conversion

Wednesday Witness: All the Time in the World

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

This column is the first in a new, weekly series on what the Lord is doing in my heart, specifically encouraging me to simplify my own life in order practice the virtue of charity and the Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy more and more. Come back each Wednesday to read the latest!

In last Sunday’s gospel, blind Bartimaeus cries out to Jesus, who is passing by with His disciples and a large crowd. The detail that stuck out to me is that, when this beggar calls to the Lord, “Son of David, have pity on me!” many in the crowd rebuke him. These are people like you and me, who have found in Jesus someone we want to follow, maybe even dedicate our lives to. They have heard the Lord preach, seen Him work miracles, and shared in His ministry…and instead of lifting this poor man up and inviting him in, they tell him to pipe down, intending to pass him by.

But not Jesus. He has all the time in the world. He tells His followers to bring the man they have just rejected to Him. Bartimaeus doesn’t need their help, but springs to his feet—a bold move for a blind man—and rushes to the Lord. Jesus asks him what he wants, and he doesn’t ask for food or spare change. He asks BIG: “Master, I want to see.” 

And the Lord delivers even bigger: Not only does Bartimaeus see, but Jesus tells him, “Your faith has saved you.” God’s plan for Bartimaeus is bigger and more generous than even he can dream.

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Given Name

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

To the victor I shall give some of the hidden manna; I shall also give a white amulet upon which is inscribed a new name, which no one knows except the one who receives it.

Revelation 2:17

On Monday evening, something unusual happened—something unique in my experience, though the tradition extends back to the Book of Genesis: My son received a new name.

Our second son, whom we named Gabriel Venjohn Thorp, is discerning religious life with the Community of Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs). After spending the past year as postulants at St. Joseph’s Friary in Harlem, he and five other young men entered the novitiate Monday at Most Blessed Sacrament Friary in Newark, New Jersey. As novices, they received their habits—the gray hooded robe and cincture of the friars—and their new names. Our son is now Brother Jude Apostoli, of St. Michael.

In my line of work, you might call this a brand refresh: new name, new packaging, same great mission—serving as a living witness and example of the love of Christ.

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Transformed or Transmitted?

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This post appeared in the Sunday, July 21, 2024, edition of the St. Michael Catholic Church bulletin.

A couple weeks ago, I shared a short reflection on the Healing the Whole Person study I was blessed to be a part of in June. (Another one is starting up next week; see the bulletin or Father’s weekly email for details.) The gist of that column was the freedom I received to look squarely at my past and admit that everything wasn’t sunshine and daisies, then to seek the Lord’s healing for even the little ways in which I have been wounded.

Healing is not only important for our own sake. The Lord desires joy, not just for us, but for all those we encounter—and as the old saying goes, “Hurt people hurt people.”

Throughout the study, Dr. Bob Schuchts and Sister Miriam James Heidland, SOLT, reiterate that suffering that is not transformed is transmitted. The desire to avoid suffering ourselves is so strong that, when we encounter past or present pain, we instinctively pass it on—through blame and bitterness, anger and control, habitual sin, you name it.

But, if we are thoughtful and intentional, we can learn to confront pain and choose to bring it to the Lord instead of dumping it on our spouses or kids, family or friends. This is redemptive suffering—suffering in the right way, self-sacrificially, like Jesus.

I have long understood redemptive suffering in concept, but, to be honest, that understanding didn’t seem to help much:

  • St. Paul tells us, “Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church” (Colossians 1:24).
  • What is lacking in the suffering of Jesus? Nothing, of course—His sacrifice was complete and perfect, once for all.
  • Jesus does not need our help, but He desires our cooperation. As St. John Paul II wrote, “Those who share in the sufferings of Christ preserve in their own sufferings a very special particle of the infinite treasure of the world’s Redemption, and can share this treasure with others” (Salvifici Doloris, 27).
  • This is a beautiful idea, but suffering well is hard work, and, really, I’d rather not.

But the idea of not passing my suffering on to those I love really struck me. Hard work is easier to do when you understand the why of it. Here’s how I break it down:

  • Suffering is a result of sin and the Fall. Jesus redeems us by taking the sins and suffering of the world, past, present, and future. His sacrifice lacks nothing, and through it, God’s perfect love and perfect justice are both sustained.
  • If Jesus takes on all the sin and suffering, then he takes on my sin and suffering, as well as that of my bride. Nothing I can do can add to or subtract from His saving act. And yet…
  • If I choose to avoid suffering and pass it on to Jodi, she suffers. In a sense, I haven’t increased the suffering in the world—I’ve just passed it on. But in another sense, I have increased the suffering, at least, for Jodi.
  • Jesus has already handled all of it—praise God! But I can also choose to say, “My suffering ends with me.” I can resist the urge to avoid the pain and pass it on. I can, like Jesus, carry my own cross and love sacrificially so Jodi (or my kids, neighbors, or enemies) don’t suffer in my stead. Now redemptive suffering makes sense!

I shared this line of thinking with my confessor, and he added an important caveat: Jesus didn’t bear His burden alone. He offered His sacrifice to His heavenly Father, leaning on the Father for strength and guidance. If we say, “My suffering stops with me,” but then hold on to it and let it accumulate, sooner or later it will become too much to bear.

Redemptive suffering, it seems to me, is suffering transformed by love—the loving act each of us performs by not passing our pain on to others and the healing love of God who turns every sacrifice to grace, joy, and peace. Let us pray, today and always, to carry our own crosses with God’s help, so that those we love may know His sacrificial love through us. Amen.

Handled or Healed?

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This spring I shared about a homily we heard from Father Columba Jordan, CFR, while visiting Gabe and his fellow postulants in Harlem. Father Columba asked if we were handing our problems over to the Lord or squeezing Him like a stress ball while we tried to handle them ourselves. Surrender is more than admitting we need help or even asking for help—it means relinquishing control and receiving His help, in whatever form it comes.

Fast-forward to this month: After years of talking about it, Jodi and I decided to work on our marriage together by participating in the Healing the Whole Person study at the church this summer. By most measures, our marriage is healthy and strong, but anyone who has spent decades living with the same person can point to areas in need of healing: issues that consistently cause anxiety or anger, conversations that invariably go sideways, little things that drive us crazy in disproportionately big ways. And we don’t want to settle for that.

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So What’s Your Plan?

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In April, Jodi, Lily, and I spent a few days at St. Joseph Friary in Harlem with our second son Gabriel and the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs). Gabe is discerning religious life, and the visit was meant to help us better understand the life of the friars, his formation during the past year, and the novitiate—a period of more intensive prayer, spiritual growth, and detachment—in the year ahead.

One of the unexpected joys of the long weekend was a visit from Father Columba Jordan, who was passing through New York on his way home to Ireland. Some of you may know Father Columba from his YouTube channel, Called to More: lean and gray-haired, close-clipped and bushy-bearded, an animated preacher who often delivers two homilies at once, providing a running comedic commentary on his profound reflections as they unfold. When he vested for Mass, I was excited. When he stepped forward to preach, I was thrilled.

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