A Different Kind of Garden

As Easter dawns upon us, as welcome as the blossoming of springtime, I am struck by the fact that so much of our salvation story takes place in a garden. There is the Garden of the Sinning in Genesis, when forbidden fruit was eaten from a tree. There is the Garden of Sorrow where Jesus suffers the agony of turning his human will to the will of his Father, to reverse the sinning. There is the Garden of Burial, where they quickly bury Jesus, because the Sabbath is coming, without knowing it is just a temporary measure. 

Then this Garden of Death and Burial becomes the Garden of Life and Resurrection. The marvel, I think, is that all of these gardens exist within us. We know about the sin thing. We know about the agony of struggle thing. We know about the deadening thing, But what does the life and resurrection thing look like? We ponder the Easter readings to find out.

I suggest we position ourselves in the doorway of our tombs and peek out as we peel the burial clothes from our new skin. There is a lot of light...we notice as we blink the darkness away. There are flowers everywhere, and their fragrance almost takes our breath away. Lilies and roses, gladiolas and pansies, violets and zinnias. There are lilacs and orange blossom bushes. All of them are drinking of the sweet water drawn up from the same moist earth. 

In this garden, all are on a level plane. There are bishops and clerics, nuns and religious brothers and sisters, associates and laity of all sorts. They all draw their strength for loving from the same redeeming blood and water flowing from the side of the Living One. Each of them grows in its own little patch of turf, fed by the same rich humus.

These companions in this human garden share differing gifts. Some share deep contemplation. Some share administrative gifts. Some freely offer different works of mercy. Some are proclaimers of the Word who will not be silenced in the witness of their lives or from the pulpits of their churches, classrooms, or writing desks. 

As I continue to peek out from the deadening safely of my tomb and keep shaking off the burial clothes that cling to me, my new nose and eyes tell me that truth comes from this fragrance like a symphony; that all class systems are a thing of the past. That tribalism and racism are a hangover from the sin garden, and no longer have a place here. The Spirit blows where it will, we will not dictate how it bestows its gifts and charisms, and on whom.

As we move forward in this Resurrection Time, we remember that this newness already exists within us. We are fed by this resurrection life each time we receive the Risen One. The old burial clothes need to be folded up and put aside.

It's Already Here...

We have the audacity of using the language of hope because of one remarkable fact: what we hope for is already here. Now, this is not your usual meaning of hope. I can hope for sunshine tomorrow, but it may or may not turn out that way. I can hope this crisis with the virus is soon over...but I’m not sure about what “soon” means. It may linger for several weeks or even months. 

But the virtue of hope that Pope Francis is writing about (On Hope,2017), is remarkably different. As baptized Christians what we hope for is already present. We just don’t see it or experience it yet. Now, that is unbeatable assurance!

The apostles in their early preaching were very clear. Because of the resurrection of Jesus, his overcoming of death, we will experience the same, for our baptism bonds us with him. This is the reason the early Christians greeted one another with “We shall always be with the Lord.” 

This means that every loved one we part with in death, we will see again. It means that “...life is not ended, it is changed.” It means that the sorrow of this crisis we are in now is a passage through a desert of sorts, a winter before spring. Why do we know this? Because the word assures us: “I am making a new heavens and new earth; do you not see it?” No, to be honest, we don’t. But it is happening. 

As we enter this Easter season we each are challenged to answer: Do we believe this? If we do, then there is quiet assurance in the depths of our soul, while the tears run down our cheeks. We are assured by our God, walking in our skin, that a future already awaits us. “I will do this, says the Lord.” This is Christian hope. In faith, we keep walking toward what calls us forward to our future. It is a reality already there.

Lenten Spring House Cleaning

Wash the windows, wipe down the walls, air the carpets…we know the routine. For our homes, that is. But what about our souls? Lent means springtime, so how do we do a clean-up there?


I suggest you don’t give up anything this Lent. Instead, restore something. Open the windows of your soul and let in the magnificent Light of the Son, within your deepest being since your baptism. That act, done for you by loving parents, filled you with a marvelous light energy, a magnetic field, you might say. You are, spiritually speaking, surrounded by a light-capsule, and that means that you are off-limits to evil when it tries to penetrate your consciousness. Satan and his minions can be quite noisy, yes, but demoted angels can’t penetrate this Son-light. It is made from blood, shed by an unbelievable Lover.

Can we leave our Son-light? Oh, yes…and when we do we become easy prey. Seances, Ouija Board activity, intentional rejection of our baptism, etc. can leave us quite defenseless. Instead, intentionally go home often during the day to the center of your dear soul this Lent. He waits for you there, in all the risen beauty of his (and your) transformed humanity. Sit with him and let him look his love into you. He puts on his apron, takes his basin, and the cleaning begins. He is a meticulous housekeeper. Not a speck of smelly egoism will escape his keen eye. You too will become more conscious of it: blaming, shaming, complaining, whining, and rage are all evidence of a wounded ego. Up your attention to the coming Lenten readings. They will give you instructions on how to help him houseclean. Do a little dance this Lent, and whistle while you work…!

Loving Lord,

Servant King,

My foot-washing God,

You sit me down in my little place in this world,

You would bid me receive your service?

But all within me protests – it is I who should serve.

No. There are times when the grime is so deep

only you can remove it.

I stand helpless with my band-aid when I need neurosurgery.

Houseclean my heart.

Amen.

Hope's Special Language

In his little gem treatise on Hope, Pope Francis goes quite out on a limb. He says, “Now, this is my opinion, but women are more courageous than men.” (On Hope, 56) Then he proceeds to remind us of the story of Judith, who saved her people when they were absolutely desperate. Before she cuts off the head of the invading general, Judith rebukes the Jewish leadership for their lack of trust in God. Her language is interesting.


What Judith says gives us a clue to how hope talks. She tells them their horizon of possibility is too narrow, and that their fear is paralyzing them. Then she shakes her head at the fact that they have given God five days to respond to their need. She says no to setting limits on God and hemming him in, tempting him and giving ourselves the chance of escaping his will. God saves, she says…and this can mean deliverance, or it can mean death. But God saves. This is hope talking.


In the midst of our ongoing journey and our waiting, we, as a community of sisters and associates, need to let our hope speak. God saves. How, we do not know, for at times his plan is impenetrable, and at times we think death is our only option. But God saves. Women (and men!) of faith know this, so we do not set conditions. We refuse to let fear strangle us. We enter into God’s plan without demanding anything, and we accept that his salvation and help might come to us in ways we never expected.

Yes, we ask God for life, for health, for a future, but even as we do this, we know that God can bring life out of death, peace even in sickness, calm even in loneliness, and happiness even in tears. We do not instruct God about what God must do. God knows this better than we, and often God’s ways are not our ways.


The language of hope, then, is trustful, faithful, patient, and obedient. This may be the struggle of the human Jesus in the garden. Did he sweat because he had to bring his human will around to this? Maybe we will need to sweat to do the same. Yes, we do whatever is in our power, but we too remaining steady in the furrow of God’s will. This is hope’s language…and in learning it well ourselves, we will be able to speak it when another needs to hear it. We are women and men of the Word…a word of hope.