Tag Archives: Holy Cross

On Martyrs and Marchers

Ann AstellSr. Ann Astell

Professor, Notre Dame Department of Theology

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Editorial Note: This post was originally delivered as a homily during Vespers on Wednesday, January 20. We are grateful for the author’s permission to publish it here.

Brothers and sisters, in your relations with one another,
clothe yourselves with humility,
because God “is stern with the arrogant
but to the humble he shows kindness.”
Bow humbly before God’s mighty hand,
so that in due time he may lift you high.

Cast all your cares on him because he cares for you.

Stay sober and alert.
Your opponent the devil is prowling like a roaring lion
looking for someone to devour.
Resist him, solid in your faith,
realizing that the brotherhood of believers
is undergoing the same sufferings throughout the world.

The God of all grace,
who called you to his everlasting glory in Christ,
will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish
those who have suffered a little while.
Dominion be his throughout the ages! Amen.
(1 Peter 5:5b–11)

Today is the feast of a martyr, St. Sebastian, who gave his life for Christ in the third century, under the emperor Diocletian. Christian art depicts Sebastian as an alter Christus, muscular, young, bound naked to a post, his body shot full of arrows, as Jesus was nailed to his Cross. The epistle of Peter speaks to Sebastian and to all the martyrs. It rings in their ears: “Your opponent the devil is prowling like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, solid in your faith, realizing that the brotherhood of believers is undergoing the same sufferings throughout the world” (1 Pet 5:–9). A prowling lion! During the reigns of Nero and Diocletian, Christians were literally fed to lions.

Throughout the centuries, however, the epistle’s exhortation sounds in the present tense. When has the age of martyrs ever ended? To Blessed Basil Moreau, C.S.C., who died on January 20, 1873, and whose feast we also observe today—to him too came the call to martyrdom! A martyrdom suffered not with a pagan emperor’s arrows and not through violent death, but through the suppression of the Church in a fiercely laical France. Facing that hostility and the countless challenges that were his as a founder, he looked to the Cross as his—and our—only hope.

We celebrate these Vespers on the eve of the departure of Notre Dame students and faculty who will be traveling to Washington, D.C. to bear witness to the sanctity of human life in the midst of a culture of death. They will end their march at the steps leading up to the Supreme Court Building, where the Roe v. Wade decision was made in 1973, and where an important case with regard to religious liberty and health care is currently being considered. To the Little Sisters of the Poor, their legal defenders, and their co-litigants, the call to martyrdom has also come. Staying “sober and alert,” they have “cast all their care” on the Lord who cares for them, trusting that he “will himself restore, confirm, strengthen and establish those who have suffered a little while” (1 Pet 5:7–8, 10).

According to the epistle we have just heard, Christians undergoing persecution and trial can draw strength from the knowledge that they do not suffer alone, that “the brotherhood of believers is undergoing the same sufferings throughout the world” (1 Pet 5:9). In our day, “throughout the world” brings to mind a litany of place names: Iraq, Iran, Syria, Turkey, Egypt, Pakistan, India, China, the Sudan, Ethiopia, Nigeria, Burundi, Mexico, Brazil, refugee camps in Europe. Everywhere the lion prowls. And everywhere brave souls continue to love, to hope, to confess Christ, to bow humbly beneath the cross, terrible and triumphant, that conforms the Christian to Christ. Ave Crux, Spes Unica!

On this day, January 20, in 1942, Servant of God Joseph Kentenich (1885–1968), a Pallottine priest and the founder of Schoenstatt, celebrated Holy Mass in his prison cell. Soon to be sent to Dachau, where he was to suffer for three and a half years, Fr. Kentenich freely laid down his life in union with Christ during that Eucharist, celebrated alone and in secret, but in spiritual union with his followers, some of whom were already prisoners in the concentration camp. “The brotherhood of believers” (1 Pet 5:9)! Fr. Kentenich’s risk-taking, his trusting “yes” to the Cross, expressed his deep faith in Christ, but also in the mystical body of Christ, the communion of saints. “What I do, what I suffer, how I love, affects others,” he wrote.

Let us live our lives, day by day, in a greater consciousness of our responsibility for one another, in solidarity with the martyrs who suffer not only for Christ but, in Christ, for us.

St. Sebastian, Blessed Basil Moreau, pray for us.

God’s Love, Unlisted

Thompson, Marisa

Marisa Thompson
Notre Dame Vision Music Mentor (2014)
University of Notre Dame,
Class of 2016

When I was in middle school, I liked to eat, but my metabolism did not cooperate. As I was getting older and my body was changing, I realized that I could not sustain the amount of food that I was eating. While I was still active in sports, I had quit dance, which was a major part of my daily exercise.  Slowly but surely, the weight began to pile on.

When I got to high school, I started to notice I was the slowest on my sports teams and the fattest of all my friends. It’s hard not to feel self-conscious when you are the only girl in the room who is not a size six or smaller. And if I ate ten cookies and my friends ate ten cookies, it never affected them, but I always paid for it later. I would wonder, “Why has God given me this burden when some of my friends, who are definitely not as physically active as I am, still somehow manage to be so skinny?”

Nothing I did really helped me, it seemed. I tried dieting—nothing. I tried exercising more on my own outside of sports practices—nothing. And even when I spent a semester in Colorado during the spring of my junior year—where we went on three back-country expeditions, ran almost every morning, and ran a 10-mile loop at the end of the semester—still nothing. What began to shrink was not my waistline, but my hope that I would ever be thinner.

When I got to college, even though I did not think it was possible, it got worse. I still tried to maintain a good level of fitness, but with my increased class schedule and lack of intensive sports teams, I just couldn’t do it. All the while, I was making all these new college friends, whom I felt that I needed to impress, and none of them were like me. They were all these gorgeous, thin girls to whom I felt I could never even hope to compare myself. And forget being friends with boys in this new environment. I wouldn’t be aesthetically pleasing enough for any of them.

I had heard enough of the “God loves you for who you are” talk. I didn’t really think that was possible. How could God love this when there are so many more perfect people around me?

My unhealthy body image ended up transferring over to encompass my whole being. I began to see myself as unworthy of everything in my life. Not only were my friends more beautiful than I was, they were also smarter, funnier, more social, getting the hang of college better than I was.

Then, for my first fall break in college, one of my friends was going
on a pilgrimage to Montreal with Notre Dame Campus Ministry, and she persuaded me to go Oratoryas well. To be honest, I did not really know what to expect, except some prayer and exploration of Canada, but I signed up anyway. We made our way across the border in order to visit the Oratory of St. Joseph, an oratory built by St. André Besette, the only canonized member of the Congregation of Holy Cross. While visiting the Oratory, the two priests who had joined us on the pilgrimage decided to offer Reconciliation for anyone who would like to receive. I hadn’t been to Reconciliation in over a year, so I decided it would probably be a good idea to go.

I sat in the pew, waiting for the people ahead of me to finish, asking myself how I had sinned in my life recently.  “Ok, yes, I probably have not been nice to my parents at some point. Yeah, I’ve probably lied to someone about something. Yep, I definitely swear a lot, that’s a problem.”

As I performed this internal examination of conscience, what kept coming into my head was the fact that I did not really even love myself. More often than not, the way I turned down God’s grace was by insulting myself and putting myself down. I thought of all the times I called myself unworthy, of all the times I wanted to run into the wall fifty times because I had gained another five pounds. So while the sins I recognized in my examination before were true, my true wounds resided in a place where only an honest self-reflection could find them.

With that in mind, I went into Confession. After telling the priest I hadn’t been to Confession in a while, I let out everything. I let out all of my qualms, concerns, and frustrations with myself. I wasn’t funny. I wasn’t smart. I wasn’t faithful enough. I wasn’t skinny. I wasn’t healthy. I wasn’t anything that God would want me to be!

When I finished my monologue with some tears in my eyes, the priest asked me, “How old are you?” So I told him, I’m nineteen. He then said to me, “Okay, you’re nineteen, so twice that is 38. For your penance, I want you to write down 38 things you like about yourself, and at least three of them have to be physical attributes.” He then absolved me of my sins, and I got up and walked away. Stunned by the task before me, I went to another pew in the Oratory, pulled out my journal, opened it tentatively, and started writing.

listI could name a few things I liked about myself, but with every bullet point I wrote down, it became increasingly more difficult to think of anything that I really liked. By the time I got to about number eight, I had nothing else to say. But I had to do it. I had to finish my penance. I wracked my brain, trying to think of things I liked about myself. With each motion of my pen on the page, I felt a twang of resentment and guilt, since I really did not like anything about myself. I would think of one example, go to write it down, but then retract it.

I got frustrated. Why can’t I think of anything? I looked back at the items I had already written down and decided to just go for it. Take that, penance! I’m going to write down the most ridiculous things possible, even things I didn’t particularly like about myself. Just simple facts about myself. Not really things that are particularly remarkable. Things like “I like that I have a spoon collection” and “I like my laugh,” neither of which I was particularly proud.

I finally finished the list and stared down at it, not really knowing what to think of it. Then I realized, this list of things that I love about myself that I had written were all things God loves about me. During my Confession, I had given God all of my baggage. I had told him how I felt unworthy of His love, how His death on the Cross for me was a poor decision. But in my penance, God responded. He said to me, “Marisa, I do love you. You are good in my eyes. You are worthy of my love, no matter what you think. And you should love about you what I love about you.”

Having the list in front of me helped me more than I realized. In making the list, I was not trying to necessarily quantify my worth, but it showed me that there is worth within me. If I had wanted to or needed to, I could have kept going and made the list even longer. Because what ultimately makes me worth loving is not something quirky like my spoon collection or the fact that I sound like a choking turkey when I laugh, what makes me worth loving is that I’m me. I’m the one God chooses to love for all that I am. And in reality, the list that I made doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of all that God sees within me.

I still look back on that list from time to time. Learning to love myself as God loves me is a difficult and ongoing process. In order for me to love myself, I have to learn to continually give myself over to Him and to his vision. Only then will I catch a glimpse of the way he sees me: beautifully made in His image.

Fr. Ted and the Eucharist

Tim O'MalleyTimothy P. O’Malley, Ph.D.

Director, Notre Dame Center for Liturgy

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Obituaries often reveal more about what matters to a specific society than the meaning of the life of the person who has recently passed. In the case of Fr. Theodore Hesburgh, CSC the most prominent obituaries have tended to emphasize that here was a figure not afraid to follow his principles even if it meant conflict with the Vatican or the President of the United States (especially President Nixon). Such obituaries of Fr. Ted offer the portrait of a disciplined maverick, whose creative vision transcended all forms of authority. His life is not simply that of the ideal priest but the portrait of an American leader.

Of course, there are exceptions to such communal obituaries, exceptions that often originate from those who knew him best. Not as the leader who took on  heads of state and the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. Rather, it was the obituary of a man, who loved the Eucharist:

“When he said Mass, he really meant it,” [Fr. Ernie Bartell, CSC] said. ‘He wasn’t doing it for show or to impress the trustees or anything like that…He became a very real role model in that respect.’

Because of its brevity, one may tempted to pass over this line as an example of a fond remembrance by a fellow religious. But in the contemporary university, where every event is analyzed for its fundraising potential, Fr. Bartell’s claim is worth holding onto. The celebration of the Eucharist for Fr. Ted was not something in his arsenal for impressing trustees or holding court in the homes of donors. The sacrifice of the Mass for Fr. Hesburgh was that sacred action he performed daily in his status as priest.

HesburghMassHesburgh’s wisdom here is not something easy for present day Notre Dame to hold onto. For us, the omnipresence of Eucharistic liturgies on campus is often less about the vision that should suffuse our scholarship and teaching and more a talking point to convince others, including our donors, that we remain deeply Catholic. The heart of the university is the Eucharist, not because it sells, but because it is a constant, prophetic reminder that our intellectual life is but part of a larger economy of gift that we participate in.

The University that forgets this truth risks treating the Eucharist as an idol, a form of self-worship. As Jean-Luc Marion writes:

Hence the imposture of an idolatry that imagines itself to honor ‘God’ when it heaps praises on his pathetic ‘canned’ substitute…exhibited as an attraction…brandished like a banner…and so on. In this sense, profanation would increase with the bustle of a too obviously ‘political’ worship: political in the sense that the community would seek to place ‘God’ at its disposition like a thing, its thing, to reassure its identity and strengthen its determination in that thing (God Without Being, 164).

The gift of the Eucharist becomes a “thing” that we use to get what we desire instead of re-shaping what it means to desire in the first place. Fr. Ted understood the danger of this Eucharistic idolatry. And perhaps, this remains one of his many great gifts to Notre Dame. A sense that the Eucharist transcends the specific mission of the place, moving us toward the offering of our whole lives to the God who gives and gives and gives.

 

Advent, Divine Providence, and You: Part II

Anthony OleckAnthony Oleck

MTS Student, History of Christianity, University of Notre Dame

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Author’s Note: This post is the second of a two-part series, in which I explore another pillar of Holy Cross’ charism: trust in Divine Providence. In Part I of this series, I offered a reflection on the life of Blessed Basil Anthony Moreau, the founder of the Congregation of Holy Cross, whose life invites a profound contemplation of a hope that is grounded in reality and a personal encounter with the Cross. Part II is concerned with the deeper source of his hope, the Cross of Christ, and the connection between Moreau’s trust in Divine Providence, Liturgy, and the season of Advent.

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A radical, almost insurmountable trust in Divine Providence emanates from the writings and anecdotes of Basil Moreau, CSC: a trust that has never ceased to animate the community he founded, from its humble origins in Sainte-Croix, France, to the present. imgres-2This Advent, as I have reflected on some of the writings and literature surrounding the zealous Father Moreau (who, at my age, would have already have been almost two years into his priesthood!), I began to wonder: where does this hope come from? Sometimes it seems like very little went right” in his life: his once skyrocketing career as a brilliant professor and theologian was halted due to ecclesial politics, the community that he truly believed had a divine charter kept running into countless (sometimes even downright petty) obstacles on the road to papal approval, and after his congregation was finally approved, it seemed that the poor superior general could hardly make it one week without facing some kind of financial or spiritual crisis. These problems would occupy him until his death in 1873.

Fr. Moreau’s hope, his trust in Divine Providence, is heroic, yes – he is one of my personal heroes. But I want to posit here that Moreau’s hope was grounded not just in a personal virtue (which he no doubt had), but was drawn from a font out of which we are all invited to drink: the font of baptism.Photo by Matt Cashore/University of Notre DameThe baptismal font is where narratives converge: when we are baptized, the individual stories of our lives are taken up into the narrative of the Church, the narrative of salvation history – making the Church a symphony of narratives. And each time we dip our hands into the baptismal font, we are reminded of this sacramental reality, this converging of narratives. We sign ourselves with the cross of Christ: the ultimate love story, calling to mind our own redemption. And a strange and wonderful thing happens: we are invited to read, interpret and live our lives in the light of the mystery of salvation. In participating in Christ’s narrative, we allow our own personal stories to become  transfigured as well.

One way the Church invites us into this participation is through the liturgical season of Advent. Each year during these four short weeks, we participate in the longing of the entire cosmos as it endured what we might call the Great Advent, or the period during which all of creation groaned, awaiting its savior.

This period between the Fall and the Incarnation is a time of longing indeed. The Church Fathers were acutely aware of this, who often describe humanity during this time as a creature who had lost the wings of its prototype. For example, Gregory of Nyssa writes of the “wings” of our prototype, which refer allegorically to “God’s power, his happiness, his incorruptibility, and so on.” (From Glory to Glory: Texts from Gregory of Nyssa’s Mystical Writings, ed., Jean Danielou, S.J., 284) According to Gregory, these attributes were in primal man insofar as he was still like God. But then “it was the inclination towards sin that robbed us of these wings. Once outside the shelter of God’s wing, we were also stripped of our wings.” (ibid) In this state, mankind is an “eagle trudging, a falcon shuffling along, a person stripped of his wings,” as David W. Fagerberg writes. I am reminded of Christopher Nolan’s new film Interstellar, whose protagonist, at one point, sighs: “We used to look up at the sky and wonder at our place in the stars, now we just look down and worry about our place in the dirt.”


The Fathers also describe fallen humanity as a body without a head. Adam was intended to be this head. He was meant to persist in perfect obedience, heading up the one body of mankind and modeling for us what it means to be human, to sacrifice and to love rightly. The Creator’s original intent was for the Church to be built up (aedificatur) on a firm foundation: a showing of love and sacrifice displayed in the Garden of Eden (John Cavadini works out this idea at length, using Augustine’s City of God in his “Spousal Vision: Text and History in the Theology of Augustine” (Augustinian Studies 43:1/2 (2012), 127-148)). imgresBut Adam failed in his vocation, and creation was plunged into the Great Advent.
We longed for someone to give us back our wings, to teach us to stand aright and to love rightly: in short, to teach us how to be human.

On the cross, Christ ‘recapitulated’ mankind, to borrow a term from Irenaeus of Lyons. In Christ, the body that had been decapitated in Eden received a new head. The life of a Christian, then, is a struggle to imitate this, which is what we see in the liturgy: namely, “a human being in filial communion with God the Father.”(Fagerberg, On Liturgical Asceticism, 27)  Man and woman are now free to fulfill their vocation: to stand as cosmic priests at the center of creation, receiving the “creating Agape” and returning the “created eucharistia,” (Louis Bouyer, The Meaning of the Monastic Life: 28-29) and to be the tongue of an otherwise mute creation, as Fagerberg writes. This only begins to skim the surface of the mysteries we are invited to contemplate this Advent.

Baptismal life is a life lived into the mystery of this narrative. It is the mingling of our own stories with the story of the Cross of Christ, to which we lift our eyes, finding ourselves able to now “stand aright, that we may offer the Holy Oblation in peace.” (from the opening of the anaphora in the Divine Liturgy of John Chrysostom)imgres Might we say, then, that Basil Moreau lived into this mystery, grasping it so profoundly that he could say with utmost confidence: “Divine providence has given us too many motives for encouragement and consolation for me to refrain from asking you to join with me in thanksgiving, and to leave your whole future in God’s hands without anxiety…”? Moreau’s trust is drawn from the wellspring of baptism, which allows him to interpret his own life in light of the mystery of the cross. Moreau recognizes that God did not abandon the body of Christ – his Church – in her darkest hour, the Great Advent, and neither will he abandon his members who are “to be completed in their own time.” And therein lies our hope.

 “[…] do not worry about your life, what you will eat [or drink], or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not more important than they? Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span? Why are you anxious about clothes? Learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them. If God so clothes the grass of the field, which grows today and is thrown into the oven tomorrow, will he not much more provide for you, O you of little faith? So do not worry and say, ‘What are we to eat?’ or ‘What are we to drink?’ or ‘What are we to wear?’ All these the pagans seek. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom (of God) and his righteousness, and all these things will be given besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil.”(Matthew 6:25-34)

Advent, Divine Providence and You: Part I

Anthony OleckAnthony Oleck

MTS Student, History of Christianity, University of Notre Dame

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Author’s Note: This post is the first of a two-part series, in which I will explore another pillar of Holy Cross’ charism: trust in Divine Providence. I turn first to Blessed Basil Anthony Moreau, the founder of the Congregation of Holy Cross, whose own life invites a profound contemplation of a trust and a hope that is grounded in reality and a personal encounter with the Cross. I will then turn to the source of his hope, the Cross of Christ, in the hopes of drawing attention to the connection between Moreau’s trust in Divine Providence, Liturgy, and the season of Advent.

“Divine providence has given us too many motives for encouragement and consolation for me to refrain from asking you to join with me in thanksgiving, and to leave your whole future in God’s hands without anxiety over the things which take up the time of those who are of the world.” —Bl. Basil Moreau, CSC, Founder of the Congregation of Holy Cross (emphasis mine)

Easier said than done, Moreau! I often find these words from the recently-beatified priest difficult to accept, especially while in the midst of serious discernment of marriage. As10441306_649286925140614_5487315018964049613_n my girlfriend of two years and I have moved through the various stages of courtship, we have slowly been introduced to some of the anxieties that we will one day, God-willing, face together in marriage: things like planning, saving, budgeting, and having what can be (at times) stressful or uncomfortable conversations about our future. This is not to say that these conversations have not been exciting, fruitful or grace-filled, but I must admit that as I prepare for future life as a husband and father, thinking about the many ways I will be called to provide and care for my family (not only materially, but spiritually and emotionally as well) scares terrifies me a little bit a lot. As the prospect of marriage creeps ever-closer, grasping at my freedom (and bank account), I sometimes find it difficult to take Moreau’s words to heart, or to reconcile the looming responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood with what Christ says in Matthew:

“… do not worry about your life, what you will eat [or drink], or about your body, what you will wear […] Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span? […] Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all […] Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil.” (Matthew 6:25-34)

To what extent are these words even relevant to those of us called to marriage, or, for that matter, anyone emerging out of youth and into adulthood? Surely Christ meant for this radical trust in God’s providence to be understood as more of an ideal – possibly even intended just for priests and religious – since this is quite simply an unrealistic and impractical attitude for anyone who has to work for a living. “I can trust God here and there,” we might think, “but how could I possibly leave my whole future in God’s hands without anxiety? That is just not a feasible lifestyle for an adult facing very real and very significant demands: career decisions, bills, student and housing loans, providing for spouses or children, etc.”

the office animated GIF

One might also be tempted to dismiss Moreau as an exception: not only is he an almost-canonized saint, but even in life he was a priest! He was supposed to offer words of encouragement
like “give thanks” and “trust in God.” And, furthermore, what would he know about the realities and hardships facing lay Christians in today’s world – wouldn’t he have taken a vow of poverty, with any needs he might have had being provided for by the Church? Again – easier said than done, Moreau.

Yet one need look no further than Moreau’s own life to see that his were not empty words, as this was a man who knew suffering, a man who knew the cross.images-1  One would be hard-pressed to find a more confident trust in Divine Providence, a trust more firmly rooted in reality and personal experience.

All accounts of Moreau’s life bear witness to this. During his lifetime (1799-1873), Moreau experienced the immense political, economic, religious, educational and social upheaval wrought by the French Revolution and its aftermath; the deaths of three of his thirteen brothers and sisters; the effects of Gallicanism and a church torn in two between those who swore an oath to the state and those who were forced into hiding for refusing; the seizing of church property at the hands of the state; and violent anti-clericalism (for an excellent treatment of the political, social and religious context of the times, see the introduction to Kevin Grove, C.S.C. and Andrew Gawrych, C.S.C.’s Basil Moreau: Essential Writings).

The French priest, scholar, pastor and educator suffered countless disagreements, disappointments and setbacks, both as a professor and during the many years he spent trying to organize, educate and establish a religious society (see Basil Moreau: Essential Writings and Gary MacEoin, Basil Moreau: Founder of Holy Cross). safe_imageHe endured attacks on his fledgling community, both externally and from within the community itself. He faced public humiliation (having not been allowed to attend the consecration of the church that he built in Le Mans), bankruptcy, scandal and betrayal, and at points all had seem lost – his congregation very nearly fell apart. It was around this time, as Eleonore Villarrubia writes, that he experienced a personal “dark night of the soul”:

“[…]  there were so many ongoing difficulties [in Holy Cross] that, in August of 1855, he suffered a terrible dryness — all the anguish of despair without actually despairing. The devil taunted him that he and all his religious were going to Hell. He prayed, but felt abandoned by God. In retrospect, experts in mystical theology agree that he was undergoing a “dark night of the soul” — a mystical experience intended by God to purify a chosen soul and purge it from attachments to anything that is not God.” (“Venerable Father Basil Moreau – A Man Against His Times“)

Anxiety and concern for the future overtakes people in all states of life – the monk, the laic, the cleric, or religious – does it not? In the midst of such burdens, the life of Father Moreau reminds us that we can take comfort in the knowledge that we are not alone: this road has been walked before. In fact, a great band of both men and women have passed this way. (cf. Constitutions of the Congregation of Holy Cross, Const. 1.5)

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Their footsteps may have left “deep prints,” as though they were carrying heavy burdens, but they “did not trudge; they strode. For they had the hope.” (Constitution 8.122)

No, Father Moreau’s are no hollow words. They are the words of someone who constantly had the cross of Christ before his eyes. (Constitution 8.113) Through the many crosses Moreau was asked to carry during his life, he found the “motives for encouragement and consolation” that he alludes to when he asks us to join him in thanksgiving, leaving our whole future in God’s hands without anxiety. But as I will show in Part II of this piece,  Moreau is trying to point us to the deeper source of his hope. His font is the entire Christian narrative – the history of our salvation, the Great Advent – fulfilled in Jesus Christ and mediated to us today in a special way in the Liturgy.