others had told him. In fact, he bluntly told them that he would not believe what they were saying until he put his own hands into the Lord’s wounds. God bless Thomas. He wanted to make sure that what they had seen wasn’t a ghost, a figment of their imaginations, or an imposter. (I say it again: God bless Thomas. Admit it. You feel the same way I do. You know that you are as grateful as I am for Thomas’ bold insistence on getting some proof for the Resurrection.) God bless his questioning heart.

The words are no sooner out of Thomas’ mouth than the Lord appears in the Upper Room. Much to our relief, He doesn’t berate Thomas. Quite the opposite, He invites Thomas to do what he asked for. The scene is irresistible. For us. For all who have ever yearned for reassurance. For all who want to believe. It has also been irresistible to painters. And no painter has captured the drama of the moment more powerfully than Caravaggio. In his The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, we see Jesus taking Thomas’ hand in His own and bringing it to His pierced side as two of the other Apostles lean in to watch. Thomas’ face is a study in determination, fascination, and embarrassment. I would imagine, however, that the rest of the onlookers were not at all embarrassed. Rather, I would imagine that they were grateful (as we are) for this moment. It is here, my sisters and brothers, that faith is born. With that faith comes hope. And with that hope comes courage. But a very specific kind of courage: the courage to love without fear and without boundaries.

And so, my dear friends, I rest my case. The first Easter was an Easter of biblical proportions: small, intimate, and suffused with urgent love. And our Easter, spent in the company of the Apostles in our own Upper Rooms and theirs, has also been an Easter moment of those same biblical proportions. There are no trumpets blaring. No thunderclaps. Nothing like that. This is the moment, however, that changed and changes everything. For the Apostles. For Christians across time. For us. This changes everything. This makes the courage to love and to console possible. Even urgent.

Let us love boldly and without fear in this Easter Season, when we were welcomed to the Upper Room, that sacred place where hope and courage were born. Let us continue to console the weary, comfort the grieving, accompany the dying with our prayers, honor the heroes who spend themselves in service, and sweep light into the hearts of those who are afraid.

Please be assured of my constant and fervent prayers for you and all whom you love. Every day.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:
To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, Your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

I remember Sunday, the sixth of April 1969, as if it were yesterday. I was a second-year novice at Saint Andrew-on-Hudson in Poughkeepsie. It was a spectacular spring day in the Hudson Valley, and the grounds were at their best. The trees were almost in full leaf. The daffodils and tulips were out. The forsythia and azaleas were riots of color. The lilac bushes behind the house were drooping under the weight of their blooms. And a deranged woodpecker was busy hammering away at the metal cross on top of the domestic chapel in the quadrangle.

Wakened at the crack of dawn by the woodpecker’s drumming, I hopped out of bed and headed down to the kitchen to make breakfast for the 120 Jesuits in the Novitiate community. (Another novice did the cooking. I just cracked eggs and washed the pots, pans, and dishes. In other words, no one got sick.) Since we had already been working together in the kitchen for three weeks, the two of us were able to do our work in almost complete silence. When we had finished up, we parted in silence while the rest of the community ate a first-class feast: steak-and-eggs breakfast in the refectory. Lest you get the impression that that was our usual Sunday morning fare, I should tell you that it was not. Steaks and eggs were served only on the great feasts of the year. And this was the greatest of all feasts: it was Easter Sunday.

That Easter Sunday was, however, not just any Easter Sunday for me. It was also the first day of the fourth and final week of my first Long Retreat, the 30-day silent journey of prayer and reflection laid out in the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius. (And yes, I was keeping count: 25 days down, five more to go.)

After a quick solitary walk on the grounds, I returned to my room, picked up my copy of the Exercises, and got ready to pray. When I opened the Exercises, I expected to find myself directed to one of the Resurrection accounts in the Gospels. I was thrown for a loop, however, when I saw what Saint Ignatius presented for my consideration. He did not direct me to the scene at the empty tomb, nor to the Lord’s encounter with Mary Magdalene in the garden, nor to His appearance to the apostles in the Upper Room, nor to His conversation with the disciples on the road to Emmaus, and not to His preparing breakfast for the apostles on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. No. No. None of those. Rather, what he put before me was Jesus’ appearance to His mother on Easter morning.

I stared at the text. I scratched my head. I didn’t remember ever reading that story before. Now I know what you’re thinking. That since I was a Catholic, I was probably not all that familiar with the scriptures. Point well taken. But I had spent the better part of two years in the Jesuits. I had taken a course in the New Testament. And I still could not recall ever seeing this particular Easter story. So, I pulled my Bible from the bookshelf to see if I had somehow missed it. Matthew was silent. Mark was mum. Luke had nothing to say about it. Surely, I thought, John will come through. He didn’t. I was perplexed. Then I saw at the top of the page: “The Apparition of Christ our Lord to Our Lady #299,” a reference to the list of the events in the life of Christ that Ignatius had placed at the end of the Exercises. I rifled through the pages and came to #299 where I found this terse statement: “He appeared to the Virgin Mary; and although this is not mentioned in Scripture, still it is considered as mentioned when it says that He appeared to so many others, for the Scripture supposes us to have understanding as it is written: ‘Are you also without understanding?'” (a reference to a statement Jesus made to St. Peter in Matthew 15: 16). I smiled. Actually, I think I chuckled. That clever Ignatius!

As you might imagine, I did not want to be counted among those without understanding. Therefore, with that gentle swat from Ignatius, I went back to his outline for the prayer on this event-not-recorded-in-scripture. In his notes, Ignatius gave this simple advice: “Consider the office of consoler that Christ our Lord exercises, and compare it with the way in which friends are wont to console one another,” as well as the suggestion that I place myself into the scene on which I was to meditate. Hmmm. I was just to watch with open eyes and listen with an attentive heart to what transpired.

I saw in my mind’s eye (and continue to see in my mind’s eye every time I pray over this mystery), Mary sitting alone mourning the death of her only Son. I imagined her doing what all mothers who have lost a child do. That is to say, I imagined her looking back at and dwelling lovingly on the rich memories that she had of His life: His birth in the poverty of a stable, the presentation in the Temple, finding Him among the teachers in the Temple, His upbringing in Nazareth, His sassy comment to her at the wedding feast at Cana, and, of course, the awful events of Holy Week. I could see her (loving mother that she was) rocking back and forth, softly humming some lullabies from long ago as she grieved for her son.

I could also imagine Jesus watching her silently from a distance, overcome with sorrow for all that she had gone through. And then gently calling to her. Walking to her and standing before her. I could imagine her disbelief. I could imagine her desire to make sure her eyes, heart, and mind were not playing tricks on her. I could imagine her doing what any mother would do to get the proof that she needed before she would believe what she was seeing and hearing. Touch. Touch is the basis of proof. Therefore, I imagined her touching His face. Tentatively at first. Then becoming bolder and caressing His face. Tenderly as a mother would do. Then, calling Him by name (or by the pet name that she had for him—surely the latter rather than the former). Consoled by the sure knowledge that her Son was alive, I could see and hear her returning to full maternal mode. That is to say, I could hear her berating Him lovingly for leaving her alone. And then, I saw Mother and Son falling into a long embrace.

And this, my brothers and sisters, is the way that Easter of 1969 began for me. To tell you the truth, it is an Easter that I have (clearly) never forgotten, as well as an Easter that has shaped my understanding of the greatest of all Christian mysteries, the mystery of Christ’s Resurrection. It has also informed my image of Christ. As a result of having meditated (over and over again over the years) on that luminously beautiful and intimate moment during which the risen Christ visited His grieving mother, I have learned with my heart that Ignatius was right: Christ is the Great Consoler who comes to us at moments of loss or crisis, reassures us and shows us how to live lives that are meaningful, transformative, and holy. But what would such a life look like? Just this: a life lived in imitation of the Lord Himself. It means living a life of unselfish and compassionate service. Service that is born of love. Service that comes from a heart that is deeply touched by the sufferings of others and that yearns to relieve them.

My dear friends, our city, our nation, and our world are wounded. Deeply. Tears seem to come more naturally to us these days than smiles and laughter. Therefore, I think that the best way to celebrate this Easter is to celebrate it as the Easter of Christ the Consoler. To do so, let us commit ourselves to being consolers after Christ’s own heart. That may seem to be an impossible task. In his Palm Sunday homily, however, Pope Francis reminded us (as if we needed to be reminded) that we already have in our midst saintly role models whose service can and does inspire us to take up the ministry of consolation: “The path of service is the victorious and life-giving path by which we were saved. Dear friends, look at the real heroes who come to light in these days: they are those who are giving themselves in order to serve others. Feel called yourselves to put your lives on the line. For life is a gift we receive only when we give ourselves away, and our deepest joy comes from saying yes to love, without ifs and buts. To truly say yes to love, without ifs and buts.” And he is right: life really is a gift that we receive only when we give ourselves away, and our deepest joy comes from saying yes to love, without ifs and buts. We all know that. We really do.

Taking up the challenge that Pope Francis has placed before us, on this Easter of Christ the Consoler, then, let us make it our special duty to strengthen the fainthearted, to support the weak, to comfort those who mourn, to dispel darkness with light, to bring hope to those paralyzed with anxiety, and to coax a smile onto the face of a frightened child. I assure you that, no matter what your faith may be, this is the celebration in which the God of All Consolation (by whatever name we call Him) delights, and the service that will restore our city, our nation, and our world at this fraught time in human history.

Be assured of my constant prayers for you, your families, and all whom you love. And may the graces and blessings of Passover and Easter be yours in overflowing abundance.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:
To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, Your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

Let me begin with an embarrassing confession. How embarrassing? Very embarrassing. At least for a Jesuit. Here goes. I always approach Holy Week with a mixture of eager longing and dread. There. I said it. Eager longing and dread. I know that you will say that that is a very strange combination of feelings, and I would agree. And yet. And yet, it is the awful truth. You will, of course, ask why I feel this way whenever I see Holy Week roaring toward me on the liturgical calendar.

And of course, Holy Week is closely linked by the calendar to Passover, the first night of which is celebrated on Wednesday evening. Thus, this month we have two spring observances of loss and redemption from two Religions of the Book. A symbol of the universality of faith and love.

But back to Holy Week: The truth behind the confession that I just shared with you is this: I know (and I suspect that you know it as well) that Holy Week and the Passion (the narrative that lies at its heart) are filled with shadows and wrenching emotional pivots. You know what I mean. From Palm Sunday to Spy Wednesday to Holy Thursday to Good Friday to Holy Saturday, we face and wrestle with displays of cruelty contending with tenderness, warm friendship answered by bitter betrayal, professions of undying support followed by abandonment, honesty squaring off with intrigue, hope fighting for the upper hand against despair, and love locked in (mortal) combat with deadening cynicism.

And so, I enter Holy Week with my eyes wide open, and with the understanding that once I step over its threshold on Palm Sunday, there is no turning back. It’s an all-or-nothing proposition. Therefore, I face the emotional and spiritual roller coaster that it promises with that mixture of eager longing and dread that I told you about a few minutes (or sentences) ago. I really do. You may, of course, say that having read what I just shared with you, you understand the “dread” part of my confession and then ask me how I could possibly look forward to the ordeal (and it really is an ordeal) with eager longing. The simple answer is that I can’t help myself. I just can’t. The love that stands at the center of the Passion accounts (and thus drives all of Holy Week) is so commanding, and its ultimate triumph so consoling that I can’t resist it. I simply can’t. (And I suspect that you can’t resist it either. Admit it. If I can come clean, so can you. And while we are about the work of telling the truth to one another, I should also tell you that I also look forward to Holy Week with deep, heartfelt longing because I know that although the Passion is timeless and unchanging, it surprises me every year by revealing more and more about the love that lies at its core. Therefore, to borrow a phrase from Saint Augustine, it is “ever ancient, ever new”; and I thirst for the newness that God has in store for me every year, and especially this year.)

And so, on this Palm Sunday morning, once again I will step across the threshold of Holy Week with eager longing and dread. Normally, I would enter the Week in the company of a great throng of other believers and be buoyed up, consoled, and strengthened by their faith. Normally, I would enter with holy dread holding a bit of the upper hand over eager longing. Normally I would pause before plunging into the Week to ask for the grace to walk with the Lord Jesus with unflinching courage. Normally. But this year and this Holy Week are anything but normal. We will not find ourselves in the company of large throngs. We will enter it and walk through it in a solitary way. We will all of us enter it with more longing than usual. Longing for companionship with the Lord. Longing for comfort. Longing for love. For my part, I must confess that this year I will change the prayer for grace that I normally utter on Palm Sunday morning. This year, I will pray for the grace to feel and know that the Lord is walking with me—and with all of us as we walk through our shared experience of the very real human passion/suffering that we find ourselves wrestling with.

If experience has taught me anything about what will be the highlight of this year’s Holy Week, it is this: that by the end of the Liturgy of the Lord’s Passion on Good Friday, I will be exhausted. Wrung out. And as I have always done in the moments of exhaustion that follow the Good Friday liturgy and extend into the quiet of Holy Saturday, I will stand, sit, or kneel before the image of the Pieta in the thirteenth Station of the Cross in the University Church. As I do, I will hear over and over in my head the haunting words and music of the Passiontide hymn “O Sacred Head Surrounded.” In this contemplative moment, (after the semi-cinematic sweep of the events of Holy Week has passed) I will gaze at Mary, the Mother of Sorrows. I will look at her face and see there the unfathomable sorrow of a mother suffering the shock of seeing her Son die “out of order,” that is, before her. I will gaze at her hands as she cradles her Son with what one of the Advent prefaces calls “love beyond all telling.” And in that moment, I will (as I always do) see the price and yes, the triumph of the redeeming love of God, who always chooses to walk with His people and share their sufferings. This year, I will also meditate on and make my own these words that come from the Rite of Marriage in the Book of Common Prayer: “Most Gracious God, we give You thanks for Your tender love in sending Jesus Christ to come among us, to be born of a human mother, and to make the way of the cross to be the way of life.” The cost and triumph of love.

I may be wrong, but I believe (and believe with all my heart) that the Pieta is the image for this year’s Holy Week, a week during which so many of our friends will struggle with and/or die of COVID-19. Therefore, once again I hope that you will not mind if I ask a favor of you. Close your eyes. Then, see in your mind’s eye one of our sisters or brothers who is dying without the comforting presence and warm embrace of his or her family in the moment of fear or dread in which they need them most. Be present to that person. Cradle them with your prayers. Be fervent. Be bold in your prayer. Ask the Mother of Sorrows to join you as a companion in prayer. Let the power of love triumph in that moment of prayer.

Be assured of my prayers for you and all whom you love during this most solemn Week. May it be a week during which the Lord walks with you and reveals ever more fully the depth of His love for you. And for our Jewish families and loved ones celebrating the liberation from Pharaoh’s bondage, I pray that you also are liberated from fear, from illness, and from the loneliness that this pandemic spring has brought to all of us.

Prayers and blessings,
Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:

To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health-care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, Your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

During my visits to the University Church, I have found myself irresistibly drawn to pray before a stained glass window in the east transept. I can and do stand before it for long periods of time, frequently with tears in my eyes. Understand that I have passed and looked at that window hundreds of times in the course of the twenty-three years that I have been at Fordham. And I have never had a particularly emotional reaction to it. In fact, if the truth were told, I would have to confess that my eyes–dry or otherwise–were never really drawn to it. At all. Of course, if you asked me, I could have told you who was depicted in the window. If you asked me if there was anything else interesting about it, I would probably have told you that the artist who created the window had cleverly inserted a Rembrandt Christ into the background. But I was never drawn to it. I was never drawn into it. Never. I’d walk past it without emotion. But not now. As I said, these days I can’t get away from it. It draws me in with great force. And it speaks to me.

You might ask what could possibly move me to tears before that window. Good question. Bear with me. The window captures a very innocent moment, the moment at which St. Aloysius Gonzaga received his First Communion from St. Charles Borromeo, the Archbishop of Milan (and a great saint in his own right). Innocent enough. But there is a story behind the young man in the window. Aloysius Gonzaga. Gonzaga. If people hear that name these days, they would most probably tell you that it brings to mind the famously successful basketball program at the Jesuit university in Spokane that bears that name. Nothing more. But there is far more to the man in the window than his connection to that perennially strong basketball team from Washington State.

Aloysius was the eldest son of the Marquis of Castiglione. Therefore, to say that he was a child of privilege would be an understatement. A vast understatement. A budding princeling, Aloysius spent his early life among the courtiers of the noble houses of Renaissance Italy (those hotbeds of ambition, corruption, intrigue and power), with a few side trips to the Hapsburg courts of Spain and Austria. Although he was destined to inherit his father’s title and live a life of privilege, his head was not turned by what he saw in those settings. Far from it. In fact, he was deeply troubled by the venality and corruption he encountered in them and decided at an early age to enter the newly-founded Society of Jesus. His father was furious. Aloysius stood his ground. He renounced his titles and his inheritance and left behind him the life his father wanted for him.

After he entered the Jesuits, he pursued his studies at the Roman College, where St. Robert Bellarmine was his spiritual director. When a plague broke out in Rome, like many of his young Jesuit confreres, he worked in the city’s hospitals, ministering to its victims. When his superiors (for fear of incurring his father’s wrath) forbade him to continue his work, he pleaded with them to allow him to continue. They relented, but with a catch. They told him that he could only work in a hospital that did not serve contagious patients. He accepted the assignment on the spot. In the course of his service, however, he cared for a patient who had, in fact, been infected with the plague and was himself infected. He died shortly thereafter.

His brethren recognized his holiness. They recognized his heroism. They recognized his goodness. They were also astounded by the magnitude of the sacrifices he had made: giving up the life of a courtier to live a life of simplicity, and giving up his life to serve the suffering. (His old spiritual director, Robert Bellarmine, a saint, a scholar, and a cardinal, was so impressed by Aloysius that he asked to be buried at his feet.) Throughout his life and in the manner of his death, then, Aloysius was a “sign of contradiction” (or a living oxymoron): he was a humble noble. Or was he all the more fascinating because he redefined nobility in terms of service? I leave it to you to draw your own conclusions.

For myself, when I go to the University Church these days, I am drawn to St. Al’s window. I stand there transfixed. And these words from the Book of Sirach ring in my ears and rumble through my heart: “Let us now praise famous men and women . . . those who gave counsel by their understanding, leaders in their deliberations and learning, wise in their instruction. And … the men and women of mercy, whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten. Their posterity will continue forever, and their glory will not be blotted out. People will declare their wisdom and the congregation will proclaim their praise.”

And then I think immediately of the St. Al’s in our midst. I think of the men and women on the front lines in the titanic battle with COVID-19 in which the whole world is caught up. I think of the doctors, nurses, EMS workers and counsellors. I think of the parents who have put their lives on hold to watch over their children. I think of the people who labor to keep the nation and the world running. And I am rendered speechless. Absolutely speechless. I find myself inspired just thinking about them. And grateful. Speechless, inspired and grateful. All at once.

Of course, I suspect that I am not alone. I suspect that, like me, you too recognize their goodness, their heroism, and their holiness. Indeed, I suspect that, like me, you recognize their saintliness. And, I suspect that, like myself, you are ennobled by seeing and knowing them, and deeply grateful that they have, through their work shown us the holy nobility that comes from service, especially service of the poor and the most vulnerable.

And so, my dear friends, I wonder if you would mind if I asked a favor of you: could you look at the faces of these latter-day St. Al’s as their stories are told not in the artistry of stained glass, but on the television news reports that we all watch with rapt attention every day. Look at them intently. As you peer into their eyes, pray for them. Pray for them. And, because this would both please them and affirm the nobility of what they are doing, pray also for those whom they are serving so selflessly during this time of trial.

Be assured of my prayers for you and all whom you love as I stand before St. Al’s window and contemplate the epitaph frequently used to summarize his life and the call that we have all received: Natus ad Altiora, “Born for Higher Things.” For we have all been called to Higher Things. Like noble service.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:

To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health-care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.

Peace of Christ.

On the night of 11 October 1962, the day on which the Second Vatican Council began, a large (and unexpected) group of pilgrims made their way to St. Peter’s Square and gathered under Pope John XXIII’s window. Although he was caught completely by surprise by their appearance, “Good Pope John” opened his window and delivered what is now referred to as his “moonlight address,” a sort-of homily that many think was the most remarkable speech he gave in the course of his historic pontificate.

For reasons that I hope will become clear, I have found myself haunted, consoled and enriched by it as I have prayed my way through the past week. “Haunted, consoled and enriched.” Words to conjure with, to be sure. I certainly conjure with them, and they stir up strong feelings in my heart. I hope that you will find Pope John’s words to be as consoling as I do. I also hope that they will enrich you. Of course, it will take time to see if they haunt you as they have haunted me.

Looking down at the friendly crowd that filled the Square, Pope John said, “Dear sons and daughters, I feel your voices! Mine is just one lone voice, but it sums up the voice of the whole world. And here, in fact, all the world is represented tonight. We ask for a great day of peace. My own person counts for nothing—it’s a brother who speaks to you, but all together, (we) give honor to the impressions of this night, which are always our feelings, which now we express before heaven and earth: faith, hope, love, love of God, all aided along the way in the Lord’s holy peace for the work of the good. And so, let us continue to love each other, to look out for each other along the way: to welcome whoever comes close to us, and set aside whatever difficulty it might bring. When you head home, find your children. Hug and kiss your children. And when you find them with tears to dry, give them a good word. Give anyone who suffers a word of comfort. And then, all together, may we always come alive—whether to sing, to breathe, or to cry, but always full of trust in Christ, who helps us and hears us, let us continue along our path.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no John XXIII. Far from it. He’s a saint and I’m a deeply flawed guy in a Roman collar. And yet, all week his encounter with the pilgrims under his window has framed my prayer, and his words have become more and more the substance of my prayer (and my charge) for you. Although you have not appeared under my window, you have crowded into my heart. When I close my eyes in prayer, I see you. I see you in the settings in which I have encountered you: in the plaza and elevators at Lincoln Center; on Edwards Parade and along the pathways at Rose Hill; at Convocation and at the Faculty Senate; in the cafeterias on both campuses; in the carpenter’s shop; at games and gatherings; the offices where you labor for us; at dances and awards events; and at Spring Preview and Opening Day. I see your faces. I hear your voices and accents. You crowd in on me from every side. And, as was the case in Saint Peter’s Square so many years ago, you bring the whole world to Fordham. And you fill my heart with pride.

If the truth were told, I miss you. Terribly. Achingly. But this is not about me. It’s about you. I know your goodness and generosity. Therefore, I ask you to put your generosity of heart to good use in a world that is deeply wounded at the moment. Take to heart the words of Good Pope John. No. I take that back. Let your actions be guided, inspired and driven by his words. If you do, you will be God’s missionaries to the world He loves with His whole heart, especially at this very difficult time in the history of the human family: “Continue to love each other, to look out for each other along the way, to welcome whoever comes close…when you go home, hug and kiss your children (and your parents and siblings)…And when you find them with tears to dry, give them a good word. Give anyone who suffers a word of comfort. And then, all together, may we always come alive — whether to sing, to breathe or to cry, but always full of faith in God who helps us and hears us, let us continue along our path.” May you be consoled, enriched, energized and, yes, haunted by this charge.

And so, my dear brothers and sisters, although I miss you, as we enter into a new and challenging phase of our nation’s response to the present crisis, I entrust the worlds in which you live to your care. It matters not if you are a believer or non-believer, may your homes be places of blessing for all of you. May you find solace and joy there. May you be enriched by the memories that have hallowed them over the years. Cherish your families there. May you discover God’s sustaining presence there. And may your encounters with the God of all consolation make you ever more what you are meant to be (and what I have come to know you are): lights shining forth in a world in need of comfort, hope and love.

Prayers and blessings,

Joseph M. McShane, S.J.

A Prayer in the Midst of the Present Crisis

God of all mercies, grant:

To the Fordham family, safety and good health:
To those afflicted with COVID-19, swift healing;
To the frightened, courage;
To the dying, comfort;
To the dead, eternal life;
To health-care providers, strength and stamina;
To our leaders, wisdom and compassion;
To our nation, unity of purpose;
To the Church, the grace to serve the suffering selflessly;
To all believers, strong faith in Your presence;
To the whole human family, unity of heart; and
To us, your servants, the reward of knowing that we are doing Your will when we spend ourselves in loving service of others.