Missionary Hub – Church of Saint Isidore

The Resurrection

Happy Easter – He is risen, alleluia!

Jesus Christ is indeed risen. The joy is abundant, and rightfully so – Christ has conquered death for us. If He had not, Satan would still have bodily death to lord over us, keeping us eternally separated from our Creator. Alas, Jesus’ passion, death and Resurrection was always the plan, enacted by God to redeem us after the fall of our first parents. Without His death and Resurrection, the eternal peace, joy and love awaiting us in Christ’s kingdom would not be attainable. As painful and sorrowful as the passion and death are, the Resurrection makes it all worth it. What a beautiful thing. What a humble, loving Father we have. Just as Jesus promised the good thief, Dismas, on His right at the crucifixion, we can now choose to love and be with Christ in paradise for eternity.

The Resurrection of Christ, Easter Sunday, is not so much a finish line for us today as it is a hope of what’s to come. The Resurrection points to a reality so glorious that we can never actually achieve it in its fullness on this earth. The fullness of the Resurrection is realized when we finally come face-to-face with our Creator in His kingdom.

And while the Resurrection at its peak points to eternity, it also points to little moments in our life that are very much attainable on this earth: moments when I realize I am no longer bound. No longer bound by my addiction, by lies and core beliefs I’ve lived by for so long, by the pain and hurt of broken pasts and relationships. It points to those moments I realize I’ve been set free by Christ.

And every little moment is a glimpse into the fullness of the Resurrection. Nothing – no addiction, vice, illness, or wound – is more powerful than Christ. Even death itself Christ can overcome. What great hope.

And while I am – as we all are – invited to partake in the joy of eternal life gifted to us through His Resurrection, I am also invited to partake in that which must precede the Resurrection: death. And like the ultimate Resurrection, these little moments of freedom require a kind of death. The path to eternity begins with death here on earth.

When Mary Magdalene first encounters Jesus after the Resurrection, she mistakes Him for the gardener (John 20:11-18). During the Lenten season I had the opportunity to journey through the book, Through the Desert, with a group of wonderful, faith-filled women at St. Isidore. Each chapter was filled with garden imagery designed to analogize this cycle of death to self and resurrection in Christ, from seeds to flowers.

As the divine gardener, Christ plants seeds in everyone one of us. How we respond to those seeds is our choice. We can refuse to water them; we can push them into the darkness and cover them up so they wither and never produce fruit. Or we can be open and allow the Lord to nourish them.

During a chapter of this book I was reminded that in order for a seed to bear fruit, its outer shell must first crack open. The water and warmth of the sunlight create ideal conditions for the hard exterior of a seed to be softened and for its true self – what it was destined to be – to break through.

Quite simply, the seed must experience a death of its old self to achieve that which it was created to be: fruit to nourish us, a flower to beautify our world, a tree to provide oxygen and shade.

Nature is full of these moments when death is transformed into new creation.

And you’re invited to experience these moments of transformation. You’re invited to experience a glimpse of the joy found in the ultimate resurrection every day.

If your moment or transformation from seed to flower seems far off and the joy of the Easter season feels unattainable, it might be time to ask: have I let the divine gardener nourish the seed within me?

Know that we are praying for each and every one of you. Please pray for us.

Reflection by Alyson Maguire
Missionary, Upper Bucks Hub at St. Isidore
almaguire@archphila.org

Through The Desert

Over 3200 years ago the Israelites were freed from Egyptian rule. After God called Moses to lead his people, and performing several plagues, the Israelites were liberated and began their journey to the promised land. Despite their physical freedom from the Egyptians, the Israelites were still enslaved, not by physical bondage, but by a spiritual kind.

This spiritual bondage was carried out with them from Egypt going into the Sinai Desert. When Moses left the Israelites to be with God at the top of Mount Sinai they fell back into pagan practices, constructing an idol of gold and worshipping it. As they travelled the desert they complained about the lack of sufficient food and water, faltering in their faith, and even afterwards asking for more in terms of meat to eat. Despite being led physically to freedom, the Israelites were still suffering under the spiritual laziness they acquired while in Egypt.

How different are we from the ancient Israelites? We have all the comforts one could want, certainly comforts those ancient Israelites would have chosen over wandering the Sinai Desert in what felt like a futile pursuit of the “promised land”. Yet are we any freer from those spiritual chains that the Israelites were also subject to? How often do we choose something other than God? Prayer, which is the turning of one’s mind towards God, is the simplest, and one of the most important parts of the spiritual life. Yet here we are, in an age of noise, where all our senses are constantly in demand from one thing or another. Whether it be our phones and social media demanding our attention, or the noisiness of going to business or shops that constantly blare music, or driving with the radio on, or seeing advertisements everywhere, our attention is being demanded of us by everyone, and it is up to us to remember to give our first and best attention to God alone.

This is less dramatic than the Israelites who were still overcoming debauched pagan rituals and complacency while indentured in Egypt. Yet it keeps us away from God all the same. Before the Israelites could enter the promised land, they had to free themselves from the spiritual entanglement they were in. They approached the promised land once, and through fear of losing to those that already dwelled in the land, abandoned hope, and despite being assured of their victory, failed to trust in God. And so, they wandered for forty years in a purgative state of being, and only after those who had known Egypt were gone from the world were the Israelites disposed enough to enter the promised land.

It would be one thing to have to exist in such a state for forty years, but to do so and then die before entering the promised land is another. For us we are blessed, for we do not need to wander for forty years, and the promised land we desire is not of this world. But we still do need something to help us shirk off the oppression of acedia, or lust, or pride, or envy, or whatever it is that binds us.

After his baptism in the river Jordan, Jesus went away for forty days to pray and fast in the wilderness. There he was tempted thrice by Satan and thrice he overcame him. At some point later, as recounted in the Gospel According to Mark, Jesus heals a man’s son after the disciples failed to do so. When he explained why they had failed, he simply said, “these can only come out through prayer and fasting” (Mark 9:29). And here is what we are getting to: prayer and fasting are necessary for our spiritual well-being, and we have Jesus himself explicitly partaking in a forty day fast. Here we have the basis for Lent. And this is why we do it, not just to unite ourselves to Jesus’s own suffering, or to experience a mini-version of what the Israelites went through, but rather to remove from our lives those things that distract us from God, or that fill us with desire of worldly goods and pleasure instead of divine ones. It is a time of emptying from our lives those things that keep us ensnared by sin, and to be refilled with trust and hope in the Lord and his promises. For unlike the Israelites who had to die off before the rest could enter the promised land, we have hope in the resurrection which we celebrate at the end of the Lenten season with the Paschal mystery, and the glory that is to come in the heavenly promised land.

There is a third part that the Church asks us to give particular attention to during Lent: almsgiving. Where fasting is focused on the self, and prayer on God, almsgiving is focused on the other. It is an act of mercy, in whichever form one chooses to partake in, towards those to whom we can and ought to show mercy towards. Common practices are giving to food pantries, or volunteering at soup kitchens, you could also give to the Church more or to a cause you have a particular affinity for that also does charitable works. What is significant about almsgiving is how much the Lord cares for it. In Proverbs 19:17, it is said that he who shows mercy [almsgiving] to the poor, makes God indebted to them. Imagine that: God owing you something. This is of course not a loophole to bind God to do what you want in return for charitable giving, but rather an emphasis on the importance of showing mercy/giving alms. It is an often-overlooked part of Lent, but its implications are staggering. God has shown us how to pray and how to fast, and he has also shown us mercy so that we too may be merciful.

These three things – prayer, fasting, and almsgiving – should be guidelines for how to approach Lent, but the goal is not self-satisfaction, or finally fixing your diet, but rather to empty yourself of earthly distractions and delights, and to reorient your mind towards God, and to be a witness of his mercy to others.

May God bless you on this Lenten journey.

Reflection by Robert Pascale
Missionary, Upper Bucks Hub at St. Isidore
rpascale@archphila.org

The Door To God

Outside the doors of our offices at the Missionary Hub at St. Isidore hangs a poem titled “I Stand by the Door,” written by Sam Shoemaker. It’s a gentle reminder of our work—which is really the work we are all called to as Christians. The poem speaks of the importance of being present for those who have not yet encountered God, or who are doubtful, hesitant, or searching for something but unsure of what. It reminds us not to become so comfortable inside the doors of the Church that we forget those who remain outside them. This is the heart of the Hub’s mission: waiting and watching for opportunities to walk with others toward the door—the door to God.

At this year’s Christmas Masses, we lived that poem quite literally. Along with a beautiful team of volunteers—including families who offered to serve together—we stood by the doors of the church to welcome people as they arrived. It is a ministry many have quietly carried for years. One person shared that he has greeted people this way week after week, simply because it feels important to him. Our goal was not to manage or direct, and it was about much more than simply opening doors. Our hope was to help others feel seen, known, loved, and valued. What we offered may have seemed small: smiles, a warm hello, a heartfelt Merry Christmas—simple gestures of human love, the very love God has placed within us. It’s an offering that often runs short in our society—and sadly, even in our churches.

As people arrived, we saw many stories written on their faces. There were frazzled parents juggling coats and children pulled away from holiday activities. There were elderly people arriving alone and in pairs, some moving slowly or carefully, unsure if anyone would notice them. There were people living with disabilities, navigating spaces that are not always easy, grateful for any assistance offered. And there were others—young and old—who arrived joyful and eager for Christmas. Certainly there were also stories we could not see—people carrying grief, anxiety, illness, recent diagnoses, regrets, fears, and worry.

We likely encountered those who had never entered this—or any—church before, as well as those returning after many years away. Some may have arrived with hesitation, wondering if they truly belonged. Then a door opened, a smile was offered, and a simple “Welcome—Merry Christmas” gently answered that question before it fully formed. That sense of acceptance was real, and at least one person I encountered asked how she might become part of the parish.

As we opened doors, smiled, welcomed, and assisted when needed, we could sense tensions ease, even if just a little. Eyes met and relaxed a bit. Smiles emerged. For a moment, the anxieties and pressures of life seemed to pause, as people entered not just a building, but a space where they encountered God’s heart— made visible through the people who welcomed them and were genuinely glad they came. Nearly all involved sensed that something good had taken place, even if briefly, through these simple acts of genuine hospitality.

I don’t think I had ever fully understood the value of this ministry before. Volunteering as a greeter is not just opening doors. It is a ministry of presence. It is choosing to stand by the door—to wait with patience and care for those who may be unsure, tired, or longing for something more. It is noticing those who come regularly and being attentive to what they might need that day. Is there anyone among us who does not benefit from simple acts of kindness, appreciation, and love? Many people arrive carrying burdens we may never know. A kind welcome or a warm smile can gently change the course of an otherwise difficult day. It is God’s love offered even before the liturgy unfolds.

This is one simple way our faith can move from ideas to actions. Standing by the door, we become visible signs of God’s invisible grace—human sacraments of welcome before the Sacrament of the Eucharist is celebrated. Through such a simple gesture, we have an opportunity to share the fruits of the grace we have received from God—kindness, goodness, patience, gentleness, joy, and love. In this way, our faith becomes embodied, mission becomes visible, and God’s love is made manifest through human presence. What a gift—and a responsibility—it is to stand by the door.

Reflection by Dr. Nina Marie Corona

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