Sometimes it feels like we’ve already been in the season of Lent for a year. Throughout the pandemic, there’s no doubt that we’ve all been experiencing our own forms of the desert; so there’s something very familiar and relatable when we read that, “The Spirit drove Jesus into the desert.” I imagine that Jesus experienced the temptations with a longing similar to those that many of us have been engaged in for months, now.

Longing for the dying to stop.

Longing to be with our friends and loved ones again.

Longing for racial justice.

Longing for connection and understanding.

Longing for the restoration of creation. 

These longings aren’t bad or sinful, they’re human. And apparently they’re divine, too. Wasn’t it longing for a deep relationship with us that moved God to create the covenant after the flood, as we hear in today’s reading from Genesis? After living with these longings over the past year, I have a renewed appreciation for God’s love and longing. As we long to see our friends and family, we sometimes forget the opportunity to rest in the One that longs and has always longed for us. 

Note also that today’s gospel does not end in the desert. From there, Jesus goes to Galilee to begin his public ministry, proclaiming that “this is the time of fulfillment. The kingdom of God is at hand.” The time in the desert was not some endurance test for its own sake – it was a period of preparation in which Jesus connected deeply with his core identity as God’s beloved Son. In Matthew’s version of this gospel reading, Jesus rebukes the devil by quoting scripture, saying: “One does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.” In the midst of his physical hunger, Jesus connected with an even deeper longing for communion with God. His mission became crystal clear, propelling him to proclaim the Good News.

As we enter into this season of Lent (and continue the sojourn through the COVID desert), how can this become a time of preparation? How will our longing for transformation, justice, and deeper communion guide us to a more authentic expression of discipleship? How might we live out the Lenten practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving with the understanding that we are loved and longed for by God? 

-Carla and Ryan Lents, former staff member and current Farm donors

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the Lenten season, and with it, a call to live a life of love and sacrifice like Jesus. But what does it mean to live like Jesus?

Ever since I began as a staff member at the Farm in September of 2019, to live as Jesus lived has taken on many different meanings. Jesus met everyone He encountered with compassion. He lived a life of sacrifice and selflessness. He was always willing to listen, always attempting to understand. He lived a life of simplicity and care for the world given to us. He was humble, prone to forgiveness, a teacher. And the Savior.

Of all the different facets of his life, one thing remains constant. Emulating Jesus is a hard thing to do. Jesus taught us how to love. At face value, being kind to people seems like a pretty easy ask. It doesn’t take into account that some people won’t accept your kindness, and even still others may give you none in return. It doesn’t take into account the frustrations you feel when people ignore your voice, or defend things that you find cruel. It doesn’t take into account annoying siblings, bad moods, all the things that make it difficult to love sometimes.

And yet we are called to be generous with our love nonetheless. To sacrifice our own ideas about how our actions should be met and make every one of our actions an action of love – both our conscious actions and our unconscious ones. Jesus didn’t just sacrifice for forty days in the desert, He lived sacrificially. When He came to dwell among us, He didn’t spend His time telling others what to believe. He didn’t spend his time determining who was worthy of His teachings, who was right, and who was wrong. He spent His time listening, hearing the words of those around Him, breaking bread with people of all faiths, backgrounds, upbringings. 

If Nazareth Farm has brought anything to my attention, it is that my life is riddled with privileges. Some I couldn’t help but be aware of, others are more subtle, but all of them prevent me from fully understanding those around me. All of them prevent me from successfully imitating Jesus. For love is born from understanding. This Lenten season I plan on attacking those privileges. Sacrificing the comforts that I can and learning the injustices born from the ones I cannot. My goal is to have my sacrifice endure past the Lenten season. To use what I learn about myself to better learn from others. And I have no doubt that I will fail along the way and will continue to discover ways in which I could be kinder, more humble, more selfless, more forgiving, more understanding. Because it’s hard. Because Jesus is a tough act to follow. Though, if you ask me, that just makes Him all the more worth following.

-Adam Drill, current staff member

On this Feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord, my soul is filled with so many memories of how my spiritual life has transformed over the past decade. I have memories of going to church as a child with my family. I know I went to CCD classes for confirmation prep, but truthfully most things went in one ear and out another. I remember feeling like my faith was at my peak in high school, but college hit, and everything fell apart. I have gone through many ebbs and flows of faith, but isn’t that the beauty of it? It never is stagnant, and I am reminded of that especially today.

As most of you know the story of the Transfiguration of Jesus is a huge part of our mission and identity at the Farm;  we read it every Saturday to our groups as part of closing prayer. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up the mountain to show them His true divine self in the flesh. He is clothed in white and glistens in the sun as God identifies him as the Son of God. I think of this image a lot as I can only imagine what Peter, James, and John felt in that moment. They were probably terrified at the sight of Jesus’s true self. As I am terrified at the sight of society’s true self in the present day. 

When describing my faith journey, I usually use vocabulary like holy highs and lost lows. I remember the first time being at the Farm as a high school student I definitely experienced that holy high of never wanting to come down the mountain. It felt almost impossible to experience that high again, and as I left down the mountain, I just accepted that I was not going to feel it again. But, as time passed, I understood why it was so important, why I had to, just like Peter, James, and John, come down the mountain and live my life with my miracle. 

It is so easy to want to hide on top of the mountain and pitch a tent just as Peter recalls in his Gospel, especially today. During our current health and human rights crisis, I only want to hide up on the mountain with Jesus more, but that is not what He calls us to do. The miracle of the Transfiguration, although did not provide much material significance, has taught us arguably one of our most important lessons as Catholics. While there will be many moments of joy and holy highs, there will also be times in life of lost lows when we must weather the storm with Christ. Moments when we will have to bear our cross and our neighbors cross, patiently waiting for our miracle of coming face to face with the Divine Jesus Christ.

God gave us the beautiful gift of the miracle of Jesus’ Transfiguration to show us what is yet to come, only after going through this difficult life. So today, on the Feast of the Transfiguration, I hope you are reminded of your times up on the mountain where you were able to experience your miracle, and be reminded that something even greater is yet to come. 

“Listen to Jesus and follow him. That’s the message of the Transfiguration” ~ Pope Francis

-by Erin Rederscheid, current staff member

It’s easy to make granola. A few cups of rolled oats, seeds, some cinnamon-honey syrup for the glaze that makes those of us who are allergic to nuts weigh out the cost of a forbidden taste against the epinephrine shot into our thigh. The Farm recipe calls for walnuts, almonds, and pecans, and the simple instructions to combine when finely chopped.

You can use a food processor to do it, but Diana, the house manager at the time, tells me she likes using a cutting board instead, that the food processor cuts them too fine if you leave them in for too long. So we sat down, Diana with the walnuts and pecans, and I with the almonds that I wasn’t allergic to, and we chopped.

Yes, it took us a long time to do it. Yes, it would’ve been a fraction of the time to put each half-cup in the “use me for nuts!” food processor, and no, it wouldn’t have been too hard to make sure the almonds weren’t left in for too long. And it would’ve been okay. The granola wouldn’t have tasted significantly different. It would’ve taken less time, baked sooner, and been ready to go within the afternoon.

But, we didn’t need any of that to happen. We didn’t need to go fast. We didn’t need to avoid the cutting board conversation and rush to the next chore. We had time, and we took it.

A lot of the time, I think, we don’t realize how beautiful it can be to do things intentionally, rather than easily. My sojourn this summer helped me see this more clearly in everything I did, in every moment I had.

It’s easy to kill weeds with herbicide. It’s harder to sit in the dirt, among the worms, bury under your nails mud that’ll stain your fingers for the next week, while straining your back and knees to find a comfortable spot between the rows, only to have to move over another foot in 5 minutes anyway. But despite that, we still weed by hand.

It’s easy to throw food scraps right into the trash. It’s harder to make stir-fry with leftover beans, broccoli stems, onion, whatever the tupperware labeled ‘deconstructed breakfast potatoes’ dated from a week ago is, and laugh as the staff tries to guess all the ingredients we ended up dousing in soy sauce and ginger. But we can use the leftovers, and we can build community anyway.

It’s easy to shower every single day. If you’ve been to the Farm, you know you get messy enough to bathe three times a day and still find dirt behind your ears and sawdust in the pits of your elbows. It’s harder to sit with it, the sawdust and stickiness of the summer day, knowing we have water to wash it off. But we know why we choose to limit ourselves despite the resources, and so we sit with it anyway.

It’s easy to say you’re tired and go back to sleep after an early 10:10 alarm wakes you up on your Saturday off. It’s harder to grab your headlamp, a tarp, and a fluffy dog to hike the buggy uphill battle to the Rock, just to see the sunrise before the rest of the holler with people you’ll quickly promote from ‘someone I volunteer with’ to ‘friend’ in the correspondences with family back home. We can step out of our comfort zones and watch the stars dissolve into a blue sky with people we love anyway.

It’s easy to throw your clothes in the dryer and forget about them until someone mentions how long it’s been since they’ve done their own laundry. It’s harder to scoop up the handful of damp work pants and t-shirts, tiptoe into the yard, and discover the stains that didn’t come out in the wash. Find the woodshop projects that signed their name on your overalls, the worksite that painted your headband more than you painted its wall, whatever food managed to smear across your hip while cleaning up after dinner, the sock that got balled up after doing lawns and trapped the cut grass in the toe far from the reach of water and homemade detergent. We can get rid of these messy clothes and easily get new, or we can wear our stains like badges of honor, brag about them at breakfast, and air-dry them, imperfect and memorable, anyway.

There are ways to live life easily. But sometimes, I think, it’s worth it to fall in love with the simplicity of a knife and a cutting board, and the monotony of chopping almonds.

-Ashley Bound, Summer Sojourner 2019 & 2020

There is a Chinese Parable of the Farmer that seems extra relevant right now:

“Once there was a Chinese farmer who worked his poor farm together with his son and their horse. When the horse ran off one day, neighbors came to say, “How unfortunate for you!” The farmer replied, “Maybe.” When the horse returned, followed by a herd of wild horses, the neighbors gathered around and exclaimed, “What good luck for you!” The farmer stayed calm and replied, “Maybe.” While trying to tame one of the wild horses, the farmer’s son fell and broke his leg. He had to rest up and couldn’t help with the farm chores. “How sad for you,” the neighbors cried. “Maybe.” said the farmer. Shortly after that, a neighboring army threatened the farmer’s village. All the young men in the village were drafted to fight the invaders. Many died. But the farmer’s son had been left out of the fighting because of his broken leg. People said to the farmer, “What a good thing your son couldn’t fight!” “Maybe.” was all the farmer said.”

We’re living in very uncertain times, but it’s in God’s hands.

The first couple of months of 2020 provided me with plenty of practice for the stay-in-place. I started this year with major surgery and a tough recovery. I had a few days between my diagnoses and the scheduled surgery to update loved ones and hang out with friends. A common question I received was, “are you afraid?” I realized that in a situation that warranted fear, I found myself vacant of it. I thought about it a bit and realized that throughout my life, I had been fearful of less threatening things, including previous less invasive surgery. So what changed? 

Along my spiritual journey, the deep acknowledgment of two main principles really changed my relationship with fear. The first principle is well illustrated through the parable of the Chinese farmer told above. The human mind’s categorization of “good” and “bad” is limited. Only God knows whether something is “good” or “bad” from a holistic spiritual and physical point of view. In addition, regardless of the nature of the occurrence, God can use it for God’s will (Romans 8:28).  The second principle: God is Love (1 John 4:8,16). In the original Greek, God is “Agape,” unconditional love. The life of Jesus further reflects a deeply selfless love.

God’s knowledge is unlimited, power insurmountable, love intoxicating. At some point in recent years, I had decided to face my fears by trust falling into God. By the day of my surgery, I knew I had good reason to worry. But I couldn’t. God is bigger than human reasoning. When the operating room was ready, I laid my head on the surgical table and prepared to close my eyes and enter into a void of uncertainty. I didn’t know what I would wake up to, or would not wake up to. However, I knew deeply that regardless of the outcome, through God, all is well.

We’re living in very uncertain times right now, but someway, somehow, it is well.

-by Ayanna Seals, past volunteer

A couple years ago I was on a climbing trip at the Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. My climbing partner and I were making an attempt to summit the iconic mountain. The hiking approach just to get to the saddle is a physical feat of its own and takes a good amount of time. For the first several miles of the hike, we were surrounded by tall trees and narrowly focused on the climb we were about to do. Then, in a blink of an eye, we broke the tree line and were surrounded by beautiful gneiss peaks. The sight literally stopped us in our tracks, and we were so overwhelmed by its beauty. I cried tears of joy. In moments like that, it is impossible to deny the presence of God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth. 

That experience is comparable to the feeling I got when I visited West Virginia for the first time or any of the times I did the hike to the top of the Nazareth Farm property or watched the gardens grow. It is a feeling of excitement and hope that ignites contemplation and peace. One morning, shortly after I moved to the Farm, I was standing in the parking lot waiting for our send off prayer before leaving for the worksite. There was fog on the ridges of the holler, and it looked like the mountains were breathing and had something to say. It reminded me of the Canticle of Daniel (Daniel 3:57-88), specifically the line: “Mountains and hills, bless the Lord; praise and exalt Him above all forever (Daniel 3:75).” When we have encounters with nature, we begin to realize that, “creatures of this world no longer appear to us under merely natural guise because the risen One is mysteriously holding them to Himself and directing them towards fullness as their end. The very flowers of the field and the birds which His human eyes contemplated and admired are now imbued with His radiant presence (Pope Francis, Laudato Si’ 100).”   

When we come to this realization we understand more fully the urgent need to protect and defend nature. This is increasingly important during a time of a climate crisis, environmental degradation, exploitation of land and low income communities, mountaintop removal, and fracking, just to name a few of the issues we face. These issues aren’t only concerning because of the effect they have on people and our climate, but it also puts the wild and wonderful places we love at risk. Exploitation of nature, is exploitation of people, and is exploitation of the beauty of God’s creation. Much of this exploitation is caused by destructive consumption habits. 

Today, May 24, 2020, is the 5th Anniversary of Pope Francis’ encyclical, Laudato Si’: On Care for Our Common Home, his letter about our current ecological crisis and the plight of the poor and vulnerable, the people who are most affected by environmental degradation. In it he highlights our need to resist the throw-away culture, not unlike Nazareth Farm’s decades-old call to simplicity. Living simply, as many people who have visited the Farm know, has many personal benefits like increased gratitude, less clutter, more time to focus on relationships, etc., but there is a deeper, communal aspect of it as well. When we live a life of simplicity we uphold the common good, resist the destruction of ecosystems, and protect the earth and people. Simplicity is a practice of solidarity.

-by Kayla Jacobs, past staff member at Nazareth Farm

We’re big fans of Mister Rogers in our house. We’ll often watch an episode as a family to wind down at the end of the day. So, in these uncertain and stress-filled times, where everything seems to be a mess, his voice has become a calming sound in the midst of all the noise. One of his most famous quotes speaks well to this moment: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Of course I love this quote, and it is a great quote to use with my five year old when discussing why so many people are walking around with masks on. It would be a mistake however to apply this to adults. It is a great challenge to recognize in times of chaos, we get to choose – choose to be a helper.

This week’s readings challenge us to recognize that we are called to be empowered helpers. If grace is favor, free under-served help that God gives us to respond and cooperate in the divine nature; these readings speak to those in the early church responding. In the first reading we hear of crowds in Samaria responding to Philip and the message he preached and signs he was doing. In the second reading we are encouraged to be ready to share why we have hope, and to do it with “gentleness and reverence.” In the Gospel, Jesus tells his disciples that God will give them an Advocate to journey with them and they will not be left alone. In all these readings there is the message that we are called to be empowered. Called to respond to God’s grace. Called to serve.

As I have reflected on how all this applies to Nazareth Farm, I am struck and moved by my experience of the Farm. By living out the cornerstones, the Farm seeks to be an empowered helper. To not leave people alone, but to listen to their need and serve them. To not give in to a “throwaway” culture, but to live in simplicity and leave a good footprint. To intentionally live in community, and to strengthen community, and after forty years there is great proof of this. And to take time in giving thanks in prayer and inviting the Advocate to constantly be known through shared prayer. Nazareth Farm and the people connected to it have responded to be empowered helpers.

I often find myself reflecting on the experiences that I have had at the Farm and am blown away at all of the moments where disciples responded to grace. I think of fixing a roof on an extremely hot day and being astounded by the young men who carried heavy shingles up and down ladders without complaint (it was an all-male group that day, ladies can definitely do the same!) I think of all the homeowners I have encountered and how so often they served me by sharing a story, lunch, or a cold juice while we were there to serve them. I think of the joy of seeing the community and coming around that bend and being “welcomed home.” Nazareth Farm is a great blueprint and witness of how to live life as a helper. It isn’t that bucket showers are radical, in fact the opposite, but it is in the response and cooperation with grace that the Farm has been able to radically live out its mission to be a helper. As we move towards Pentecost, how can we respond and cooperate with grace to embrace the blueprint and witness that the Farm has provided, and live our daily life as empowered helpers?

By Michael O’Connell, current board member and chaperone

“Master, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?”

In this week’s Gospel, the disciples seem very confused, even distraught, when Jesus says he will be leaving to prepare a place for them in his Father’s house. They do not understand, and how are we to blame them, when Jesus enigmatically speaks of being “the way and the truth and the life.” At this point in John’s gospel, Jesus is moving towards the Cross and Resurrection, and he wants to prepare his closest friends, his disciples, for this new reality. And here, near the end, we can hear Jesus’ frustration as Thomas and Philip question him. We hear his exasperation: “How do you NOT know who I am by now? I have been showing you the way for so long.”

The disciples, however, do not want talk of the way, they want Jesus. They want the feeling of when they were called on the seashore, dropping their nets to follow him, to know life and joy and love. Jesus is talking of leaving, and they are lost and afraid.

We identify so much with the disciples in our time of loss and uncertainty. Our world has been turned upside down, upended, and we are afraid. Deaths from COVID-19 grow each day and millions have lost their jobs. We know people who work in healthcare, our friends and family who have seen up close the effects of this pandemic. They hug their children goodbye and go off to fight this disease, only to return home worried that they might infect their family. Our parents are aging, and if this terrible disease would come for them, would we be able to go to them, to hold and comfort them? We are half-way through an Easter without a Resurrection and Jesus, the Christ, seems to have left.

But is Christ really so far from us? The way that Jesus speaks of is very close and simple. We need but look within, believe that God is now here in every moment, and remember. We all can remember back to those moments in our lives when this reality was present to us.  

Nazareth Farm is that moment, that place where the way seems evident and clear, and Christ is vividly present. We walk the misty road in the morning watching the creek meander out of the holler and the white church standing vigilantly on the hill. We hear laughter and song echo out of the O’Connor room windows at night as we walk back to the staff house satisfied with the day. Christ is present here. Christ is present in our community friends, homeowners, neighbors, and volunteers. Christ is present in the long drives, the food shared, and the conversations taken. We know Christ here. We know Christ in the long sips of tea on Mary Sandora’s front porch drinking in her wisdom and in the warm embraces of a welcome home hug.

Why then do we question the way? Why is it that we forget the clarity and connection we know at Nazareth Farm? This week let us remember. Let us remember, in our troubles and sorrow, doubts and fears, that the way is simple, rooted in us, and we can walk it with surety. The way, the only way, is Love. 

Readings: http://cms.usccb.org/bible/readings/051020.cfm

By Angie Moloney and Bill Alt, past director, staff member, and board member

 As my world finally slowed down this Easter season after the sudden sickness of my grandmother to myself being in a car accident, I had much to reflect on. I realized more than ever the sorrow and pain I held so close to the surface, but also of the power the resurrection has to bring in eternal hope and love. I recently remembered a prayer of St. Patrick, “Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ within me, never to part,” and how having my community at the Farm during everything humbled me towards God even more. 

A line in Pope Francis’ Easter vigil summarized what I was privileged to be gifted in recognizing in my own life, “He plants in our hearts the conviction that God is able to make everything work unto good, because even from the grave he brings life.” This is because I know God gives me the strength to fight against temptations and freedom from unnecessary worries and fears. Also, that hope is not as far as I might think, I merely have to turn to God once more and offer it up. While this is something easier said than done at times, nevertheless it is something God challenges us to do. We need to work more fully and have God ever more present in our lives in the happiness and struggles. It’s okay to ask, ask again, and keep asking God until we see a change.

I am glad and thankful to have the privilege to work in a place I have called home for almost a year now, if only to make the most of this isolation. It’s in moments of getting to deep clean the places far down on my list to getting the chicken coop ready for our new chickens, it has been a blessing. Just the chance to slow down, be more present with one another, and to find creative ways to entertain ourselves without too much repetition. I can’t help but feel the honor and joy to be with all these wonderful people who make God so clear to see both in actions and the things unsaid. I will say it is entertaining to find different ways to live out both our mission and cornerstones in isolation. And realizing we enjoy cookies so much that if we could, we would definitely eat them all in a day. Just finding these small gestures of care, affection, and prayer for each other brings me joy.

So my hope is that care, affection, and prayer find everyone in small or big ways. And that you do them to those next to you. That God’s love and eternal hope be discovered or found again in beautifully surprising ways everyday. May we continually be persistent in prayer, simplicity, community, and service.

• by Diana Campos Loera, current staff member at Nazareth Farm 

A few years ago I was a Catholic Worker for the summer. One day I realized we were out of pillows for new guests, so I asked my director what we should do. She bluntly told me, “Pray for pillows.” Admittedly, I thought she was being a bit ridiculous, but I walked out into our entrance and said a half-hearted prayer that sounded something like this: “Hey God. I don’t know what kind of prayers should be said for pillows, but we need pillows. So, if we could get some, that’d be great.” I closed with a Hail Mary and went on to sorting donations. 

About an hour later, there was a ring at the door. By the time I answered it, no one was there, but a bag full of pillows sat at the door. I was shocked, I ran into the office proclaiming, “LOUISE! SOMEONE DROPPED A BAG OF PILLOWS AT THE DOOR!” She smiled, laughed for a moment, then said, “Well I told you to pray for them, what did you expect?” I wondered at her ability to ask God for exactly what she needed – and her expectation that God really would answer. 

The following summer I found myself at Nazareth Farm for the first time as a summer sojourner. I learned about a little phrase that we say a lot around here, “Expect a miracle.” 

This Easter season, I’ve returned to that phrase as I contemplate the risen Lord. In this season, we rejoice because Christ is risen as He said! We are an Easter people, and if we believe in Him who rose from the dead, then we believe in miracles. We can pray with the confidence that God hears us, and we can expect that God will answer. Sometimes God answers us with the big and supernatural, but I’ve found that miracles are often extraordinarily precise in their ordinariness, like an extra bag of pillows at the door.

As I finished up a home repair project with some staff members last summer, we found ourselves in need of just one more piece of siding to finish the project. In the scrap pile laid a piece that was just big enough. Expect a miracle. 

The sun rose over the ridge on Easter morning, the birds awoke with soft chirps and songs, and the trees rustled in the breeze. I found a quiet hope in the steady rhythm of the web of life here in the hollow, even as the rest of the world feels chaotic. Expect a miracle. 

My school changed the grading policy for the semester, and it’s now impossible for me to fail the course I was so worried about. Expect a miracle. 

 We find ourselves in a scary place and time, but the son of God is free among the dead, and He is with us! In Christ, we can expect miracles. As we navigate a world of doubt and uncertainty, let us return to the hope of Easter by renewing our belief in that little phrase: Expect A Miracle.

-Killeen McCans, Nazareth Farm Sojourner and soon to be senior at Notre Dame University