Ritual Sacrifices in Switzerland! Black Masses in Oklahoma! Cats and Dogs, Living Together!

Once again satanism is back in the news, with reports of a black mass in Oklahoma City and a strange satanic ritual surreptitiously caught on smart phone video in Switzerland, that may or may not be a hoax. My guess is that it is a hoax, but in the end it doesn't matter - more on that later. There have also been at least two instances of open municipal meetings commencing with satanic prayers in Alaska and Florida.


The common thread that all this activity has is that just about all of the satanists claim to either be goofing on satanism or else using the prince of darkness as a metaphor for rebellion, freedom and nonconformity, or some such rot. They claim to not really believe in the devil or in God, for that matter. It's a way of thumbing their nose at Christians, so everybody should just chill out with the holy water and deliverance prayers, already. 

Here's the deal: I don't buy it. I have no doubt that some, and you might be able to convince me that most, of these occult dabblers are putting it on, but not all. Even if they were faking it at first, strange things do happen to people who fool, even superficially, with the black arts. 

I read a book years ago by one of the priests who was an adviser on The Exorcist. He related that when he was a seminarian, back in the '40's or '50's, he asked for special permission to do a term paper on demonology. It was still the days of the Index, and the topic in general couldn't be researched without getting the okay from the superiors. Permission was granted under one condition: if he noticed anything unusual happening he was to report it immediately to the dean. Shortly after he began researching the paper a strange thing did happen. He was across the hall speaking to a class mate when they noticed that the lights in his room were going on and off without any logical explanation: no one was in the room, none of the other rooms on the floor or in the building were being effected. He reported it to the dean, and was told to cease and desist his research immediately.

Another story - hearsay I admit, maybe an urban legend - involves three or four students at an American seminary back in the '70's or '80's. One of them began innocently enough, researching on his own occult practices - the strictures of that earlier generation were by then lifted. His curiosity grew, he began speaking to his friends about what he was reading, and before they knew it they were performing satanic rituals on seminary property. They were found out, and I'm pretty sure kicked out - though I never got that part of the story straight. The seminary spiritual director then celebrated a Mass with the intention of clearing the space any demonic influences that may have been attracted by the rituals. 

Even if this particular story isn't true (and I've always hoped that it isn't), a principle behind it is: curiosity in the occult can turn into an obsession, that then may turn into practice. Once the occult is put into practice, all bets are off, and the doorways to a realm better left closed off are open. Most exorcists I've heard will tell you that simply playing with a ouija board, or shuffling a tarot deck isn't going to automatically lead to demonic infestations or possessions. But the evil one works quietly, insidiously, and if one isn't vigilant he or she can end up effected in ways they never imagined. I compare it to a child playing with matches in the kitchen sink: the odds of burning the house down are small, but not zero. So it's better to stay away from what may even seem like innocent or harmless expressions like ouija boards, tarot readings and seances. 

I believe the the Salem Witch Hysteria is one such case of curiosity gone wild. The common narrative we are usually taught in school is that there are no such things as witches, and the events of 1692 in Salem were either a case of pre-enlightenment religious fanaticism, people getting revenge of their neighbors by accusing them of sorcery, or some other mass hysteria caused by people unable to properly process social and political changes on both sides of the Atlantic. As for the seemingly supernatural manifestations, it was a case of prepubescent girls' play acting going too far - causing them to fake their outbursts in court, or else they were having seizures cause by hallucinogenic mold in their rye bread. Or there was a combination of these very earthbound, natural causes to explain the horrible events in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, 1692.

I'm not so sure. I've read secular, scholarly research that states quite plainly that witchcraft was practiced in the Massachusetts Colony at the time. Tituba, a West Indian slave of African descent who was the first accused of occult practice, may have been innocently practicing preventative spells against evil, as she claimed. It's not hard to believe, though, that stories she told the girls of the village about various rituals and rites practiced in her native Barbados spurred their curiosity, and maybe even got them experimenting with witchcraft. Once the door was opened, it really didn't matter whether the participants were sincere or not. The demonic was invited in, and was more than happy to accept.

From there, whether the manifestations were truly preternatural or not really doesn't matter all that much. The demonic is all about division and fear, and Salem was gripped by both things during the hysteria. Apart from the trippy grain theory, the possibility that neighbors were using the crisis to exact revenge on neighbors or that the populous was gripped by some sort of social paranoia that made everyone a suspect plays right into Satan's hands. He doesn't have to go all Linda Blair on people (in fact, he prefers not to): he just has to plant the seeds of discord and division, and our fallen human nature will take care of the rest. And it all begins with idle curiosity.

As for our friends at the CERN particle accelerator in Switzerland, I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but the high ups there have a reason to be unhappy with these "scientists'" shenanigans. One of the objectives of the research done there is to find the so called "God Particle." Now, I'm way out of my depth here, so even trying to give a simple explanation to what that means is hard for me, because I really don't understand it myself - so here goes nothing. They are trying to get down, as far as I can tell, to the most basic building block of reality - the "thing" or the molecule or sub molecular structure that serves as the  common thread through all physical reality. They also do research into worm holes, black holes and the possibility of inter-dimensionality. Real science fiction type stuff, only it's really happening. They've been accused of trying to play God and maybe even trying to destroy the universe (I'm not saying that I think this, I'm just reporting the news). It doesn't help that they have a statue of the Hindu god Shiva, the Destroyer, doing the Dance of Destruction, in their courtyard (a gift of the Indian government). And this happened to be the very spot where the supposed satanic ritual took place. Not good for PR, to say the least. 

Even if this ritual was a fake, and I hope it was because if it's not it means that a murder took place (real satanists don't play act), the pranksters still messed with a reality beyond their understanding or control. What they don't know is that inter-dimensionality does really exist, just that they aren't going to find it shooting subatomic particles at each other. They may learn other things beneficial to humanity, but finding a portal to some alternate universe isn't one of them. What I'm writing of is a dimension of spirit, not matter. It is a heavenly dimension, but there is also a dimension of darkness, and they who dwell there don't care if you're being serious or not, they will accept the invitation if you're insistent enough, and go deep enough to meet them.

So to sum up:

1. We don't need to be overly preoccupied with demonic activity. If you're living a moral life, a prayer life and a Sacramental life the devil is going to be more scared of you than you should be of him.

2. While it's good to have a basic knowledge of how to conduct yourself in the spiritual combat with evil, an unhealthy curiosity with the occult can lead to obsession which then can actually be a doorway for the demonic into your life.

3. While contact with things like tarot cards and ouija boards won't automatically lead to demonic influences entering your life, playing with the occult, even jokingly, can lead to the curiosity and obsession mentioned above, and be a doorway for evil. So better to not touch those things to begin with.

4. The devil really doesn't want to manifest himself in preternatural ways. He much prefers to stay hidden. If he can inspire suspicion, division, hostility, jealousy and hatred, he is very happy to sit back and watch us tear each other apart. 

5. I didn't write about this, but keep holy objects like blessed crucifixes and images of the saints in your house. A yard statue of Mary is always good as well. Of course a Bible, and even holy water are good accessories in any home. Sacramentals are so much more powerful than we know. It's something I'll write about more in a later post perhaps, but those visible signs of the presence of the Kingdom are so important. They are a reminder to us and others of God's love for us, and that His Kingdom is already here. As these visible signs are being pushed out of the public square, I don't think that its an accident that they are being replaced in some places by occult symbols. 

In the end, I would recommend you read Fr. Dwight Longenecker's piece in Crux. He states very well that modern Satanism is a real problem that needs to be dealt with, but a danger we shouldn't exaggerate either. 

Ben Hur - A Tale of the Christ // Movie Review

I unexpectedly found myself tonight seeing the 2016 remake of Ben Hur. Br. Charles, one of our community members, wanted to go at the last moment, so I obliged. It's based on the 1880 Lew Wallace novel (subtitled A Tale of the Christ) that has been adapted for the big screen twice before, in 1925 and more famously in 1959. The iconic '59 version, staring Charlton Heston in the title role won a record 11 Academy Awards including Best Picture, still holds up pretty well all these years later. 

I never read the novel, that was wildly popular in the late nineteenth century and for most of the first half of the twentieth, rivaled only by Gone With The Wind on annual best seller lists. I'm told, though, that the current release, staring Jack Huston as Judah Ben Hur and Toby Kebbell as his rival (and here adoptive brother) Messala, is truer to the source material than the two previous films. Religion always played a part in the story, with Judah's plight in some way mirroring that of Jesus of Nazareth. Here the parallels are drawn out even more prominently than before, with faith playing an important part in most of the central characters' lives. Whether this reflects greater fidelity to the book or not, I can't say, but it makes sense. The First Century Roman Empire was a religious place for Jew and Gentile alike, and Messala is sympathetically depicted as being a faithful devotee of his pagan gods. While no one should be under any illusions that this Mark Burnett, Roma Downey executive produced effort will make us forget the William Wyler directed classic, it does present surprising nuance to the story and the characters that differs from past versions, that I'm guessing reflects Wallace's original vision. 

That being said, I've read a lot of hate from critics today, who have been critical of everything from the character development, to the CGI special effects to the significant trimming done to reduce the running time from 1959's three and a half hours to this one's relatively stream lined two hours and three minutes. Usually, if I read bad reviews ahead of time (keep mind that I try not to read anything before I see a movie), as much as I don't want it to be so, the critics by and large get it right. This time they don't, pure and simple. How much of it has to do with the ramped up religiosity on display here, I can't say. It's never easy remaking a legend - our minds can't help but compare the two, which also must be a reason for some of the negative notices. They also do change key plot points and eliminate subplots from the earlier film (I'm guessing for a combination of fidelity and budget concerns), that in some cases make the logic of what's happening less plausible. So, I'm not saying all the criticism is unfounded, but the level of negativity seems a bit out of proportion. 

The bottom line is that Ben Hur 2016 works as a movie, which is a big leap forward for faith based films. The team of Burnett and Downey - who brought us the cable success The Bible (2013) and the theatrical release Son of God (2014), which turned a hefty profit on a modest budget, obviously reinvested their earnings in a attempt to make a big(er) budget epic. My argument for a long time has been that faith based movies too often preach to the converted, while shakily skating by artistically on good intentions. Here we have two action set pieces that, while depending a lot on CGI, are nonetheless thrilling. Ben Hur's decent into bitterness, and Messala's inner conflict between loyalty to his adoptive family and his duty to empire offers more complex characterizations than previously presented, even if Heston and Stephen Boyd were better actors. If Ben Hur fails at the box office, it won't be because the producers didn't make a quality film that could appeal to a wider audience.

Briefly, if you're unfamiliar with the story, Judah Ben Hur (Huston) is a Jewish prince, roughly the same age as Jesus, living in Jerusalem with his mother Naomi (Ayelet Zurer), sister Tirzah (Sofia Black D'Elia) and, Messala (Kebbell) who was adopted into the House of Hur before the patriarch's death. Messala leaves home, feeling a second class family member, in spite of his strong bond with Judah, joining the Roman army. After years of combat service in far flung lands, he returns to Jerusalem as an officer under Pontius Pilate. The happy reunion turns sour after Judah refuses to hand over the names of local zealots who might want to disturb the peaceful entry of Pilate into the city. You guessed it, the new prefect's triumphant entrance is disturbed by an assassination attempt, for which Judah takes the blame unjustly, with the slighted Messala happy to let him and the family suffer. Instead of death he is sent to the galleys to serve as a slave. After a miraculous escape he meets up with a rich African sheik, Ilderim (Morgan Freeman), who teaches him the finer points of chariot racing and revenge. 

A controversial aspect of the 1959 film, which I'm not sure anyone outside of a few people were even aware of at the time, was co-writer Gore Vidal's alleged inclusion of a gay subtext in the relationship between Judah and Messala. He revealed this years later, stating that it was done to give the latter a clearer motivation for feeling betrayed by Judah. Others who worked on the film are dubious of the claim. I've seen the movie a number of times, and if you tell me its there I'll believe you - such a reading isn't implausible though it's not necessary. But this time around they seem to go way out of their way to let the audience know that Judah and Messala have a serious case of the "not gays." It's made very clear from the start that Judah only has eyes for the slave girl Ester (Nazanin Boniadi), with their relationship moving at light speed compared with the earlier film. Messala, meanwhile, has his heart set on Tirzah - which is a little creepy considering that they're step brother and sister. A running gag is that they are always getting interrupted before they can kiss, but a mild yuk factor still prevails, at least in this critics mind. 

Other than that, a subplot involving Judah going to Rome is cut, which is too bad because it would better explain how he learned to be a great chariot driver. Here his background gives him knowledge on the care of horses, but we're expected to believe he learns how to ride with the best and the baddest through osmosis. There are some other tweaks to the plot: some work, others are pretty inconsequential. Some minor characters that gave the '59 version atmosphere and depth are given short shrift, or left out completely, which is also too bad. Like Son of God, I felt the they had a lot more to say, particularly by way of social commentary, but either the budget or time constraints held them back from developing themes that are, in the end, only hinted at. 

On the plus side the themes of forgiveness, reconciliation and compassion are clearly presented. Jesus is actually heard from, interacting with Judah, unlike in the original. The parallels between Ben Hur and Jesus are made more obvious here than previously, which is also a plus. The acting is solid, the action is engaging and the emotional payoffs well earned. Ben Hur 2016 is not a perfect movie, nor is it even a great one. It will not win 11 Academy Awards, and probably won't even get nominated for one. It is simply a good summer time entertainment with, dare I say, a wholesome Christian message. It is a significant step forward for faith based films that deserves better from the critics, as well as a wide audience.

On Pilgrimage: "The Holy Family Says, 'Thank You!'" - 3nd in a Series

The trip to Auschwitz that I went over previously was a major event of our pilgrimage, but I'm happy to turn, at this point, to more joyous, but no less important stops on our journey.

I go back now to the beginning of the pilgrimage, to our stop in Barcelona, Spain. I specify Spain, because there is a city of the same name in Venezuela. There is a legend in our Salesian province of a confrere who was invited to visit that fair Mediterranean metropolis, bought a ticket and left without his director's permission. God had a way of correcting his disobedience, because when he got off the plane he found himself in South America instead of Europe. How he worked things out with immigration and the airline, I can't say, but he got the next available flight back to the States, slinked back to his community, trying to act as if his extended absence was the result of heavy traffic on the interstate.

But I digress...

There was no mistake on our part: we did land in the correct Barcelona, and as with most of the stops on the pilgrimage we made the most of the brief time we had there.

To reiterate, our World Youth Day pilgrimage had two distinct parts. The first ten days were spent busing around Western Europe, hitting random holy spots between Barcelona and Paris. The first day in Spain we visited the Salesian church, Sagrat Cor (Sacred Heart in Catalan), that sits atop Barcelona's Mount Tibidabo. The mountain looms 1,680 feet up, to the north west of the city, so the minor basilica can be seen from almost anywhere in Barcelona, as well as itself supplying breathtaking views of the city and sea. 

Just a brief note on the use of the name Sagrat Cor as opposed to Sagrada Corazon. The Catalonia region of Spain has a strong separatist movement, much like Quebec has with Canada vis-a-vis it's French population. Like our neighbors to the north, all signs are bilingual. In Barcelona signage is in Catalan and Spanish, with the former taking precedence. In spite of warnings I got to the contrary, everyone I dealt with was able to communicate in Castellano, and while distinct languages, it wasn't so different figuring out what the Catalan signs were saying. 

Again, sorry for the digression. 

As for Sagrat Cor, The story goes that in the 1880's rumors were rampant in Barcelona of a Protestant plot to build a church on the site, along with a hotel - casino -- strange combination considering Protestants usually have a problem with games of chance not necessarily shared by Catholics (I got this from Wikipedia, so it has to be true). A local Catholic organization acquired the land at the summit and handed it over to St. John Bosco when he visited there in 1886. Don Bosco was on a fundraising tour on behalf of Pope Leo XIII, who wanted a basilica built in Rome dedicated to the Sacred Heart. A small hermitage was build immediately, followed by a crypt church, completed in 1902. Between 1915 and 1951 the main church was erected (though dedicated in 1952, further work on the church's towers would continue for another decade). The length of construction is certainly attributable to the Spanish Civil War, that also caused work to stop on the Sagrada Familia. But work did finish, and Sagrat Cor was designated a minor basilica by Pope St. John XXIII in 1961.

Instead of a casino, just below the basilica is an amusement park, that opened in 1905. It's Spain's longest running and Europe's third oldest continuously operating amusement park. It's a private concern, of which the Salesians have no connection. 

In a way I wish this stop had occurred later on our pilgrimage. By the time we got there, which was probably about two in the afternoon, we were already late (a theme that would continue throughout the trip). The Chicago and New York contingents met up that morning in Amsterdam after their respective overnight flights from the States. We then boarded our connection to Barcelona - once there we had to hurry up and wait as we tried to find our tour buses. Keeping the group together proved difficult - some scattered to exchange money, others got lost in the shops (I have no love for the person who decided to turn airport terminals into shopping malls). I hate to say that it was members of my Chicago group who were among the culprits. 

I really don't want to get bogged down in useless details over inconveniences that, though at the time really were important, as time goes on, and the full scope of the pilgrimage is better appreciated, are better left to dissolve into the ether. Lets just say I was too tired, grungy and aggravated to appreciate what was in front of me. 

But it wasn't lost on everyone. That Don Bosco walked these hills, that the Salesians played such a big part in literally shaping the landscape of this beautiful city was commented on by many. 

Where we spent our nights while in Barcelona was also significant. The Residencia Salesiana Marti-Codolar is just down the hill from Sagrat Cor, and was also visited by Don Bosco during his 1886 tour. The property was donated by a local noblewoman, and the original mansion and gardens still stand, along with newer buildings which serve as a hostel, open to the public. There is a famous photo of the saint seated, looking fatigued, surrounded by Saleisans, boys, and other local dignitaries that was taken near the mansion's courtyard. The large tree behind them had to be chopped down, and now there is a plaque commemorating the event.

Fr. Luis Aineto, a Salesian of our province, born and raised in Catalonia, lived there in the early 1960's when he was studying theology. He told me there had been a zoo on the property prior to his time time, and the cages were more like small concrete buildings. By the time he got there the zoo was closed and the cages converted into bedrooms for the students.

Our first day ended with a pleasant evening downtown featuring a paella dinner in a small local place.

Sunday we split up, breaking into ad hoc groups, exploring different parts of the city. Our only mission was to meet up at the Sagrada Familia for Mass at 2pm. The group I was with paid a visit to the city's Cathedral in the morning. 

The city's main cathedral stands in sharp contrast to the Sagrada Familia. The Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia is a medieval structure built between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries. The exterior of the original structure was actually quite bare, as was the custom for Catalonian churches, until renovations in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries gave it its present gothic façade and central tower. The distinctive feature of the cathedral is the cloister area that houses 13 swans. The cathedral's co-patron, St. Eulalia was an early Church martyr who died at 13 years old - thus the number of swans to coincide with the age at which she died. 

The cathedral is clearly beautiful, but also unremarkable. And knowing that most of it's beauty is derived from work done in the last century and a half only diminishes it's significance. This isn't the echo of a past age sharing its spiritual vision with posterity, but a later generation, with no firm spiritual identity, guessing what a medieval cathedral should look like. 

Barcelona Cathedral tower from courtyard 

The Sagrada Familia, on the other hand, is a new structure - still unfinished after more than a century and a quarter of work - but doesn't look back in nostalgia to a lost age. Rather it offers a new, bold and distinctive vision that isn't easily categorize.

Antonio Gaudí, aka "God's Architect," dedicated the last decades of his life to this project, and it is infused with his eclectic vision. As a student he studied varied architectural styles, eventually incorporating Gothic with Eastern and Asian concepts. His statues are traditional, but seem to echo an almost surreal sensibility. He saw God in nature, incorporating columns echoing tree trunks in the building's interior, ornamenting the roof with figures of grape clusters and other vegetation. What I saw there was similar to the art work I saw in Lourdes and later at John Paul II's church in Poland - artistic expressions that are clearly different, contemporary, but also rooted in reality. Some contemporary art is abstract to the point of being unintelligible. It's as if the artist is involved with communicating an inside joke that he might be the only one who really gets. In Gaudí we have someone with a unique vision, but because the vision is rooted in faith and not purely the individual ego, it can't help, almost, but to be communicated. 


After we celebrated Mass in the crypt church, we were supposed to have a tour of the main basilica. The arraignments were set up with a priest there, who naturally was away for the day. An older priest who was there was more than happy to set things up for the Mass, but was clearly not interested in spending his Sunday afternoon showing us around. Sagrada Familia is a big tourist spot in Barcelona, and the lines to get in are long. The chance to get what was essentially a private tour was a coup, but one we were seeing quickly slip though our fingers. 

Since I speak Spanish, and Fr. Abe (who speaks the language better than I do) was with another part of our group, I was sent to ring the door bell of the office, prearranged donation in hand, and basically beg the priest for a tour. After a few moments, that seemed like much longer, the door flew open, the priest took a brief glance at me, then looking past at the pilgrims sitting about the small courtyard proclaimed in a joyously ironic tone, "God bless you! Go in Peace!" 

I tried my best to explain the situation, that we were promised a tour, we have the donation, I know that this is an inconvenience, and so on. I wasn't sure he was really listening as he hustled me into the modest reception area and office. Grumbling a bit, he began giving me photo copied sheets in English meant for self guided tours, and like the loaves and fishes I, along with a couple of the pilgrims began distributing them to the group. The priest went and spoke to the security guards, and they began breaking us into groups of thirty. We were hurled past people who had been waiting on line in the hot sun, who made their displeasure at being passed over well known as we skipped by them, heads hung in embarrassment. 

We reached the famous Nativity Façade, on the north east side, the first part of the Sagrada Familia to be completed. The priest began to explain it in the best English he could muster (I have to admit to being slightly out of earshot) As he spoke I saw in the old priest's eyes something that would become familiar over the course of the following two plus weeks: a look of aggravation or indifference that instantaneously transformed into one of delighted joy. He was clearly reveling in the opportunity to show off this beautiful monument to the love of God. At one point he asked us if we knew any Christmas hymns. We had more than a couple of fine voices in the group, including one young woman who is a trained singer. We broke into "O, Holy Night," and suddenly the blazing Spanish afternoon was transformed into Christmas Eve. Another thing happened that would become a common sight: startled bystanders puled out their smartphones and began videoing us. When the singing ended, he proclaimed, with all the joyousness of his first proclamation at the office, but with none of the irony, "The Holy Family says, 'Thank you!'"

He began the tour wanting us to just leave already. He ended it, while I'm sure still glad he could get back to the quiet Sunday afternoon he had planned, nonetheless glad for the disturbance. And for our part, glad he took the time.

Homily Notes for the 21st Sunday, Year C - Luke 13:22-30

I'll be back soon with more on our recent World Youth Day pilgrimage. For now a quick post on the Gospel reading for this Sunday.

"Lord, will only a few people be saved?"

As usual Jesus doesn't give a straight answer to this question. I wonder if, at least in this case, our Lord is indirect because the nameless person is asking wrong question. A couple of years ago the hot question to ask in Evangelical and Catholic circles was, is hell empty or full? Personally, I think this is the wrong question to ask, because much like the query possed by our anonymous interlocutor of the Gospel passage, it distracts us from looking at the real issue, which is how to properly live God's word now, so we don't have to worry about hell later. 

In brief, an Evangelical writer (whose name I can't remember) put out a book in the early years of this decade arguing that if any one is in hell they, along with all people, will eventually be reconciled to God in the heavenly kingdom. This teaching is not a new one, and is sometimes called universal reconciliation or Christian universalism. This teaching goes against Catholic doctrine, which holds that once a person is condemned to hell it's an eternal sentence from which there is no return. In other words, there's no parole from the underworld. Many Evangelicals were upset, because even though they don't always have the doctrinal uniformity (some would say rigidity) of Catholics, they by and large reject this idea as well. 

This prompted a Catholic response, highlighted by then Fr. Robert Barron, who argued along the lines of the great Swiss theologian Hans Urs von Balthazar, that there is a reasonable hope that all men are saved, and we should indeed hope that hell is empty. This differs from the doctrine of universal reconciliation, because von Balthazar and his disciples don't deny that eternal damnation is a possibility, nor do they question the existence of hell. What they are saying is that there is a reasonable hope that no one has actually rejected God definitively - refusing to repent of their sins, the condition that makes damnation not only possible, but necessary. Out of charity our hope should be that no one has made that firm choice against God and for eternal separation from Him that we commonly call hell. We then got counter arguments from both Catholic and Protestant apologists stating that since Jesus talks about the reality of hell and condemnation quite plainly, and (from the Catholic side) since private revelations such as the Blessed Mother's words spoken at Fatima, also mention hell and damnation as near and present dangers (and that there are people already suffering these torments), we should take these word at face value, that at least some are indeed lost.

As I wrote above, I've always found this a pointless argument. That hell is a reality, and condemnation a possibility, is good enough for me. Whether hell is full or not is above my pay grade. My job at this point is to cooperate with God's grace so I'm not condemned, and as a priest I'm here to help others, through my ministry, to avoid that fate as well. I'm not offended or scandalized by the discussion, and I don't question the orthodoxy of those who hold the von Balthazar thesis, I just see it as being besides the point, like asking how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. I will admit that I've often thought what it would be like if von Balthazar was right, and up to now no one has actually been condemned. What if I end up being the first? Won't I feel stupid? (and pretty lonely) 

Anyway, what Jesus does say in response to the question is that we should be more concerned with the road that leads to salvation and less about what the success rate is of those who travel it. This is the moment to accept Jesus, and we shouldn't lose a moment. He does say that of those who try, many will fail, as well as that the time to respond is limited, which should give us pause. 

But there is a wider issue at work as well. Jesus makes reference to people standing outside looking in at the eschatological banquet, people who assumed that their ticket the the feast was already punched. He is making direct reference to the Jews of His own age who assumed that because they were children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that salvation was all but secured, and it's the gentiles that would be excluded. But here the roles are reversed, and it is the gentiles sitting at the table and the children of Israel locked out.

We need to be careful here. We believe that the Jewish people will eventually recognize Jesus as Lord and Messiah, taking their rightful place in the Kingdom (it is in fact the prerequisite for Jesus' return in glory according to CCC. 674). But just as some Jews of Jesus' time forgot the words of Isaiah that we hear in the first reading, that the Lord comes to gather all the nations into his Kingdom, and Israel is meant to prepare the way, we as Catholics can take our salvation for granted because we are Catholics. 

We have valid Sacraments, the Apostolic Succession, the fullness of the truth: all this is true. But we are called to be a light for the world, making the invitation to others to join us in enjoying these graces. We are called to live the works of mercy, continuing Jesus's mission to proclaim the presence of the Kingdom by word and deed. If we don't do these things the door will be closed on us, whether anyone has actually been excluded in the past or not. And if not, I sure don't want to be the first. 

Jesus calls us to perseverance. He calls us not to be slack in following the Gospel. The time is short, and the moment is now to take the initiative in living the faith we profess with our lips. There is an enemy, not of flesh and blood, who wishes to divert us off the path. We must stay on course, while at the same time being a sign of hope to others. There isn't any time for a break or turning back. We must keep on following the Lord where He leads. 

I'm reminded of General Patton - that towards the end of World War II he followed a policy of nonstop pursuit of the enemy, never stopping to consolidate forces or turning back to reinforce already conquered land. His philosophy was to keep the enemy on the run, never allowing them a chance to regroup or catch their breath for a counter offensive. When asked why he did this, since the war seemed to be winding down, he reputedly answered that those who lay back a bit, assuming the enemy is already defeated risk a rude awakening. Many of his fellow officers, by his estimation, did't seem to realize that "we can still lose this war!"

Whether hell is empty of full, the possibility of eternal loss is real. I certainly pray that all people return to the Lord and enjoy the eternal light of the heavenly Kingdom, and the new heaven and earth we are promised in the Resurrection. But the possibility of loss shouldn't be denied. Of course, we should return out of love and not fear. But these are Jesus' words, not mine. He is the one speaking of doors being closed, and the anguish of separation. It is for us to heed these words, and allow His grace to transform our lives, so we may follow perseveringly along the narrow road in love. If that happens, then the question of who is damned and who is saved truly becomes moot. 

On Pilgrimage: A Walk with Dante through Auschwitz

Rather than going chronologically through the World Youth Day pilgrimage, I'm skipping ahead to our third day in Poland, which was more than halfway through the trip itself. Considering that today is the optional memorial of St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, better known as Edith Stein, I think the flash forward is appropriate.  I began writing this on the iPad while I was still in the parking lot of Berkinau, so I've kept the original byline. 

July 26 - OSWIECIM, Poland — It's a cliche by now to call World Youth Day the Catholic Woodstock - Pope Emeritus Benedict has long been critical of reducing WYD to some kind of pop festival or spiritual pep rally. Obviously the pharmaceutical and "free love" aspects of that 1969 event are lacking, but the festival atmosphere is palpable. There is singing, dancing in the streets, chanting, face painting, to go along with the prayer and devotional activities. It is a celebration of faith with a youthful enthusiasm. It is unbridled joy at the freedom to worship Jesus without being judged by a wider peer group who may not think that such public displays of holy affection are cool. 

Yesterday in Wadowice, the birthplace of St. John Paul II, the party spirit had already taken hold, even though WYD won't start until the Mass at 5:30 pm local time this evening. Groups were huddled on street corners, milling in the town square, or else forming quasi—conga lines through the streets, singing religious songs and shouting patriotic chants — not just of their own country, but honoring other nations as well. When a group of French saw an American flag pass they'd start chanting "USA! USA!" And Americans would shout, "Viva Mexico!" as that country's tricolor waved down the street. A young man proposed to his girlfriend at the stature of John Paul II, out in front of the basilica that sits right next door to the pope Saint's birthplace. Once they figured out what was going on, a crown of hysterical Spaniards descend upon the newly engaged, chanting and singing. There is a sharing of faith and culture in a way that is unique in my experience. WYD is a festival of love that knows nothing of borders, that fosters unity and understanding.

That is why standing in this place, the death camps of Auschwitz—Birkenau, strikes such a dissonant cord amid the sweet melody of love that has otherwise fills the air, even in WYD's early phases. 

Because of the 2.5 million people who are in the process of arriving in Kraków, and the overwhelming interest in visiting Auschwitz, the visit we were permitted was somewhat truncated. We weren't allowed in the buildings, and getting into places like the starvation bunker where St. Maximilian Kolbe was martyred, which is difficult even on normal days, was completely out of the question this week. 

Because of the limited access, the visceral impact of the walk through Auschwitz was blunted somewhat. In Washington D.C.'s Holocaust Museum there is a cattle car that was used to ship Jews to the death camps. Near by are the suitcases, shoes and other personal effects, such as coats and scarves, that the prisoners were made to leave behind, with the false promise that their belongings would follow them to the camps. To walk through the cattle car, sense it's claustrophobic smallness, especially when you allow your imagination to work - picturing 150 people crammed into a space envisioned for 50 in the SS regulations (yes, they actually had a handbook for genocide), overwhelms the emotions. The smell of human sweat is still perceptible both in the car and as you walk past the shoes and satchels. The air is filled with odor of aging leather mixed with that used shoe smell and mild traces of B.O. - the tell tale sign that human beings once walked the earth in these shoes and wore these coats. Here at Auschwitz the distance we are kept at from the barracks and other buildings negates the immediacy of the experience.

A walk through Auschwitz on this day is deceiving. The buildings are unimposing. They look like they could be abandoned municipal office buildings or public housing. Trees line the roads shading us from the brutal summer sun. The only indication that this was a concentration camp is the electric barbed wire fences that ring the camp, along with signs that tell you - There in that fenced off courtyard is the wall where prisoners were routinely shot - Here was a makeshift gas chamber - Here was the building where women were experimented on - Down there is the starvation bunker where Maximillian Kolbe died in another man's place. Barring those placards, and the knowledge I had beforehand, it would be easy to wonder why this otherwise unremarkable complex of brick buildings is being preserved. 

There is silence as we walk the path set out for us. We are one of dozens of groups visiting the camp this day. The numbers will only go up during the week as WYD pilgrims continue arriving in Kraków. The quiet is pierced by the shrill, unholy screeching of a flock of small birds darting about between trees. When we get to the end, I feel nothing. I don't feel sad, or overcome. The only thing I feel is guilt that I don't seem to feel anything in particular. I hear the birds give one more, accusatory, squawk before getting on the bus.

Auschwitz was build to be a work camp. People were killed here by gas and firing squad, along with torture and poisoning, but on an ad hoc basis. I have to believe that giving the place a façade of normalcy, a quaint beauty almost, with its red brick buildings and Spanish tile roofs, was some cruel joke on the part of the Nazis. The sign over the gates that famously reads - Albeit Macht Frei - Work Makes You Free - must have added to the illusion that there would be a life after Auschwitz for the inmates - a life the vast majority never saw. 

As we approach Birkenau, also known as Auschwitz II, there is no mistaking what this place was built for. There are no trees, except at the parameters - no picturesque buildings, no signs of hope, not even of the false kind. If Auschwitz I was where the Nazis learned their way, Birkenau is where they perfected their evil craft. Auschwitz II was built for one reason: to facilitate the death of as many human beings as possible in the most efficient way that could be devised. 

Again, we were kept on a controlled route that takes us through the heart of the camp. Now, at mid-day, the sun is burning hot in the sky and there is no shade to protect us. The buildings that still stand, that the Nazis didn't demolish to cover their tracks, are simple barracks with none of the faux charm of the older camp. 

Again there are signs explaining the atrocities that went on, but this time they are unnecessary - the barren scene speaks for itself. Except when I get to the end of the path. Finally there are trees. I'm parched from the walk in the scorching sun, desperate for water, but my bottle is empty. At least there is shade, I think. Near the patch of trees are the remains of a gas chamber and crematorium that was destroyed during a prisoner revolt. Then I see it. A sign with a large photo of women and children taken over seventy years ago amid these same trees where I am now taking a brief respite from the July heat. The caption says that these mothers and children had just arrived, and were waiting to be brought to the "showers." That of course was the euphemism used to describe the gas chambers. Some women are smiling for the camera, children are playing. None knows these were their last moments of life on planet earth, captured by Gestapo photographers. 

The trees no longer give me shade. They accuse me like the birds, accuse me of humanity's failure. The motto we have proclaimed since 1945 is "never again," but we know the this isn't true. Maybe it hasn't been done as efficiently, as broadly, or so focused in on one group like it was against the Jews by the Nazis. But we've had the Killing Fields, Rwanda, the political killings in Central America, ethnic "cleansing" in the Balkans, the extermination of Christians by ISIS, and many other genocides since the last camp was liberated in 1945. The trees, the birds, the very ground cry out, asking how long will we continue to destroy ourselves? How long will we deny our common humanity? How long will I stay silent as the blood of the innocent calls from the ground?

This stroll through the rings of a terrestrial Hades didn't have the all at once, sledgehammer blow that the trip to the museum in Washington did for me twenty years ago. This journey worked on me slow, wearing me down, fatiguing my soul. By the end my numbness was replaced by alternating feelings of rage and despair. My emotions were raw, nerves frayed. Though as a Christian I know that neither rage nor despair, while understandable reactions, is correct, at least in the long term, I was groping for some sign of hope.

If this was a journey through the levels of hell, then the pilgrimage as a whole, with its long hikes through heat, rain, and mud - early mornings and late nights, and cramped tram rides were the purgatory. But these trivial privations are insignificant at this moment, and are better left for another time.

What I want to end with is the journey through heaven. Tonight we were in Blonia Park, celebrating WYD's opening Eucharist with Cardinal Stanisław Dziwisz, Archbishop of Kraków, and John Paul's long time personal secretary. There was the singing, the joy that one normally finds at WYD. The priest who gave Holy Communion in our section had a look of preternatural peace in his eyes. The Mass is a shadow of the celestial reality for which we all long. It is our union with the Risen Lord. Here we were, thousands from all over the world, united by our love of Christ. 

This vision doesn't erase the reality that I saw this morning. It also doesn't mean that we as a human community don't have a long road ahead of us. But it was like the Transfiguration, in which Jesus gave to Peter, John and James a glimpse of the Resurrection, even as Good Friday was looming in the future. It gives me hope, and the sight of so many young people united by love tells me that all isn't lost, and the trees, the birds and the blood soaked earth will not have the final word. 

On Pilgrimage: Memories of World Youth Day 2016 - 1st of a Series

I had hopes of delivering real time accounts of my experiences during World Youth Day, but irregular internet availability and the heaviness of the schedule made the journalistic approach almost impossible. I did take some notes along the way, so with those and the memories contained in my mind, I'll have to settle for a memoir as opposed to a report. The plan is to spend the next couple of weeks writing about my Pilgrimage through Spain, France and Poland, culminating with the papal visit to Kraków. 

World Youth Day (WYD) is not for the strong. More accurately put, it's not for the weak who think that they are strong already. Mention of this irregularly triennial event to the vaguely knowledgeable but otherwise uninitiated usually elicits oohs and ah's, to go along with a lot of saccharin about what a blessing it is to see the pope. But like saccharin, such sentimentality is a fake sweetness that leaves a strange aftertaste on the tongue.

WYD is miles of walking everyday in the scorching sun followed by thunder storms and gusty winds, alternated with cramped rides on over crowded buses and trains, on public transit systems ill equipped to see their daily ridership treble overnight. It is living in youth hostels that sometimes resemble army barracks, with 5 or six to a small room and sharing toilet and shower facilities with hundreds of others. If you are blessed enough you'll stay in a three star hotel that makes you wonder what the other two stars were awarded for. While the more recent WYDs have done a better job with food distribution, it can mean enduring food and water shortages. It means spending the last night in an open field that is normally a race track or strip mine, a landfilled swamp or a combination of the three, sandwiched between five to seven mile hikes to and from the site. There is nothing sentimental about WYD. It isn't a sightseeing tour. It is a journey of faith that tests the participants' physical and spiritual limits. 

No, WYD is not a romantic holiday to some exotic pleasure dome that happens to have daily Mass. It is hard work that, when entered into with a spirit of humility, makes the weak truly strong. World Youth Day isn't for the weak, or more accurately isn't for the weak who are content to stay that way, because WYD is a pilgrimage. 

I've been on two such pilgrimages - Sydney, Australia in 2008 and the latest one that ended a few days ago in Kraków, Poland. Fr. Dominic Tran, SDB who organized this year's trip, (along with Fr. Abraham Feliciano, SDB - youth ministry delegate of the Salesian's Eastern U.S. Province), is a veteran of six WYDs. He knows the ins and outs, and the spirit of what WYD is supposed to be about. We had a wide ranging itinerary that brought us officially to three countries, five main destinations with a number of side trips squeezed in over a period of 18 days. At times the stops seemed random, and maybe to a certain extent they were. But what I experienced was that we were where God wanted us at every moment. The path may not have been straight and broad, yet it was true and sure.

Over the next few weeks I'll be reflecting on my experience. I accompanied 92, mainly young adult pilgrims on this journey. Even though all were over 18 years of age, I'll be using pseudonyms when referencing any of them. The only participants I'll mention by name are the Salesian priests, brothers and seminarians who went along on the trip. This isn't an exposé, nor am I dishing dirt, not that there's any to serve up. I just want to respect privacy. These are very personal reflections. There are 92 other points of view among the pilgrims, so I'm not suggesting that mine represent the absolute last word on what WYD 2016 was about.

The pilgrimage had two very distinct phases. Phase one ran from July 16 to July 24. During these days we went from Barcelona, Spain, taking coach buses into France where we visited Lourdes, spent three days in Taizé, then making a stop in Liseiux on the way to Paris. After a one day two night stay in the City of Lights we flew to Kraków for the second phase. 

In the two days before WYD began in ernest, we toured the city, while making stops in Wodowice - St. John Paul II's birthplace, Częstochowa - with its shrine of the Black Madonna, and the concentration camps of Auschwitz-Birkenau. While we were happy to be in Poland finally, without having to change loggings every other day, the pace didn't let up. In truth, it got even busier. We returned to the United States late Monday night - August 1, and many of us didn't return to our respective homes until Tuesday morning. 

I was a part of a group of 93 pilgrims from New York, New Jersey, Chicago, New Orleans, Atlanta, Seattle, Washington, DC, and Toronto - along with other points Canadian. I'm sure I missed a place, but you get the idea - we came from all over the map. The diversity wasn't limited to the participants' residency. We came from a mix of Asian, Western and Latin American cultures. Some of us understood what a pilgrimage was all about, some of us really didn't know what was going on until we were well into the journey. 

I believe that by the end each of us was changed in some way. We encountered the Lord in the liturgies we celebrated, in prayer and fasting, and in the people we encountered along the way. For myself, I got a clearer vision of life as a pilgrimage that constantly calls me deeper into relationship with God. I had a conversation with a Protestant woman from the Netherlands at Taizé - which I'll describe, along with the entire experience there in a later post - where I found myself giving council to her, but was really giving it to myself as well. The message was that accepting Christ as Savior and Lord is the first step, not the last. Accepting Christ starts a process (continues it, really), and can only be walked with the cross on our shoulder and eternity fixed in our eyes. 

These are the bare facts. In the weeks to come I hope to share, not simply the where and when, but the why of my journey. I did not choose to go on this pilgrimage, really. I went gladly when circumstances made it possible, if not exactly necessary, for me to accompany the six pilgrims from our parish of St. John Bosco in Chicago. I believe that for some reason the Lord wanted me on this journey. I believe that he had a reason for each of the 93 of us, as well as the 2.5 million others to come to Poland in July, 2016. Each person had a very personal call, that was, at the same time, wrapped up with a divine motive we all shared: God wanted it, not because I am strong, not because I'm holy - but because I am weak and am in need of His holiness.