Tag: faith

The Breath of Christ in the World

Published on by Sr. Kathryn J Hermes, FSPLeave a comment

One word has been devastating my spirit of late: “monster.” Too frequently this word is heard in civil discourse and political rhetoric as an identifier of human persons. Even when read off screen or paper, it has a quality that grates against the soul and seems unworthy of human speech.

In the Prayer Over the Offerings in today’s Mass, the Church prays: “…grant that, through this offering, we may do fitting homage to your divine majesty and, by partaking of the sacred mystery, we may be faithfully united in mind and spirit.”

A person who lives in the spirit of the Liturgy is spiritually molded into a Christ-actor in the world. Such a person immerses themself in the values the Liturgy expresses and enters with their entire being into the prayer of Jesus whose act of adoration and worship we are invited to share in.

Today’s Prayer Over the Offerings, then, is a school of humble acknowledgement of our creaturehood and dependence on the “divine majesty” to whom we owe “fitting homage.” When our relationship with God is rightly ordered, we value our fellow human beings rightly, realizing that we are in some fundamental way united with them—no better and no worse, but equally loved and sustained in life; honored to be fellow creatures who come from the hands and loving creative work of one Father, as a fellow member of the body of Christ, or potentially a fellow member in that body because of the Incarnation.

The Liturgy forms the personality, as Dietrich von Hildebrand reminds us, so that we “hear” words in their relation to value. “It is the spirit of the God-man that speaks to us in the Liturgy.” In his book Liturgy and Personality, he explores how “…the spirit embodied in the Liturgy, the spiritual molding of the man who lives in that spirit,” shapes a person’s personality. “The radical theocentrism of the liturgy,” Bishop Robert Barron states in his Foreword, “teases us sinners out of our native egocentrism and thereby prepares us to see even created values [think here, created persons who should be valued for themselves by their very existence] with fresh eyes.”

It is a reminder that the Liturgy is a school.

Through Christ himself and through us who enter that school, it is he who breathes new life into the world.

As we are formed in the Liturgy into other Christ’s, we do indeed begin to shine with light, his Light. Through our language and attitudes and worship and right standing with God and others, we can offer a world exhausted by power and aggression, the hope that the humble Christ is here, risen, alive, now, and victorious.

Every human person secretly longs to breathe his Name.

Quotations from Deitrich von Hildebran, Liturgy and Personality, Introduction.

Christmas: Unconditional Love. Period.

Published on by Sr. Kathryn J Hermes, FSP1 Comment

It was a moment that I knew He saw me. He knew me. He loved me.

It wasn’t in a chapel.

It wasn’t when I was praying.

It wasn’t when I was reading a spiritual book.

It was an unexpected moment that He found me and showed me His unconditional love in a way I could receive it and consciously make it mine.

Homework filled my days as I pursued graduate theological studies and I had volunteered to take care of the switchboard on a quiet Saturday afternoon. I was immersed in reading Augustine’s commentary on the Gospel of John.

This great disciple of Jesus, convert, and Doctor of the Church described his weakness. I suddenly knew mine. It was honest. It was raw. It was such a relief to finally name it and own it.

In a flash, I felt like there was someone else in the room. Looking up, I saw no one.

My eyes returned to the page and I continued reading. Once more the piercing sense of being seen with a gentle and compassionate gaze overwhelmed me. This time I knew the eyes, the presence, was deeply established within me, pouring out over my inner landscape.

And the words…

The voice…

“I don’t care if you ever beat this temptation. If you look at me and let me keep looking at you, that’s all I care about. I love you.”

Decades later I inserted this spiritually disruptive event—disruptive in a sacred and healing way—into a book I was writing. My editor still in her twenties or early thirties flagged it as “impossible” and “against Church teaching.” “We need to repent before we hear those words….”

Maybe so, I thought, but I can’t doubt—nothing could make me ever question—that I had heard His voice.

The Full Extent of Our Misery

Today I found a similar story in a book I’m reading for Advent, Do Not Judge Anyone: Desert Wisdom for a Polarized World: Desert Wisdom for a Polarized World, by Isaac Slater, OCSO. In his chapter on Mercy he recounts how the Japanese poet Ryokan had been asked by his sister to give advice to his nephew who was squandering the family’s money. Ryokan went to his sister’s home and stayed three days and said nothing. On the day he left he stood on the porch, called for his nephew, and asked him to tie the strings of his straw sandals. His sister, standing behind the screen, thought that finally he was going to give her son some stern advice. But there were no words. No reproaches. No pleading. Instead, as his nephew bent to tie his sandals he felt something wet on his neck. Surprised, he looked up and saw Ryokan’s eyes full of tears. “At that moment he felt repentance for his wrongdoings. Ryokan stood up and left without a word” (page 13-14).

Slater reflects on the interplay between repentance and mercy:

“Sin can only be known in the moment it’s forgiven. Otherwise we could never bear to face it squarely. It’s the awareness of the full extent of our misery in the same moment that we realize we are loved, unconditionally, just as we are. Knowing we are loved just as we are, while seeing keenly and with fresh eyes the nature of our fault, is what prompts us to want to change, from within and freely. Only when we know that we don’t need to change in order to be loved do we want to change…not to earn what’s already been freely given but from gratitude” (Slater, page 14).

The other day I witnessed a conversation. As a woman told a humorous story, she made a side comment to a priest sitting next to her. It was something about confession or an excuse around the event she was relaying. The priest didn’t miss a beat. He shrugged and said simply,

“There is nothing that we can do to make God love us more. There is nothing we can do to make God love us less.”

Love Reached Down to Us

At Christmas we remember and ponder how Love reached down to us, leaping down, reaching down into the deep waters to draw us out and set us free. In the Resurrection we learn that this divine Love is stronger than death and that nothing in the humble obscurity of our existence can put out the fire in the heart of the Trinity. Nothing we could do, even crucify the Lord of Glory, could overpower what stands as the meaning of the world: relationship. We were created by God in relationship with him, we were pursued, even after we rejected this communion, by the God who wanted us still as his own. The purpose of Jesus’ life and of his death and resurrection was to reveal the unswervability of God being for us and pitching his tent among us in order to fulfill God’s ultimate desire to bring us and the whole creation into God’s communion of forever and unending love.

The Christmas story is about much more than a memory or a re-telling. Once grasped it becomes our story, the history of a Love that forms our identity, establishes our purpose, points us to our destiny, and fills us with joy.

This unconditional love Is the only reason for our existence. Period.

Take a deep breath!

Published on by Sr. Kathryn J Hermes, FSP1 Comment

September—the month where the summer’s lush fullness is traded for autumn’s sharp clarity. When restless winds tug at the trees, reminding us that the vibrant colors of the fall are around the corner. School starts and summer’s freedom is replaced by the challenge and excitement of new things to learn, to explore, to become. Vacation months give our spirits a bit of space to breathe more deeply, before we pick up again the weight and concern of burdens of a world that feels turbulent and stretched thin.

We can’t forget how to breathe.

We can’t forget that we’re standing right in the middle of God’s great story.

The apostles—not unlike us—felt nervous and frightened and frustrated, when they weren’t able to see beyond their own strength, their own solutions to problems, their own abilities, and what they had at hand. Whether they were trying to figure out how to feed five thousand people with five loaves of bread, or straining to pull the oars in the midst of a storm that struck terror in their hearts, Jesus helped them gently learn: You cannot do it alone. Without me you can do nothing. I am here. I love you. And I will take care of you. And I will provide for you. And I will protect you.

That’s been sitting with me. The apostles couldn’t fix the hunger of the crowd, and they couldn’t calm the storm at sea. And I realize: I can’t fix my family, our culture, or the world. Neither can you. But we can turn to Jesus, who is Life itself, and who meets us with abundance when we’ve reached our limits.

The saints remind us that the quality of our days isn’t determined by the times we live in, but by the way we live them. Or as Pope Leo recently said, quoting St. Augustine, “Let us live well and the times will be good. We are the times.”

I believe this is a moment of awakening—a time to choose joy, to walk in holiness, and to let Christ’s light shine through us. These are hopeful times, because Christ is with us. To be Catholic right now means carrying him into the world, not with our own strength, but with his life flowing through us.

So don’t forget how to breathe as the pace picks up in these weeks.

Sr Kathryn

“Like a little child, I keep myself”: Retreat Reflection

Published on by Sr. Kathryn J Hermes, FSPLeave a comment

I was building a sandcastle.

Jesus was running along the beach, throwing sand up into the air.

I was serious.

Jesus was laughing.

I was facing away from the ocean and the sunshine, busy with my project in the sand, my face in shadow.

Jesus gazed into the horizon, his face lit by the sun, as he sat in awe at the edge of the water.

Retreat always begins with a “before,” and ends with an “after.”

In my inspired imagination, as I prayed on the first day of my 8-day annual retreat this year, Jesus showed me that my “before”—my approach to life as a responsible and serious project-conscious adult—was no longer satisfying me. And he showed me in prayer that what he wanted for me was “delight,” his way of both delighting in the Father’s love for him and knowing that he was the delight of his Father.

In Psalm 131 there is this lovely line in the Jerusalem Bible translation: “Like a little child, so I keep myself.”

As I watched the ocean gently wash away the cares of the very important work of creating my sandcastle, Jesus helped me to feel on every level of my being what I have been created for: to be a child of the Father, as he himself is the Child of the Father. In fact, Jesus’ urging us to lay aside our self-importance to become like little children is rooted in his very way of life. Jesus wanted me to feel what he felt going about his life on this earth, what he felt in prayer on the mountains, connecting with his Father, indeed, what he feels before the Father for all eternity.

Hans Urs von Balthasar wrote in the book Unless You Become Like a Child that as a grown man, Jesus never leaves the “bosom of the Father.” His identity is inseparable from his being a Child in the bosom of the Father. In one place in the book he imagines the child Jesus becoming conscious of the world around him … “When the Mother awakens him, the opening up of the whole horizon of reality is experienced not only as something holy but as the realization that in the depths of this opened fullness of being there radiates the personal Face of his Father, personally turned toward him.”

Jesus draws us in prayer to sit beside him as he gazes into the Face of his Father who is “personally turned toward him,” personally turned toward us. This is the one thing necessary, this sitting, this receiving, this allowing oneself to be seen, to be loved. It is this that Mary had discovered and Martha’s heart—and mine—still yearned to know.

There are many things in our lives that frighten us into hiding from love, that paralyze parts of us so that we are hesitant to open up to receive the welcoming smile of God and of others. Retreats are often the long stretch of quiet healing that make it possible for us to accept being loved.

After all, Jesus was showing me, isn’t that what a tiny child longs for, needs, depends on, and trusts in? No matter what has happened in our lives, the eternal Father’s love heals and holds us until we are warmed with the gaze of his Face and are confident in the strength of his tender care for us.

Jesus didn’t ask us to be smart, accomplished, successful, organized. Nowhere in the Gospel do we find him suggesting that anything depends on us alone, especially this very important work that we were invited to share: the salvation of the world. There is only an insistence on spiritual childhood, this transformation of heart and mind made possible through the grace of the Holy Spirit.

“The child has time to take time as it comes, one day at a time, calmly, without advance planning or greedy hoarding of time. Time to play, time to sleep. He knows nothing of appointment books in which every moment has already been sold in advance.” Instead, every moment “we should receive with gratitude the full cup that is handed to us … And only with time of this quality can the Christian find God in all things, just as Christ found the Father in all things.”

This is my “after,” the gift of my retreat, the first day of the rest of my life. This is the joy Jesus has desired for me to know, the delight that is now mine forever.

Image credit: Christ with Martha and Maria by Henryk Siemiradzki, 1886 via Wikimedia, in the public domain.

Photo by Julia Kadel on Unsplash

What does your grieving heart need? “It is time…”

Published on by Sr. Kathryn J Hermes, FSP1 Comment

I keep asking: why so many doors?

It’s a strange thing. One door closes. My Mother passes into eternity. A relationship changed. Memories left to be sifted through. A love to reimagine and rediscover and re-embrace. It was one door that closed and certainly opened for her into eternity.

But why so many other doors clamor now for my attention?

Doors of loss. Doors of ungrieved sorrow. Doors that closed too soon and doors that closed too late.

When someone passes into eternity, we don’t go with them. Our love and friendship and future and shared dreams are no longer the same. What we had built together collapses in a great sigh. The memories that structured our day and our togetherness simply disappear, or we need to carry them forward on our own. The memories that once made us laugh, now bring up tears. Even their name, so beautiful, catches in our throat.

Why do so many doors these days haunt my dreams and fill my prayers?

Grief tends to open wounds that had been long forgotten and passed over, tucked away and wished away….

Grief shows us the many doors that hide deaths still not mourned, losses we’ve experienced along the way of life.

An illness that changed the direction of our life, a path taken that plunged us into unexpected sorrow, the sting of rejection and the pain of failure.

Losses that often had been bravely soldiered through. Now, in great tenderness, our heart hears the whisper, “It is time.”

Photo by Alex Kulikov on Unsplash

The long empty hallways where something of ourselves had died… It is time to walk them. To listen to our steps… To hear our own breathing… To be led by wisdom and mercy down the labyrinths of broken dreams to reclaim our life. To meet ourselves now ready to live. To find the secret of inner harmony and integration and serene peace and an ever-living hope, a flame that does not die.

I prayed with this image one morning. The empty, sterile, too-tidied halls that represented the many losses of my life were quietly frightening. But with my hand in Jesus’ hand, we did not run from them. “Something in you died here, when you had your stroke at twenty-one.” He was kind and tender and gentle. He knew. He always knew. And now he was helping me to find again what had been taken from me by what happened.

“Something in you died there too….” Like an elderly wise one, a grandfather who had seen a thousand years, Jesus opened the doors one after another.

Let the sorrow pound the soul’s shores like the ocean’s tides.

As we walked, the empty halls began to fill up with furniture and flowers, and through the  windows the sun’s rays frolicked across the warm floor. And music and dancing and joy and laughter….

Image from Pixabay.

Death and loss steals away the carefree trust that life will bless me, that it will never hurt. Grieving, slow and gentle, closes the too many wounds that have been left in their wake with the promise that all is love and all is still loved.

The many doors I have explored, since my Mother walked through the eternal door that awaits us all, have brought me once more to touch the joy and the laughter that was once mine and is still there. In time grieving melts into a larger loving and a newly reclaimed and received sense of identity.

We do not grieve alone.  

Feature image credit: Photo by Julia Kadel on Unsplash

Invitation: Lectio Catolica on ZOOM

Published on by Sr. Kathryn J Hermes, FSPLeave a comment

Has this ever happened to you? Those times when you feel uncertain, upset, or just a little bit unmoored or lonely as you try to understand what’s happening within you or in your life (or in the lives of those you love)?

When you reach out for something, Someone, who knows what it is all about, who knows the whole picture, who knows YOU?

Someone who was there the day you were born? Who has seen your every joy and every loss? Delighted in every smile and suffered with you in your tears?

And you wondered: how do I connect? How do I know? How do I get to the bottom of my questions or my pain? How do I let go…. How do I love myself?

Life’s questions tend to be profound teachers which lead us beyond what we can understand about ourselves to the very arms of Jesus. In our search for answers, we find a Face and a Love.

Lectio Catolica is all about discovering how Jesus evangelizes our hearts with his Word.

LECTIO CATOLICA: Sacred Reading for the Journey of Life is an online prayer gathering held on Zoom where we break open the journey of life in the light of the Scriptures and other spiritual writings.

LECTIO CATOLICA includes a Scripture reading, reflections by the Sisters on the theme of the month, guided prayer, small group sharing, and prayer together.

Would you join me and my sisters for our first online prayer gathering LECTIO CATOLICA?

June 16, 2025
8:00-8:45pm Eastern Time

Theme: Holiness in Unexpected Places: The Promises of God Will Hold You Secure

Find more details and register here.

Friends, I am so grateful that you have joined me on the journey here at touchingthesunrise.com. It would be an honor to gather together every now and then online.

Sr. Kathryn