Holy Spirit

Every Wednesday I go to the Dono di Maria (Gift of Mary). It is a refuge for many of the poor in Rome, run by the Missionaries of Charity and located directly next to St. Peter's Basilica. Here they offer housing for women of all different backgrounds and a dinner every night for men who are in need of good eats. It has really been a highlight of this past year for me-- especially because of the people that I have met there, both guests and hosts.


Two weeks ago I had a conversation with one of our frequent guests, a Polish Catholic who has been homeless in Rome for quite some time now, that still occupies much of my thoughts and prayers. I had talked with him many times before, both in the Dono and on the streets, but this conversation was different. While he was eating his meal I went over to him, put my hand on his shoulder and asked, "How are you today?" He looked up at me and shrugged. I asked, "How is today so far?" He put down his fork and as he slowly looked up he began to cry. He then started sobbing as he told me, "This life is not for me. This life on the streets is not for me. I love books. I read. I have read many books: big books, small books, fiction, non-fiction. I have read the Bible. But now. I live on the streets and have nothing. I read nothing. I don't know the words."


I stood there, with my arm around him. I thought that I didn't have anything that I could to offer that could help. I had no money, not that he would take it. I had no books, not that they were the solution. And most humbling for me, I had no words. So I stood there with my hand on his shoulder. After a while of sharing in this somewhat awkward and humbling moment, I told him that I will pray for him and assured him that no matter where he is-- he is never alone. Then I walked away to continue passing out the bread.

What keeps drawing me back to that moment, I think, is the vulnerability that was shared. This man had nothing. He was reduced to tears with the realization of his current situation. And I too, who was there precisely for him and the other guests, had nothing. I had nothing to offer him other than myself in listening to him and in praying with him. I guess it's tough to articulate, but in that moment I was reminded of how little we have. I was reminded of how imperfect we are. Of how, when things seem to get most real, we have no words to formulate.

There is a famous church here in Rome called the Pantheon. It used to be a pagan temple and, like many other things in Rome, was "baptized" as Christianity spread throughout the ancient world and converted into a Catholic church. As you can see above, the ceiling of the Pantheon is a dome and at the apex of the dome is an opening. As an analogy to human nature, the Pantheon is open to the sky. It, at its apex, has no barrier, no protective roof, no cover. And we too, at our apex, when we are most aware of the truth of ourselves, our brokenness, our various experiences of incompetence, we are also aware of the openness-- the lack of barrier. And it is through this opening that the light of the sun shines in on the Pantheon, illuminating it. So too with us, it is so many times through our brokenness that true light shines, the light of a God who entered into, embraced, and totally liberated every fiber of our brokenness, our emptiness-- making of us a new creation. This continues today. Every day.

Today is Pentecost. It is the day that we remember, cherish, and celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit. It is the birthday of the Church. It is the day that we are reminded that our vocation, our faith, is one that necessarily takes us to the brink. It necessarily takes us to new challenges, to meet others where they are and dare to love them. Today we remember that being a person of faith is courageous. To be a person of faith means to embark on the life long process of identifying and engaging your own brokenness, inviting God in to fill that space. And even more, to do this in community with others-- generously and without reserve-- giving of your surplus and of your poverty so that all might know, through your words and deeds, the reality of God and the reality of God's infinite love.

Today thousands of rose pedals poured into the Pantheon. A beautiful sight, I'm sure. But beautiful too is the sight and the experience of a person inviting God to fill the brokenness and emptiness of their entire being. While I wonder if my friend from the Dono di Maria has ever seen the rose pedals pouring into the Pantheon, I hope and pray that he sees and experiences the unjustly generous gift of the Holy Spirit filling his brokenness and lighting his heart on fire with love and joy.

Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blest, and in our hearts take up Thy rest; come with Thy grace and heav'nly aid, To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.

O Comforter, to Thee we cry, Thou heav'nly gift of God most high, Thou Fount of life, and Fire of love, and sweet anointing from above.

O Finger of the hand divine, the sevenfold gifts of grace are thine; true promise of the Father thou, who dost the tongue with power endow.

Thy light to every sense impart,and shed thy love in every heart;thine own unfailing might supply to strengthen our infirmity.

Drive far away our ghostly foe,and thine abiding peace bestow; if thou be our preventing Guide, no evil can our steps betide.

Praise we the Father and the Son and Holy Spirit with them One; and may the Son on us bestow the gifts that from the Spirit flow.

V. Send forth Thy Spirit, and they shall be created.

R. And Thou shalt renew the face of the earth.