We, as Catholics, profess our faith in many ways. We profess it through word, deed, and through the Sign of the Cross. When we profess it through word, we answer as Peter did when he was asked by Jesus: “Whom do you say that I am?” Peter replied, “Thou art Christ, the Son of the living God.” When we profess it through deed, we assist at mass, receive the Sacraments, genuflect, and fold our hands in prayer.
We use the Sign of the Cross to profess our faith because it expresses two of the mysteries of Christianity, the Blessed Trinity and the Passion and Redemption of Jesus Christ. The Sign of the Cross, when made devoutly, helps to protect us against the snares of the devil. It arouses thoughts of Faith, Hope, and Charity within us; it helps us to rise above human respect, and draws the blessings of Heaven down upon us.
When we make the Sign of the Cross, we say, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost”. We are professing that we believe in and accept the Blessed Trinity. We also make a cross on ourselves, symbolizing the cross that Jesus was crucified upon and his glorious Resurrection.
We should make the Sign of the Cross when we rise, when we go to bed, before and after prayers, before all important events, and in all temptations and dangers. We also make the Sign of the Cross on our forehead, mouth, and heart at the reading of the Gospel, so that we may through the grace of God, understand the Gospel with our minds, profess it with our mouths, and to love it with our hearts.
Cardinal Newman said that whenever he made the Sign of the Cross, he started thinking good thoughts, and courage awoke within him. That it helped him when he suffered and encouraged him to do good things. He also said that whenever he forgot to make the Sign of the Cross, he saw evil spirits that threaten and torment poor souls, and it scared him.
People did not always the Sign of the Cross like they do now. They used to make it only on their foreheads with the right thumb, but then it evolved into touching the forehead, the lower chest, the heart, or the stomach, and the shoulders. We still use the old way, as previously stated, before the reading of the Gospel, but we cross over our hearts and our mouths as well. There are several other ways that it is done, but this is the way that we as Catholics do it.
The Sign of the Cross is used in other religions as well, such as Lutheranism and Methodism, but many others have rejected it because it goes against their beliefs. It is absent from religions such as Mormonism, for they do not believe in the revealed mystery of the Blessed Trinity. But we, as Catholics, should use it frequently and reverently, to profess our faith, to accept God’s grace, and to open our hearts to Him.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Our Men
**I wrote this yesterday, but couldn't post it because the power went out. The power's back on, so Happy Veteran's Day a day later.**
There has become a tendency in American culture to assign the label "hero" to anyone who does the difficult, the frightening, or the unpleasant. Our society has become so hungry for heroes that we give the label to anyone and render it almost a useless word.
Lest we forget what a true hero looks like:
He marched for months in the snow with nothing but rags covering his frostbitten feet, leaving bloody footprints behind him, to cross a frozen river and finally win the right to govern himself.
He fought the British in New Orleans, in the oppressive Southern humidity, to ultimately defeat the army of thousands with only a small band of men because "By the Eternal they shall not sleep on our soil."
He put on his uniform of blue and battled the heat, the humidity and Johnny Reb to keep this nation together so that he could leave it, intact, to his children and grandchildren who were yet to be born.
He put on his uniform of gray and fought dysentery and damn Yankees because he believed people had the right to govern themselves as they saw fit.
He rode across the plains risking capture, torture, death and an unmarked grave to protect his fellow Americans as they sought to win for themselves their future and freedom in the West.
He charged up San Juan Hill with the Rough Riders and helped to drive the Spanish out of Cuba because he knew from his history books that the oppressed heart yearns to be free.
He marched across Europe with its horrors of barbed wire and mustard gas to protect our brethren across the sea because people should have the right to live in peace with their neighbors, so he willingly offered his life and twenty years later would send his own son to do the same.
He crossed Europe in a tank fighting harder and longer and bloodier than he ever could have imagined he would be asked to do, to liberate a people hunted and gathered into concentration camps by their fellow countrymen. He braved the horrors of war for years knowing that his loved ones waited at home but he had to finish the job before he returned to them; because, he knew that there is no "master race", truly all people are beloved in the sight of God.
He fought in the Pacific and raised that flag over Iwo Jima then dropped to his knees as Fr Suver said Mass, because freedom is a gift from the Almighty and even as it is defended in battle it must also be defended in prayer, and the American soldier has always looked to his God for the strength to do what is good and right in His eyes.
He fought in the sticky heat of Korea, a place he had never even heard of in school, fighting for the right of freedom and self-determination for people he didn't know; because, no one should have to live under Communism.
He fought in Vietnam for people who spoke a language he didn't know, who weren't sure they trusted a man with blue eyes who was so tall, because liberty is worth dying for and should be protected at all costs. Only to return and be spat upon by his fellow Americans. He wore their insults with pride because he knew that only in a country protected by men like him would people be free to spit at soldiers.
He went to the Middle East, twice, once to help an ally and once to liberate a people. He lived with sand fleas and enormous spiders and carried heavy gear in 130 degree heat because he knew that all people really want is to be able to get up every day and raise their children in peace without worrying about religious fanatics or crazy men shattering their lives.
He has walked and fought for freedom, liberty, and self-determination and the dignity of human beings everywhere he has gone. These battle hardened men who willingly offer up their own lives and futures so that nameless strangers can speak and think and live exactly as they wish. He does all of this without thanks, without recognition, without fanfare, but with honor...always with honor.
We should have a word bigger than "hero" for men like this, a word that swells the heart with pride that they are ours. Thank goodness we do...we call them Veterans.
There has become a tendency in American culture to assign the label "hero" to anyone who does the difficult, the frightening, or the unpleasant. Our society has become so hungry for heroes that we give the label to anyone and render it almost a useless word.
Lest we forget what a true hero looks like:
He marched for months in the snow with nothing but rags covering his frostbitten feet, leaving bloody footprints behind him, to cross a frozen river and finally win the right to govern himself.
He fought the British in New Orleans, in the oppressive Southern humidity, to ultimately defeat the army of thousands with only a small band of men because "By the Eternal they shall not sleep on our soil."
He put on his uniform of blue and battled the heat, the humidity and Johnny Reb to keep this nation together so that he could leave it, intact, to his children and grandchildren who were yet to be born.
He put on his uniform of gray and fought dysentery and damn Yankees because he believed people had the right to govern themselves as they saw fit.
He rode across the plains risking capture, torture, death and an unmarked grave to protect his fellow Americans as they sought to win for themselves their future and freedom in the West.
He charged up San Juan Hill with the Rough Riders and helped to drive the Spanish out of Cuba because he knew from his history books that the oppressed heart yearns to be free.
He marched across Europe with its horrors of barbed wire and mustard gas to protect our brethren across the sea because people should have the right to live in peace with their neighbors, so he willingly offered his life and twenty years later would send his own son to do the same.
He crossed Europe in a tank fighting harder and longer and bloodier than he ever could have imagined he would be asked to do, to liberate a people hunted and gathered into concentration camps by their fellow countrymen. He braved the horrors of war for years knowing that his loved ones waited at home but he had to finish the job before he returned to them; because, he knew that there is no "master race", truly all people are beloved in the sight of God.
He fought in the Pacific and raised that flag over Iwo Jima then dropped to his knees as Fr Suver said Mass, because freedom is a gift from the Almighty and even as it is defended in battle it must also be defended in prayer, and the American soldier has always looked to his God for the strength to do what is good and right in His eyes.
He fought in the sticky heat of Korea, a place he had never even heard of in school, fighting for the right of freedom and self-determination for people he didn't know; because, no one should have to live under Communism.
He fought in Vietnam for people who spoke a language he didn't know, who weren't sure they trusted a man with blue eyes who was so tall, because liberty is worth dying for and should be protected at all costs. Only to return and be spat upon by his fellow Americans. He wore their insults with pride because he knew that only in a country protected by men like him would people be free to spit at soldiers.
He went to the Middle East, twice, once to help an ally and once to liberate a people. He lived with sand fleas and enormous spiders and carried heavy gear in 130 degree heat because he knew that all people really want is to be able to get up every day and raise their children in peace without worrying about religious fanatics or crazy men shattering their lives.
He has walked and fought for freedom, liberty, and self-determination and the dignity of human beings everywhere he has gone. These battle hardened men who willingly offer up their own lives and futures so that nameless strangers can speak and think and live exactly as they wish. He does all of this without thanks, without recognition, without fanfare, but with honor...always with honor.
We should have a word bigger than "hero" for men like this, a word that swells the heart with pride that they are ours. Thank goodness we do...we call them Veterans.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
My Heart Swells...
My eldest son served his first Mass today. Dressed in the traditional black and white, with his hands perfectly folded, he took slow, measured steps up the aisle as my heart swelled within me and my eyes brimmed with tears.
Here was my tiny baby, the one who should have died, the one who shouldn't be able to hear, the one who shouldn't be able to do so many things. Here was the boy who brought me faith walking solemnly behind the crucifix.
He snuck out of the sacristy before Mass to show me how splendid he looked this morning.
"Mom, I look like a priest. Did you ever think you would see me looking like a priest?"
How does a mother answer that except to smile with her heart shining in her eyes, caress a still smooth cheek and then hurry him back to where he should be?
I watched my class clown glow with pride and joy as he served his Lord this morning. His comic expressions traded for deep contemplation. All through the Consecration I watched him turning something over and over in his head.
I asked him later and he said he was thinking about the phrase "the Source and Summit of our Faith." He read it last week and I refused to explain it to him. "Pray about it," I told him. "It will come to you."
"I get it." He said in the car after Mass. "The Eucharist is the Source because it is Jesus Christ, and Jesus is where our Faith comes from."
I simply smiled at him.
"I couldn't figure out the Summit part." He continued. "A summit is the top of a mountain. Then I thought that they are the highest part and that bringing Christ into ourselves is the highest thing we can do. That's what I was thinking during the Consecration, the Source and Summit."
He sighed deeply, feeling his own new-found place in all of this.
"The Source and the Summit," he said to himself, "and I got to help."
Here was my tiny baby, the one who should have died, the one who shouldn't be able to hear, the one who shouldn't be able to do so many things. Here was the boy who brought me faith walking solemnly behind the crucifix.
He snuck out of the sacristy before Mass to show me how splendid he looked this morning.
"Mom, I look like a priest. Did you ever think you would see me looking like a priest?"
How does a mother answer that except to smile with her heart shining in her eyes, caress a still smooth cheek and then hurry him back to where he should be?
I watched my class clown glow with pride and joy as he served his Lord this morning. His comic expressions traded for deep contemplation. All through the Consecration I watched him turning something over and over in his head.
I asked him later and he said he was thinking about the phrase "the Source and Summit of our Faith." He read it last week and I refused to explain it to him. "Pray about it," I told him. "It will come to you."
"I get it." He said in the car after Mass. "The Eucharist is the Source because it is Jesus Christ, and Jesus is where our Faith comes from."
I simply smiled at him.
"I couldn't figure out the Summit part." He continued. "A summit is the top of a mountain. Then I thought that they are the highest part and that bringing Christ into ourselves is the highest thing we can do. That's what I was thinking during the Consecration, the Source and Summit."
He sighed deeply, feeling his own new-found place in all of this.
"The Source and the Summit," he said to himself, "and I got to help."
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Perspective
Yesterday was my birthday. It came and went without a lot of fanfare. We had big plans for dinner out with friends, but it didn't happen. We all got sick instead.
It started with the baby running a fever in Mass on Sunday morning, then one by one we all succumbed to it. Fevers, runny noses, sore throats, and crankiness. Norman Rockwell didn't paint this type of family scene for a reason.
It's hard not to be melancholy when the house is filled with sick children and you just want to go to bed yourself. This is not the way birthdays are supposed to go.
I had amazing birthdays in my childhood. Huge parties with the most amazing cakes. My mother was an artist with icing. She would begin planning our birthday cakes months ahead of time, long before planning for the actual party had even begun. The cake was everything. It determined the theme and decorations and how many people could be invited.
When you are a child, birthdays are all about the party and the presents. When you are an adult, they are a day for family and friends to call and touch base, a day for checking in and up. As my brother put it yesterday: "It's not about the presents anymore, it's about knowing you are remembered."
If that is the measuring stick, then mine went pretty well after all. I heard from both of my brothers and more friends and acquaintances than I can possibly count. I heard from childhood friends and adult confidantes. I was hugged by my children who all dragged themselves from bed at various times during the day to come and find me for a hug and a quick "Happy Birthday Mom" before crawling back to their own beds. I heard the drowsy voice of my love as he wished me a happy day when the alarm went off in the morning and as I snuggled next to him again in the evening.
It was not the most fun birthday I've ever had. I would be glad to never spend another one quite like this, and yet it was a blessing in its own way. It was the reminder that life is not about parties, or cute presents, or even the number of birthdays you have along the way. Life is about the other people you impact. It's about the friends and family who love you enough to take a moment to remember that you are here and be grateful for it.
It started with the baby running a fever in Mass on Sunday morning, then one by one we all succumbed to it. Fevers, runny noses, sore throats, and crankiness. Norman Rockwell didn't paint this type of family scene for a reason.
It's hard not to be melancholy when the house is filled with sick children and you just want to go to bed yourself. This is not the way birthdays are supposed to go.
I had amazing birthdays in my childhood. Huge parties with the most amazing cakes. My mother was an artist with icing. She would begin planning our birthday cakes months ahead of time, long before planning for the actual party had even begun. The cake was everything. It determined the theme and decorations and how many people could be invited.
When you are a child, birthdays are all about the party and the presents. When you are an adult, they are a day for family and friends to call and touch base, a day for checking in and up. As my brother put it yesterday: "It's not about the presents anymore, it's about knowing you are remembered."
If that is the measuring stick, then mine went pretty well after all. I heard from both of my brothers and more friends and acquaintances than I can possibly count. I heard from childhood friends and adult confidantes. I was hugged by my children who all dragged themselves from bed at various times during the day to come and find me for a hug and a quick "Happy Birthday Mom" before crawling back to their own beds. I heard the drowsy voice of my love as he wished me a happy day when the alarm went off in the morning and as I snuggled next to him again in the evening.
It was not the most fun birthday I've ever had. I would be glad to never spend another one quite like this, and yet it was a blessing in its own way. It was the reminder that life is not about parties, or cute presents, or even the number of birthdays you have along the way. Life is about the other people you impact. It's about the friends and family who love you enough to take a moment to remember that you are here and be grateful for it.
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