Daily Virtue Scripture Readings

Cosmologists today tell us that the universe has no single center. Its center is everywhere, every place, every planet, every city, every species, and every person. But we already know this. Faith tells us that what ultimately defines us and gives us our identity and energy is the image and likeness of God in us. We are God’s blessed ones, masters of creation, special to God and special within creation. Deep down, whether we admit it or not, we each nurse the secret of being special. In our daily lives that often causes more heartaches than it solves. It is not easy to live out our blessed, special status when, most of the time, everything around us belies that we are special. But, while over-inflated egos do cause their share of heartaches, it is a still an unhealthy temptation to believe that we are not blessed simply because life finds us one-among-six-billion-others, struggling, and seemingly not special in any way. Faith tells the true story: We are, all of us, made in God’s image and likeness, blessed, and our private secret that we are special is in fact the deepest truth. I can be empty, have nothing, and still be God’s blessed one! Being blessed and special is not dependent upon how full or empty my life is at a given moment. I can be a big nobody and still be God’s blessed one. Blessedness doesn’t depend upon fame, on being a household name. Our blessedness is not predicated on having a VIP elevator, or on having any special privileges that set us apart from others. We are God’s blessed ones, even when we find ourselves riding the city buses. And it is good to remember, namely, that we are God’s special, blessed sons and daughters, even when we lives seem empty, anonymous, and devoid of any special privileges because then we won’t forever be putting God and our restless hearts to the test, demanding more than ordinary life can give us.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Our Three Temptations,” July 2007.

I work and move within church circles and find that most of the people I meet there are honest, committed, and for the most part radiate their faith positively. Most church-goers aren’t hypocrites. What I do find disturbing within church circles though is that too many of us can be bitter, angry, mean-spirited, and judgmental, especially in terms of the very values that we hold most dear. It was Henri Nouwen who first highlighted this, commenting with sadness that many of the really angry, bitter, and ideologically-driven people he knew he had met inside of church circles and places of ministry.  Within church circles, it sometimes seems, everyone is angry about something.  Moreover, within church circles, it is all too easy to rationalize our anger in the name of prophecy, as a healthy passion for truth and morals. The logic works this way: Because I am sincerely concerned about an important moral, ecclesial, or justice issue, I can excuse a certain amount of neurosis, anger, elitism, and negative judgment, because I can rationalize that my cause, dogmatic or moral, is so important that it justifies my mean spirit: I need to be this angry and harsh because this is such an important truth! Don’t get me wrong: Truth is not relative, moral issues are important, and right truth and proper morals, like kingdoms under perpetual siege, need to be defended. Not all moral judgments are created equal, neither are all churches. But the truth of that doesn’t trump everything else or give us an excuse to rationalize our anger. We must defend truth, defend those who cannot defend themselves, and be solid in the traditions of our own churches. But right truth and right morals don’t necessarily make us disciples of Jesus. What does? What makes us genuine disciples of Jesus is living inside his Spirit, the Holy Spirit, and this is not something abstract and vague. We live inside of the Holy Spirit when our lives are characterized by charity, joy, peace, patience, goodness, longsuffering, constancy, faith, gentleness, and chastity. If these do not characterize our lives, we should not nurse the illusion that we are inside of God’s Spirit, irrespective of our passion for truth, dogma, or justice. As T.S. Eliot once said: The last temptation that’s the greatest treason is to do the right thing for the wrong reason.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Following Jesus According to the Letter or Spirit?” February 2011.

There are three vital penitential practices associated with the liturgical time of Lent: prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. All three, based in Scripture and early Christian tradition, are interconnected. They offer the opportunity to realign all our relationships in a rightful manner. Prayer directs us to conversion in our relationship to God. Almsgiving expresses itself in compassion towards our neighbor. Fasting focuses us on ourselves. It is essential to rescue fasting from misunderstanding and to rediscover its value for spiritual restoration. Fasting is a powerful penitential practice that holds the same opportunity for transformation as almsgiving and prayer. Distinguishing religious fasting from medical fasting is essential. Fasting for medical reasons is a good in itself: purging ourselves of toxins, readying us for various procedures or treatments, dieting to improve our health or lose weight all have their benefits. Religious fasting holds a different meaning. Charles Murphy, in his book, The Spirituality of Fasting writes that we practice religious fasting for other purposes: “religious fasting is an act of humility before God, a penitential expression of our need for conversion from sin and selfishness. Its aim is nothing less than becoming more loving persons, loving God above all and our neighbor as ourselves. The purpose is the transformation of our total being: mind, body, spirit.” I believe rediscovering the practice of fasting requires two basic spiritual orientations or attitudes. First, it is foreign to biblical anthropology to objectify or instrumentalize the human body. The purpose of religious fasting is not to dominate or break our body into shape by punishing ourselves. It is the act of humbling ourselves before God as we marvel at God’s love for us as we implore: “Oh God, help me to believe the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is!” Second, as a spiritual orientation, we want to notice the subtle forms of pride that insinuate themselves into penitential practices such as fasting. It would defeat the purpose of our religious practice to behave as if we can bend God’s will to our own. It gives us the illusion we can control God and the outcomes of the vicissitudes of life. Fasting is not done to manage our bodies, our lives or even God better, but to let go of that control and accept our radical helplessness. It creates the openness, the softening of the ego we need to receive what God wants to share with us; God’s self. During this time of penance and spiritual renewal, let us rediscover the deep meaning and the real purposes of fasting.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Daniel Renaud’s reflection, “Rediscovering the Practice of Fasting.”

Jesus once said something that might be paraphrased this way: What does it profit you if you gain the whole world and are forever too much in a hurry and too pressured to enjoy it. When Jesus talks about gaining the whole world and suffering the loss of your own soul, he isn’t first of all referring to having a bad moral life, dying in sin, and going to hell. That’s the more radical warning in his message. We can lose our soul in other ways, even while we are good, dedicated, moral people. You can be someone who is very good, dedicated, moral, and kind. But if you struggle to be a soulful person, to be more inside the richness of your own life because when you live under constant pressure and are perennially forced to hurry, it isn’t easy to get up in the morning and say: “This is the day that the Lord has made, let us be glad and rejoice in it.” You are more likely to say: “Lord, just get me through this day!” As well, when Jesus tells us that it’s difficult for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, he isn’t just referring to material riches, money, and affluence, though these are contained in the warning. The problem can also be a rich agenda, a job or a passion that so consumes us that we rarely take the time (or even think of taking the time) to enjoy the beauty of a sunset or the fact that we are healthy and have the privilege of having a rich agenda. For many, this cycle of businesses can be broken through conscripted discipline of quiet prayer, regular walks, retreats, and several weeks of vacation each year. Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, was often too busy and pressured to find solitude. In search of that, he spent the last few years of his life in a hermitage, away from the main monastery except for Eucharist and the Office of the Church each day. Then, when he found solitude, he was surprised at how different it was from the way he had imagined it. “Today I am in solitude because, at this moment, it is enough to be in an ordinary human mode, with one’s hunger and sleep, one’s cold and warmth, rising and going to bed. Putting on blankets and taking them off, making coffee, and then drinking it. Defrosting the refrigerator, reading, meditating, working, praying. I live as my ancestors lived on this earth until eventually I die. Amen. There is no need to make an assertion about my life, especially so about it as mine …  I must learn to live so as to forget program and artifice.” When we are rich, busy, pressured, and preoccupied, it’s hard to taste one’s own coffee. Take time to breathe in the richness of God and his creation.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Being Rich and in a Hurry,” October 2024.

We begin the season of lent with ashes on our foreheads. What is symbolized by this smudging? Perhaps the heart understands better than the head because more people go to church on Ash Wednesday than on any other day of the year, including Christmas. The queues to receive the ashes in many churches are endless. Why? Why are the ashes so popular? Their popularity, I suspect, comes from the fact that, as a symbol, they are blunt, primal, archetypal, and speak the language of the soul. Something inside each of us knows exactly why we take the ashes: “Dust thou art and into dust thou shalt return!” No doctor of metaphysics need explain this. Ashes are dust and dust is soil, humus; humanity and humility come from there. There is something innate to the human soul that knows that, every so often, one must make a journey of descent, be smudged, lose one’s luster, and wait while the ashes do their work. the story of Cinderella. There is a centuries-old, wisdom-tale that speaks about the value of ashes, and it comes from the story of Cinderella. Her name literally means: “The young girl who sits in the cinders, the ashes.” Moreover, as the tale makes plain, before the glass slipper is placed on her foot, before the beautiful gown, ball, dance, and marriage, there must first be a period of sitting in the cinders, of being smudged, of being humbled, and of waiting while a proper joy and consummation are being prepared. In the story of Cinderella there is a theology of lent. In ancient times they saw this act of siting in the ashes as perfectly normal, something everyone was called upon to do at one time or another. They simply let the person sit there, in the ashes, until one day he or she got up, washed the ashes off, and began again to live a regular life. The belief was that the ashes, that period of silent sitting, had done some important, unseen work inside of the person. You sat in the ashes for healing. The church taps into this deep well of wisdom when it puts ashes on our foreheads at the beginning of lent. Lent is a season for each of us to sit in the ashes, to spend our time, like Cinderella, working and sitting among the cinders of the fire – grieving what we’ve done wrong, renouncing the dance, refraining from the banquet, refusing to do business as usual, waiting while some silent growth takes place within us, and simply being still so that the ashes can do their work in us.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “The Ashes of Lent” March 2000.

The Gospels tell us that God’s mercy is unlimited and unconditional, has no favorites, is equally solicitous for everyone’s happiness and salvation, and does not ration his gift of the Spirit. If that is true, then we need to ask ourselves why we so frequently tend to withhold God’s Spirit from others in our judgments – particularly in our religious judgments. For example, how prone are we to think this way? For my religion to be true, it’s important to me that other religions are not true! For my Christian denomination to be faithful to Christ, it’s important that all the other denominations be considered less faithful. For the Eucharist in my denomination to be valid, it’s important that the Eucharist in other denominations be invalid or less valid. And, since I’m living a certain sustained fidelity in my faith and moral life, it’s important to me that everyone else who isn’t living as faithfully does not get to heaven or is assigned to a secondary place in heaven. One of the core values held by a certain group of Quakers is something they call generous orthodoxy. I like the combination of those two words. Generosity speaks of openness, hospitality, empathy, wide tolerance, and of sacrificing some of ourselves for others. Orthodoxy speaks of certain non-negotiable truths, of keeping proper boundaries, of staying true to what you believe, and of not compromising truth for the sake of being nice. These two are often pitted against each other as opposites, but they are meant to be together. Holding ground on our truth, keeping proper boundaries, and refusing to compromise even at the risk of not being nice is one side of the equation. Still, the full equation requires us to be also fully respectful and gracious regarding other people’s truth, cherished beliefs, and boundaries. Hence, you can be a Christian, convinced that Christianity is the truest expression of religion in the world, without judging that other religions are false. You can be a Roman Catholic, convinced that Roman Catholicism is the truest and fullest expression of Christianity, and your Eucharist is the real presence of Jesus, without making the judgment that other Christian denominations are not valid expressions of Christ and do not have a valid Eucharist. There’s no contradiction there.  You can be right without that being contingent on everyone else being wrong.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Generous Orthodoxy,” April 2023.

If someone didn’t believe in God and had no faith or religion, what would give meaning to their life? Where can we go if we no longer have an explicit faith in God? A lot of places, it seems. There’s a stoicism which offers its own kind of salvation by drawing life and meaning simply from fighting chaos and disease for no other reason than that that these cause suffering and are an affront to life, just as there is an Epicureanism that meaningfully grounds life in elemental pleasure. There are, it would seem, different kinds of saints. There are also different kinds of immortality. For some, meaning outside of an explicit faith, is found in leaving a lasting legacy on this earth, having children, achieving something monumental, or becoming a household name. We’re all familiar with the axiom: Plant a tree; write a book; have a child! Poets, writers, artists, and artisans often have their own place to find meaning outside of explicit faith. For them, creativity and beauty can be ends in themselves. Art for art’s sake. Creativity itself can seem enough. And there are still others for whom deep meaning is found simply in being good for its own sake and in being honest for its own sake. There’s also virtue for virtue’s sake and virtue is indeed its own reward. Simply living an honest and generous life can provide sufficient meaning with which to walk through life. So, it appears that there are places to go outside of explicit faith where one can find deep meaning. But is this really so? Don’t we believe that true meaning can only be found in God? What about St. Augustine’s classic line? You have made us for yourself, Lord, and our hearts are restless until the rest in you. Can anything other than faith and God really quiet the restless fires within us? Christian theology tells us that God is One, True, Good, and Beautiful. And so, when an artist gives herself over to creating beauty, when a couple has a child, when scientists work to find cures for various diseases, when artisans make an artifact, when builders build, when teachers teach, when parents parent, when athletes play a game, when manual laborers labor, when administrators administrate, and, yes, even when hedonists drink deeply of earthily pleasure, they are, all of them, whether they have explicit faith or not, acting in some faith because they are putting their trust in either the Oneness, Truth, Goodness, or Beauty of God. As we can see, by simply looking at the amount of positive energy, love, creativity, generosity, and honesty that still fill our world, those places where people are seeking God outside of explicit faith still has them meeting God.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “To Whom Can We Go?,” June 2017.

God has put a sense of past and future into our hearts. Perhaps that captures it best regarding how we generally experience this in our lives. We know from experience how difficult it is to be at peace inside the present moment because the past and the future won’t leave us alone. They are forever coloring the present that is colored by obsessions, heartaches, headaches, and anxieties that have little to do with the people we are sitting with at table. Philosophers and poets have given various names to this. Plato called it “a madness that comes from the gods”; Hindu poets have called it “a nostalgia for the infinite”; Shakespeare speaks of “immortal longings,” and Augustine, in perhaps the most famous naming of them all, called it an incurable restlessness that God has put into the human heart to keep it from finding a home in something less than the infinite and eternal – “You have made us for yourself, Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” And so, it’s rare to be peacefully present to our own lives, restful inside of our own skins. Henri Nouwen, in a remarkable passage both names the struggle and its purpose: “Our life is a short time in expectation, a time in which sadness and joy kiss each other at every moment. There is a quality of sadness that pervades all the moments of our life. It seems that there is no such thing as a clear-cut pure joy, but that even in the happiest moments of our existence, we sense a tinge of sadness. In every satisfaction, there is an awareness of limitations. In every success, there is the fear of jealousy. Behind every smile, there is a tear. In every embrace, there is loneliness and, In every friendship, distance. And in all forms of light, there is the knowledge of surrounding darkness. But this intimate experience in which every bit of life is touched by a bit of death can point us beyond the limits of our existence. It can do so by making us look forward in expectation to that day when our hearts will be filled with perfect joy, a joy that no one shall take away from us.” Our restless hearts keep us from falling asleep to the divine fire inside us.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Our Restless Selves,” February 2025.

Christ himself is vitally bound up with nature, and his reasons for coming to Earth also include the intention of redeeming the physical universe. What’s implied here? The scientist-theologian-jesuit-priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, in conversation with a Vatican official who was confused by his writings and doctrinally suspicious of them, told him that all he is saying is that Christ didn’t just come to save people; he came for that yes, but he also came to save the planet, of which people are only one part. In saying that, Teilhard has solid scriptural backing. Looking at the scriptures, we find that they affirm that Christ didn’t just come to save people; he came to save the world. For example, the Epistle to the Colossians (1:15-20) records an ancient Christian hymn that affirms both that Christ was already a vital force inside the original creation (“that all things were made through him”) and that Christ is also the endpoint to of all history, human and cosmic. The Epistle to the Ephesians, also recording an ancient Christian hymn (1:3-10), makes the same point. At the same time, the Epistle to the Romans (8:19-22) is even more explicit in affirming that physical creation, Mother Earth, and our physical universe are “groaning” as they, too, wait for redemption by Christ. Among other things, these texts affirm that the physical world is part of God’s plan for eventual heavenly life. Nature, not just humanity, is being redeemed by Christ. Christ also came to redeem the earth, not just those of us who are living on it. Physical creation, too, will enter the final synthesis of history, that is, heaven. This means that nature has intrinsic rights, not just the rights we find convenient to accord it. What this means is that defacing or abusing nature is not just a legal and environmental issue; it’s a moral issue. Finally, not least, what is implied in understanding the cosmic dimension of Christ and what that means in terms of our relationship to Mother Earth and the universe is the non-negotiable fact that the quest for community and consummation within God is a quest that calls us not just to a proper relationship with God and with each other, but also to a proper relationship with physical creation. We are humans with bodies living on the earth, not disembodied angels living in heaven, and Christ came to save our bodies along with our souls. He came, as well, to save the physical ground upon which we walk since he was the very pattern upon which and through which the physical world was created.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Christ and Nature,” February 2015.

More and more friends pass through our lives so that at a point the question necessarily arises: how does one remain faithful to one’s family, to old friends, former neighbors, former classmates, former students, former colleagues, and to old acquaintances? What does fidelity to them ask for? Occasional visits? Occasional emails, texts, calls? Remembering birthdays and anniversaries? Class reunions? Attending weddings and funerals? Obviously doing these would be good, though that would also constitute a full-time occupation. Something else must be being asked of us here, namely, a fidelity that’s not contingent on emails, texts, calls, and occasional visits. But what can lie deeper than tangible human contact? What can be more real than that? The answer is fidelity, fidelity as the gift of a shared moral soul, fidelity as the gift of trust, and fidelity as remaining true to who you were when you were in tangible human community and contact with those people who are no longer part of your daily life. That’s what it means to be faithful. At the end of the day, fidelity is not about now often you physically connect with someone but about living within a shared spirit. To the best of my abilities, I try to stay in contact with the family, old friends, former neighbors, former classmates, former students, former colleagues, and old acquaintances. Mostly it’s a bit beyond me. So, I put my trust in moral fidelity which has characterized and defined me as I met all those wonderful people along the way.[1]

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[1] Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s reflection, “Faithful Friendship,” May 2020