COR IESU Blog

Preaching to the Whole Person: Classical Wisdom for the New Evangelization

“Given the importance of the word of God, the quality of homilies needs to be improved.” Pope Benedict XVI wrote these words in his 2007 Apostolic Exhortation, Sacramentum Caritatis. The Holy Father then repeated this admonition in his 2010 Apostolic Exhortation, Verbum Domini, adding: “The art of good preaching…is an art that needs to be cultivated.” This need is all the more pressing as the Church embraces the call and challenge of the New Evangelization. A renewed effort on the part of preachers—to improve the quality of homilies, and to cultivate the art of good preaching—must be central to the work of the New Evangelization. The question is: How is this to be done? How can the art of good preaching be learned and cultivated? This is an age-old question, and there are some age-old answers to this question which, I believe, can serve preachers very well in meeting the challenges of evangelization in our day.

St. Augustine is the Church’s foremost teacher in the classical art of Christian preaching, and it is to him that we will turn in order to learn something of the classical wisdom on preaching effectively. This master rhetorician, and former teacher of oratory, was convinced that the pagan rhetorical tradition, which was so important to the ancient cultures of Greece and Rome, had great insights to offer Christian preachers about the art of good preaching. We shall explore Augustine’s appropriation of this classical wisdom—first, in his own theory of preaching, and then, in his actual practice—with the hope of discovering that the perennial wisdom contained in Augustine’s theory and practice of preaching can provide a firm foundation for the work of the New Evangelization. …

Read full article at The Homiletic & Pastoral Review.

Article originally published at The Homiletic & Pastoral Review by Fr. Michael Dominic O’Connor, O.P.

We Need Great Men

The modern Church is in dire need of greatness.

We don’t just need anyone in the seminary; we don’t just need anyone in the pew.

We need great men.

We need great men who don’t flee from danger or run into trifling dangers unheeded. We need great men who live not for themselves but for another. We need great men who believe in love and love to believe.

We, the Church, need great men.

We don’t need men who are unduly humble, and we certainly don’t need men who are vain.

We need great men.

And each of us—both you and me—have the potential to be great, to be magnanimous.

What, then, constitutes a great man? Magnanimous men seek to do great acts, acts that would otherwise merit honor and esteem from others. Their minds, in a word, have “stretched” to the consideration of great things (ST II-II, q. 129, a. 1). They are marked by greatness of soul and seek excellence in proportion to the gifts that they have received from God. In this way, even those who seem little can be great.

The nine-to-five businessman can be great.

The oft-forgotten homemaker can be great.

The lonesome college student can be great.

The newly-minted seminarian can be great.

And even the hidden, cloistered life of a religious can be marked by greatness.

Each of us—both you and me—have the potential to be great, to be magnanimous.

You and I are capable of the greatest of things: sanctity. You can be the greatest businessman and the best of fathers; you can be the greatest homemaker and the best of mothers; you can be the greatest college student and the best of friends; you can be the greatest seminarian and the best of men; you can be the greatest religious and the best of women. And to be the greatest and to be the best is to be nothing less than a saint.

The modern Church is in dire need of this greatness.

The modern Church needs magnanimous, saintly men who pursue greatness in the midst of a mediocre world, even when greatness is arduous or unsparing of life. She needs those truly great souls who know that there are certain conditions in which this life is not worth having, and that eternal life is promised to those who persevere to the end. She needs men who desire greatness, not of this world, but of the next.

We don’t just need anyone in the seminary; we don’t just need anyone in the pew.

We, the Church, need men who strive for greatness, who strive to be saints.

Article originally published at Dominicana by Fr. Maximilian Maria Jaskowak, O.P.

Why I Desire to be a Catholic Priest

The difficulty of explaining “why I desire to be a Catholic priest” is that there are ten thousand reasons all amounting to one, rather mysterious and all-encompassing reason: I have heard a still, small voice in the silence of my heart. And I believe it to be his voice.

I could fill the remaining space of this reflection with other, no less important or inconsequential reasons as to why I desire to be a Catholic priest. As, for instance:

(1) I desire to give my whole heart to God with complete freedom of soul, such that he becomes my only inheritance, my only possession; and it seems that I can do no better than to become a Catholic priest in order to fulfill this desire.

(2) I desire friendship with Jesus, and the thought of caring for him in the Blessed Sacrament and for all that appertains to it—including its reservation, distribution, and adoration—produces a deep and abiding joy in my heart; and no other vocation allows for such intimacy with the Blessed Sacrament as that of a Catholic priest.

(3) I desire to save souls, to give to each individual soul that which is most suitable for its salvation, and to give to all souls what is, in the end, everything: God; and the grandeur of this task is principally entrusted to Catholic priests.

(4) I desire to be a Catholic priest, because I wish to be nothing without Jesus, and everything with him; and so on.

Or I could fill the remaining space of this reflection with my so-called vocation story, but I happen to think that my vocation story is an absolute bore. Thousands of much better men have given their lives to the priesthood. And their stories are magnificent. I would much prefer to say here precisely that which can be said by any man who has sought ordination to the priesthood. In short, the desire to be a Catholic priest is born from love. But this love is not only greater than man, it is greater than anything in the world, and still greater than the world itself.

This love of which I speak is the love of God. And the desire to be a Catholic priest is born from this love, from the very love of God. Why? For the sake of space, four reasons will suffice:

(1) The desire to be a Catholic priest is born from the love of God because any semblance of desire for the priesthood (and what it entails) is inconceivable without knowledge of the love of the heart of Jesus.

(2) The desire to be a Catholic priest is born from the love of God because only God can enlarge the capacity of the human heart to embrace souls with the gentle and chaste love of Jesus, the eternal high priest.

(3) The desire to be a Catholic priest is born from the love of God because only God can so thoroughly conquer the heart of man with a voice as soft, delicate, and forgiving as his.

(4) The desire to be a Catholic priest is born from the love of God because only God can fill the heart of man with himself, with his own adorable heart.

The mysterious designs by which God communicates this desire to men is nothing short of astonishing. It reveals the exquisite tenderness and incredible patience of Jesus with the souls of priests, who so often drag their dignity through the mire and repay his love with deceit. And yet, God continues to call lowly men to Holy Orders; and I pray that he has called me.

“Come, follow me.”

Article originally published at Dominicana by Fr. Maximilian Maria Jaskowak, O.P.

Priest, A Soldier of Christ

For as great as the priesthood is, and for as important as the priestly mission purports to be, rare is the soul who maintains that a priest is a soldier of Christ. But, in point of fact, we can confidently say of the priest what is so often said of the soldier: a priest does not rejoice in adversity, but triumphs in war.

As compared with a soldier, indeed, some young men arrive at the seminary all but ready for war. Many of these men have the air of setting the world on fire from the start, and can articulate precisely what it was that first set them aflame. We know that men like Dominic or Francis had kindled their torches from the very fire of divine love, and then proceeded to establish furnaces of their own where that same love burns brightly still. But not every young man is inflamed or inspired or even moved by the genius of these mendicant giants, nor is every young man endowed with such grace. Some men are simply soldiers. Their fire, what there is of it, began similarly with God, and its light and warmth has no less importance for the Church than does a modern-day Franciscan troubadour. So whether they be diocesan or religious, the formation that is ordered to their being a priest of Christ, is itself analogous to the initial training of any and every soldier.

Some young men, perhaps most young men, however, arrive at the seminary not yet ready for war. It might seem uncouth to say that this variety of priest-wannabes are nothing more than plebes. And yet, such an objection confuses the good of desire with the essential good of preparation. These seminarians may well desire to bear their torches of divine love into the world, much like other priests and religious before them. But their collective desire, if it is not properly cared for, can become wild and unruly. Little do they know that natural abilities are far from absolutes; which is to say, they cannot rely solely upon themselves in this open engagement with the powers of darkness. It is, therefore, critical that they be prepared for combat prior to their donning of priestly wear; they must be briefed on the weaknesses of the Enemy as well as the weaknesses of their company. For it is not enough to imitate the likes of a John Vianney, however good that may be; to be a happy and holy priest, one must also come to recognize the particularity of grace in the life of each soldier—especially one’s own.

Therefore, in considering even the crudest aspects of the analogy, there is the interest and mystery surrounding the formation and training by which one becomes a priest. Even if no one is willing to call him a soldier, he is no less of one, as a result of his seminary education. By the sacrament of orders, his identity as a soldier of Christ comes from within and not merely from without; he cannot ever be denied this dignity, even if his life should be lost at the hands of sin and death. The dignity of the priesthood belongs to him forever, as does his rank in the armies of God.

Article originally published at Dominicana by Fr. Maximilian Maria Jaskowak, O.P.