Were not our hearts burning (within us) while he spoke to us on the way and opened the scriptures to us?" The disciples' hearts were on fire during this sacred conversation. And that fire was so hot that it indelibly seared their souls with the intimate knowledge, peace, and love of the resurrected Christ. And they were transformed. It is the perfect conclusion to Luke's Gospel.

In the opening chapters in Luke, John the Baptist proclaims "I am baptizing you with water, but one mightier than I is coming... He will baptize you with the holy Spirit and fire" (Luke 3:16). It is no wonder then that the resurrected Christ should set the hearts of these disciples on fire, and they are among the first to be touched by him.

As Luke the Evangelist narrates, things do not start out this way for the two travelling companions. When that day dawned for them, there were no angels, rolled stones, or burial cloths; these two disciples heard about all that second hand. For them, the news did not assuage the tragic and outrageous occurrences of the past several days; rather, it only added confusion to an already puzzling set of circumstances. All the doubt and confusion, however, change at the breaking of the bread. In an instant they see that the cross has led to the resurrection.

Who are these disciples, anyway? Luke tells us that one of them is named Cleopas, a man who gains importance through his wife. In John's Gospel we hear of a certain "Mary, the wife of Klopas," as one of the women standing at the cross on Good Friday watching Jesus die. Although scholarly opinion is divided on whether the Cleopas heard this morning and the Klopas mentioned in John's Gospel are one and the same, the balance seems to indicate they are. We can conclude, therefore, that Cleopas and his wife Mary are the two disciples on the road.

Cleopas and Mary would certainly be disillusioned and downcast over Jesus' death, but moreover Mary, because she actually witnessed the gruesome crucifixion, would have been traumatized by the event. That their earnest and intense conversation would attract the stranger's attention should not be a surprise.

Luke tells us that when Jesus drew up to them, "their eyes were prevented from recognizing him". This situation is not unlike the experience of the women at the tomb on that first Easter morning. No one in any of the Gospels recognizes Jesus right off. His resurrected body most certainly looked a little different, and in addition, people under emotional stress often don't immediately recognize what should be familiar to them. All these clouds vanish, however, at the breaking of the bread.

At that moment, at the breaking of the bread, Jesus vanishes. Cleopas and Mary's only spoken response is, ""Were not our hearts burning (within us) while he spoke to us on the way and opened the scriptures to us?" And their only reaction is to run all the way back to Jerusalem with the news, which is pretty extraordinary considering the sun had already set and the trek was all uphill.

"Were not our hearts burning (within us) while he spoke to us on the way and opened the scriptures to us?" A metaphorical phrase based on two concrete elements: heart and fire.

In the biblical literature, the human heart is the source of all knowledge, thought, and will. From the heart come all things human, and as such, it can be considered the soul or one's very being. Fire, the other element in the metaphor, also has strong standing in biblical tradition. The Bible is replete with images of fire as the catalyst which cleanses, burnishes, transforms everything it touches from metals, to fields, to people. God is a "consuming fire".

These powerful images extend beyond the Bible and become a fixture in Christian mysticism. For Benedictine spirituality, one of the greatest images of the monastic life is described by Pope St. Gregory the Great in his Dialogues, where he describes the events surrounding Saint Benedict's death. Benedict's soul is so radiant that witnesses see it being carried over a fiery path of thousands of burning flames stretching from earth to heaven.

And in what is perhaps one of the most famous accounts of a religious experience was penned by the great French mathematician, philosopher, and mystic, Blaise Pascal. After his death, a servant, cleaning out old clothing, found a piece of parchment sewn in Pascal's vest. On it were written these words: The year of grace 1654 Fire The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob Not of the philosophers and intellectuals Certitude, certitude, feeling, joy, peace The God of Jesus Christ

Pascal always referred to this event as the "Night of Fire", and it occurred as he was in a depression over the death of his father. As one can imagine, that spiritual experienced changed Pascal's life, and he was never the same again.

This flame of a religious experience is not to be interpreted as a perpetual, emotional high. Pascal wrote a note of the experience and sewed it in his clothing, lest he someday forget what had happened to him. This past fall, the writings of Mother Teresa of Calcutta were published under the title of Come Be My Light. These accounts reveal that Mother Teresa had her intense, initial religious experience of God and then never felt the love of God again for the rest of her life. Much of what she records rivals anything an antheistic nihilist would or could pen write. Yet, she did what she did, and anyone who met her or saw her was most struck by the godlike radiance and joy that emanated from her.

A heart burned by Christ never recuperates. With or without the emotional elation, it knows only one thing, and that outside union with the Risen Christ, everything else is counterfeit. Such a heart can pull us through the greatest ambiguities, the darkest valleys, and the most tremendous hells life can offer. A heart burned by Christ is a heart being transformed and divinized into the image of the one who calls us. Following that call is the Christian vocation. We become one with Chris; when others see us, they see Christ..

The breaking of the bread, the Eucharist, connects Cleopas' and Mary's experience of Christ with our own. We here all partake of the one and the same Eucharist with each other, but also with all those through time back and time forward, with those living the joy of the spirit and with those struggling in the pit of despair. In a very real way, the Eucharist is the one and the same experience. The Christ who meets Cleopas and Mary on the road, who has met the saints, mystics, and sinners in the whole course of history, also comes up to us on our journey in life to burn and sear our hearts, and we will carry that scar forever. Alleluia, he has risen; he has truly risen, alleluia.

Michael Patella, OSB

References: Marvin R. O'Connell, Blaise Pascal: Reasons of the Heart (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1997) 97-98.

Brian Kolodiejchuk, ed. Come be my Light (New York: Doubleday, 2007).

In a German television news segment just before Christmas, it was reported that the portion of the German population who called themselves religious stood at 70%. Another 18% within that considered themselves, "deeply religious," a definite highpoint within the last twenty-five years. [1] Only the "deeply religious," however, consider themselves churchgoing. When asked by a reporter why only 18% attend church, a pastor replied that for too long, the Lutheran and Roman Catholic Churches have spent too much time talking about personal morality instead of preaching the Gospel. Now was the time, he continued, for the Churches to take advantage of the religious sentiment and connect it to the Good News.

In our own country, a recent UCLA study finds that students' level of religiosity, defined as praying and churchgoing, decreases dramatically between freshman and junior year of college, while the number of students who consider themselves spiritual increases.[2] Moreover, the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life reports that although 31.4% of all Americans were raised Catholic, only 23.9% of adults still consider themselves to be Catholic; indeed, 10% or 30 million of all Americans are former Catholics.[3]

I wonder whether the German pastor's conclusions about the situation in his country can be applied to our own. Do we also spend too much time preaching personal morality instead of proclaiming the Gospel in its magnificent fullness?

The central truth of Christianity is that we are redeemed sinners. Christ has poured out his blood for the salvation of the human race. Saint Paul untiringly reminds us of this fact in all his letters, especially Romans. Throughout the four Gospels, Jesus always accentuates and demonstrates his forgiving and redeeming love to the sinner; indeed, those who consider themselves morally upright have the roughest time with the Lord. The remarkable part of Christ's vocation to those who are outcast both socially and morally is that once they have been touched by the love of Christ, they love God back and everyone in between as well. Love engenders higher standards of morality than legislation does. Saint Paul's life furnishes a good example. He encounters Christ on the road to Damascus, and he ceases to persecute the Jewish Christians while reaching out to them and the Gentiles besides. So, whence this turn to ethical and moral rectitude as the defining point of the Church?

I think it arises because of the human proclivity to control. We like to measure the degree of control by quantifying our experiences. Consequently, we find measure ourselves and accomplishments against a variety of standards, be it a diet, test score, or income. Love, however, cannot be quantified. And if it cannot be quantified, it becomes sloppy, and if it is sloppy, it is out of human control, and all our efforts in this area come to grief. And it makes no difference whether one is Protestant, Orthodox, or Catholic; each church has its own version of human control, though perhaps Catholics may be better organized at implementing it. In all cases, the results are just as deadly to a faith life, particularly when sin, or even what is perceived as sin, is used as an instrument of control.

For example, should natural family planning, the fidelity of Catholic politicians, or civil marriage legislation ever have to be the Sunday homily? Doing so runs Pall Mall over the liturgical cycle of readings, which in their weekly unfolding proclaim the narrative of salvation history. Which is more important? Engendering the love of God among the praying People of God, or building a false sense of security for one group at the expense of another? Moreover, preaching on topics related to personal morality and others like them never convinces anyone of the speaker's position. At most, it guarantees to anger and alienate a good number of people in the pews to the point of sending them out the door, never to return. Eventually, these discourses become a bishop's or priest's personal rant, a corrosive white noise that further erodes the Church's ability to teach with authority. Wag a finger constantly in front of peoples' faces, and someone will break it off.

Am I alone in thinking that our Church is both following and contributing to what pundits have called the "fear factor" being played out in our national politics? Although the Department of Homeland Security is ever constant in reminding us, as the announcement goes in every major airport every fifteen minutes, "the terrorist threat is orange," I am not so sure what Catholics are supposed to be afraid of. The divorced and remarried? Couples who don't practice rhythm? Gays and Lesbians with partners? "Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom" (Luke 12:32). And for those of us who get anxious when faced with a variety of hells life sometimes deals us, let us keep Paul's words at the forefront, "If God is for us, who is against us" (Rom 8:31)

To be sure, we live in our incarnational faith by maintaining an eschatological focus: The Father's only begotten son took on human flesh in the person of Jesus Christ, who will come again to judge the living and the dead. What we do in this life and on this earth matters. A life of faith in the love of God demands actions which correspond to that love. This love is the reason the Church emphasizes both personal morality and social justice. It is not the ends that I dispute; it is the means. If sin or fear of sin is, or appears to be the Church's modus operandi, we deny the saving grace of Christ. When that happens, our life in the Body of Christ becomes a sham.

Let me make a few proposals to back up what the German pastor observes. As a Church, let us assume that everyone wants to be good, do good, and do it well. Let our point of departure be that most people sin from weakness and not from malice. Let us then realize that the people most in need of conversion are we ourselves. The bad news is that everyone is a sinner; the good news is that everyone is a redeemed sinner through Christ. Then, let us listen to each other's stories. Those who speak with power and authority should listen as well. Let us acknowledge that life is not easy or perfect. What we consider sinful may be the best a person can do in the daily circumstances of life; given an opportunity to change, he or she will. Christ did not condemn, and neither should any of us.

Maybe an image will help here. They say that on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, a person can see, hear, and buy anything he or she wants. Fine and respectable restaurants stand side by side with jazz clubs and strip joints. There are straight bars and Gay bars. A smattering of Catholic chapels and voodoo fortune parlors. And walking up and down, taking it all in are natives and tourists, high life and low life alike. If it is night, and you look south at the corner of Bourbon and Orleans, you will see the back of Saint Louis Cathedral. Superimposed on that wall is a huge shadow of a spotlighted Christ with his arms outspread. He seems to be gathering in his embrace all the flotsam and jetsam of Bourbon Street, of the French Quarter, indeed, of the whole world, "Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest (Matt 11:28). Let that statue and its shadow be an emblem of the Gospel. What a superb Gospel we proclaim, so let's proclaim it.

Michael Patella, OSB

[1] Deutsche-Welle, "Every Fifth German Professes 'Deeply Religious' Convictions," 17 December 2007.

[2] Alexander W. Astin, "Spirituality in Higher Education: A National Study of College Students' Search for Meaning and Purpose" Los Angeles: Higher Education Research Institute, University of California.

[3] Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life. http://religions.pewforum.org/reports.

It is not unusual for a gospel reading to employ highly exaggerated language and examples. We see and hear them in the passage from Luke 14:25-33. Should we, as followers of Christ hate our parents, spouses, children, and siblings? The mere thought seems antithetical to the Christian message. And removed from the context of the narrative, it surely is. Nonetheless, it would also be wrong for us to conclude that discipleship can be ours without a price. There is a price, and that price is high, and this is the message emphasized in the Gospel.

Luke starts with the family as the status quo. He upsets that status quo with the cross. He gives examples of how we might avoid the cross, and them sums it up with a slight allusion to the status quo.

The hyperbole in the opening verses is a literary convention of the ancient time and place. One outlandishly exaggerates a point to make a point. So we can set those off-putting remarks aside and get to the point itself. And what is that? Christ's grace is freely given, but it is not cheap. That grace has come into the world by the price of the Savior's blood. Anyone who wishes to be a disciple of Christ, to partake of that grace as well as be an instrument of grace for others, can only do so by abandoning all counterfeit and inflated currency.

Jesus is speaking these words to a multitudinous crowed that has been trailing him around. Do they know what they are getting into? He tells them: "Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple." (14:27). In the midst of the thrill and excitement of being close to such a prophet and teacher, Jesus lets it be known that discipleship is not all wine and roses.

In his jarring description of the how a disciple should treat family members, Christ is not saying literally that any of us should hate the people we love. Rather, he is emphasizing that we should put ourselves at the level of risk appropriate to being a disciple. We find that our families are our sources of love, security, and identity. If this is true in a society such as our own, it was even truer at the time of Christ when families were so extended that clans and tribes defined the nation state. In a sense, he calls on each of us to untie our boats from their safe harbors of family, friends, and even national security and set sail to the sea.

Disciples are bound to take the Christian risk in opposing those structures in both society and even the Church, that in anyway deal with others unjustly and mercilessly. Doing so, however, places one in a highly vulnerable position, and no one likes to end up forsaken on a rocky shoal as so often happens to disciples.

The cross is a risk, and risks are messy. Believers through the centuries have long known this fact. In the Sunday reading we heard from the Book of Wisdom, "For who can learn the counsel of God? Or who can discern what the Lord wills? For the reasoning of mortals is worthless, and our designs are likely to fail" (9:13-14).

Christ may have had this understanding in mind when he moves to his examples: "Which of you wishing to construct a tower does not first sit down and calculate the cost to see if there is enough for its completion?" (14:28) and "...what king marching into battle would not first sit down and decide whether with ten thousand troops he can successfully oppose another king advancing upon him with twenty thousand troops?" (14:31).

These are teasing questions; they force us to surface our excuses. Both imply that we should engage in a project only when we are one-hundred percent sure that we will successfully complete our buildings or win our battles. The irony is, however, that if we were to follow this advice, we could not be disciples. To be a disciple entails a certain amount of risk; disciples cannot be the metaphorical equivalents of the successful builder or army general. They must be prepared to have that tower collapse on their heads and have those enemy hordes come smashing over their defenses.

History is full of examples of people who risked everything on the slimmest of margins, and brought Christ into the lives of many. Most often, these people achieved the respect for their unswerving dedication to the Gospel. Some died a natural death, as in Blessed Mother Theresa, and some died a martyr's death, as in Archbishop Romero. And every so often one appears on the scene who seems to defy any conventional description or manner of life, as in Oskar Schindler, made famous by the movie, Schindler's List. The one common trait among all of these people, however, is that at some point in their lives, either sooner or later, each one abandoned all calculation for self-preservation and took the risk of discipleship.

Christ finishes speaking by tossing the ball in our court, "So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions" (14:33). This verse sums up everything said so far. The greatest obstacle to discipleship is possessions. It should be no surprise to any of us why Christ comes down so hard on possessions. In and of themselves, there is nothing wrong with possessions, but as today's Gospel demonstrates, they inhibit if not preclude discipleship when they become for the owner the source of meaning and security. If we put our faith and security in possessions, whether those possessions be wealth, power, family, or academic degree, we have entrusted our lives to counterfeit currency.

So then, is there any security and safety in this life? Well, actually, outside of Christ, there really isn't. I mentioned above the paradoxical reality that Christ's grace, though freely given is not cheap. True, Christ pours out the blood of his grace with risky abandon, but unless we are willing to abandon our false securities, that grace will not find us.

This Gospel tells us not to hate but to love. We are to love what is good and true. Families are the rivers of this love and water us all with it, but they are not the source of the love. The source of the love flows from the side of Christ, and we can only be disciples when we put down everything else to channel that love to others just as our families channeled it to us.

Michael Patella, OSB

A well known short story dating from 1916 is Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. In it, the protagonist, Gregor Samsa, wakes up one morning and finds that during the night he has been somehow transformed into a cockroach. This story became one of the defining pieces of the Twentieth Century, a period whose first half witnessed such unparalleled savagery and oppression. We can go into all sorts of reasons why Kafka would respond to life in such a manner---he suffered a great deal personally not to mention witnessing the great meltdown of civilization at World War I. Deep down, however, I think he also voices the fear that many of us have. In our heart of hearts, we may all very well dread the threat of oblivion symbolized by the cockroach.

For about the past two weeks or so, many of our daily mass readings have come from Exodus in which we have heard the stories of revelation, covenant, idolatry and repentance. It is a story of a wandering people's transformation from the pride of self-sufficiency to their humble dependence on God. Through the many ordeals, they come to see themselves as a people whose ordeals have transformed them into God's choice possession.

Today we come to the feast of the Transfiguration, a feast which celebrates a holy transformation as well. We often identify with Peter, James and John in the wonderment which they express on that mountain. Needless to say, it would be a pretty spectacular event to witness. ut what are they wondering at?

Luke's rendition of the Transfiguration stresses not so much what happens to Christ in as much as it shows Peter, James, and John what will happen to them. Peter, in his stupor, may fumble through a statement, but he also gets it. He realizes what exactly is going on and is awestruck at the new reality of what following Christ would ultimately entail: Christ's transfiguration is Peter's own. Is our own.

It is our own, and it has immediacy within its eschatological promise. We Christians by following the pillar of fire and cloud of Christ are undergoing a transformation. It is a transformation that can reply to the Gregor Samsa dwelling deep within us. It shows us how love can and will redeem all and save all. Even the cockroach need not fear.

As with Christ, our lives also have their crosses and dark moments. Ultimately, however, all these crosses lead to glory. This glory is the goal and promise Christ holds out to us all, and it is the reason we are gathered around the Eucharistic table.

Michael Patella, OSB