Since then, I’ve heard a lot more people also taking this approach to Lent. But as Amy Ekeh points out in her article “10 Reasons to Fast This Lent,” that approach might not be the right one for everyone. After all, she reminds us, there is a purpose behind this long-standing practice.

No matter how we approach the season of Lent, though, it offers us 40 days to reflect on and renew our faith. One of those ways is through prayer. This month’s article “Quieting Our Hearts during Lent,” by Laurence Freeman, OSB, offers a wonderful invitation and guide to welcoming the practice of meditation into our Lenten practices.

Whatever your Lenten journey looks like, may it be a blessed and peaceful time that brings you closer to Christ.

Rahner reminds us, however, that the interaction is not actually so simple. That banana did not just appear in the grocery store by magic. It has a history. The banana took a journey from its home country to the shelves of the store, and along the way, that banana got caught up in centuries-old commercial policies between the United States and South and Central America. The banana has passed through relationships that involve inequity and injustice toward the pickers and the packers of the fruits we eat.

Buying the banana is not sinful. At the same time, the banana is a focal point for these social and systemic forms of sin. It is sometimes too easy for us to ignore these wider connections that attach to the things we buy and sell.

Two centuries before Karl Rahner wrote of these things, the Quaker John Woolman arrived at similar insights. As early as 1762, Woolman and others refused to purchase goods produced by slave labor. Later in his life, Woolman became known for dressing in grey clothing, for he refused to wear clothing that had been dyed with pigments that were carried over on the same ships that carried human beings intended to be sold as slaves.

Broadening Our Perspectives

In Matthew 23:23, Jesus admonishes the Pharisees and scribes for their scrupulous attention to public righteousness while “neglect[ing] the weightier things of the law: judgment and mercy and fidelity.” In other words, Jesus is reminding us that Rahner’s banana, Woolman’s clothing, and so many other simple everyday items and actions must be viewed in their relationship to the wider web of justice within God’s kingdom.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us of these wider connections when it says: “A good intention [for example, that of Hidden Costs helping one’s neighbor] does not make behavior that is intrinsically disordered . . . good or just. The end does not justify the means. Thus, the condemnation of an innocent person cannot be justified as a legitimate means of saving the nation. On the other hand, an added bad intention [such as vainglory] makes an act evil that, in and of itself, can be good [such as almsgiving]” (1753).

I thought about this paragraph when Jeff Bezos of Amazon donated $15 million to various Catholic charities. On the surface, this is a wonderful and generous gift, and as Sister Marjorie Hebert, president and CEO of Catholic Charities Archdiocese of New Orleans, put it, “This grant will be critical in helping us continue to provide a comprehensive network of social services that connects our clients to resources and acts as a springboard to self-sufficiency.”

However, over the past two years there have also been numerous credible reports that Amazon does not treat its employees with dignity, subjecting them to dangerous working conditions. They have fought to bar workers’ compensation and medical reimbursements. Is there not a social and systemic sinfulness to be found in such actions?

If a banana can be problematic, if a suit of clothing can be problematic, is it not possible that a pile of money can be problematic? No matter how much good it promises to bring into the world, we have to ask how it connects to these webs of social and systemic relations. Even when the transaction—especially when the transaction—benefits our interests, we need to be looking with scrutiny at these weightier things of the law: judgment, mercy, and fidelity. These we must do—and not leave the others undone.

The creation story of Genesis suggests that God’s care and love extend to all creatures.

How do we answer children when they ask: “Will I see my dog in heaven?” As I see it, this question is not only an urgent concern for the children. I believe that most adults also have a deep desire to know if, in the next life, we will see our pets and all the other lovely creatures alongside whom we now inhabit this planet.

I feel more comfortable, however, if we pose the question a little more broadly: Namely, does God’s plan of salvation include all creatures? In the reflections below, I think I have lined up a good bit of evidence—from Scripture, from the example of St. Francis of Assisi and from the teachings of the Church—which shows that God wishes other creatures besides humans to be included in the plan of salvation. Consider the following:

The creation story of Genesis suggests that God’s care and love extend to all creatures. Would not God’s very act of creating the earth, as well as the plants and animals, imply an unwritten covenant that the Creator will not suddenly stop loving or caring for them?

The story of Noah’s ark leaves little doubt in my mind that God wants all creatures to be saved, not just the humans. For me, the ark is a wonderful symbol of God’s desire to save the whole family of creation. The story suggests to me that it is not God’s plan to save humankind apart from the other creatures. We are all in the same boat, so to speak. As St. Paul writes to the Romans (8:22), “All creation is groaning” for its liberation.

After the waters of the flood go away, God makes a covenant with all living creatures. The covenant is not simply between God and the humans, but also, as the Bible says, with “all the birds, and the various tame and wild animals….Never again shall all bodily creatures be destroyed by the waters of a flood” (Genesis 9:10-11).

God’s putting a rainbow in the sky emphasizes the point one more time. God tells Noah: “This is the sign of the covenant I have established between me and all mortal creatures that are on earth” (9:17). Isn’t it interesting that God takes much more care than we humans to include the animals and other creatures in the plan of salvation?

The story of Jonah teaches us the “all-inclusive nature” of God’s saving love. The amazing mind-set of the Jonah story is that animals participate in God’s saving intentions. The Book of Jonah almost reads like a children’s story: There’s a furious storm at sea. The sailors throw Jonah into the raging water. A big fish swallows the prophet and spits him out on the shore. Jonah has been trying to run far away from the task God has assigned him, namely, to preach to the city of Nineveh. Like his fellow Jews, Jonah despises the people of Nineveh. Jonah does not like the fact that God’s saving love includes the likes of them.

The story is really a parable of God’s all-embracing love. Significantly, even the animals are included in God’s saving plan. When Jonah proclaims that Nineveh will be destroyed because of its sins, the king of Nineveh is very responsive: He announces a fast, which includes not only humans but animals as well: “Neither man nor beast, neither cattle nor sheep, shall taste anything,” orders the king. “They shall not eat, nor shall they drink water. Man and beast shall be covered with sackcloth” (3:7-8).

Much to Jonah’s disappointment, God’s mercy is very inclusive and reaches far beyond the Chosen People. God spares the city from calamity because of its repentance. And the last line of the Book of Jonah clearly reveals that God’s saving love extends to all living creatures, not just to humans: “Should I not be concerned,” God asks Jonah, “over Nineveh, the great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who cannot distinguish their right hand from their left, not to mention the many cattle?” (4:11).

In the Book of Psalms, we find prayers in which other creatures are called upon to praise God along with the humans, suggesting that creatures are meant to share our prayerful journey into the presence of God. These are very inclusive kinds of prayer. Listen to Psalm 148. It is a Hymn of All Creation to the Almighty Creator: “Praise the Lord from the heavens….Praise him, sun and moon; praise him, all you shining stars….Praise the Lord from the earth, you sea monsters and all depths; Fire and hail, snow and mist, storm winds that fulfill his word; You mountains and all you hills, you fruit trees and all you cedars; You wild beasts and all tame animals….Let the kings of the earth and all peoples….Young men too, and maidens, old men and boys, Praise the name of the Lord…” (v. 1-13).

A similar hymn of praise to God is sung by the three youths in the fiery furnace in the Book of Daniel (Chapter 3). In the midst of their distress, they invite the whole family of creation to praise the one Lord of all. Just to give a little sampling of this long hymn, the three youths sing: “Sun and moon, bless the Lord….Every shower and dew, bless the Lord….All you winds, bless the Lord….All you birds of the air, bless the Lord….All you beasts, wild and tame, bless the Lord” (v. 52-81).

Do not biblical prayers of this kind suggest that all of us creatures are meant to walk side by side in one common journey to God? Do these prayers not imply that all creatures are included in God’s saving plan?

St. Francis gave us a similar style of prayer. It seems obvious that, when he wrote his “Canticle of the Creatures” (sometimes called “Canticle of Brother Sun”), he based its style of prayer on such passages of Scripture as I just cited. But he added a special personal touch: He gave the titles of “Brother” and “Sister” to the various creatures, as if to emphasize all the more his heart-warming insight that we all form one family of creation under one loving Creator in heaven. “Sister” and “Brother” are familial terms.

Francis had the amazing intuition that we are not meant to come to God alone, as if in proud isolation from our brother and sister creatures. Rather, we are to form one family with them—and to lift up one symphony of praise to our common Creator.

Wouldn’t it seem strange if these sister and brother creatures, who are invited to praise God with us here on earth, are not welcomed to praise God with us in heaven?

Here’s a condensed version of St. Francis’ canticle:

All praise be yours, my Lord,
through all that you have made.

And first my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day….

How beautiful is he, how radiant in
all his splendor!

Of you, Most High,
he bears the likeness.

All praise be yours, my Lord,
through Sister Moon and Stars;

In the heavens you have made them,
bright and precious and fair.

All praise be yours, my Lord,
through Brothers Wind and Air….

All praise be yours, my Lord,
through Sister Water,

So useful, lowly, precious and fair.

All praise be yours, my Lord,
through Brother Fire,
through whom you brighten up the night….

All praise be yours, my Lord,
through Sister Earth, our mother,

Who feeds us…and produces various fruits

With colored flowers and herbs…

Praise and bless my Lord,
and give him thanks,

And serve him with great humility.

Turning to the Gospels, we see how reverently and closely Christ worked with creatures. One thing is clear: The Eternal Word did not hold himself aloof from our created world in his efforts to save it, but literally entered the family of creation at the Incarnation. God made this world his home, thus giving all creatures a whole new dignity.

Jesus interacted very naturally and respectfully with the created world, whether on the lakeshore or in the desert or on a mountainside or crossing a wheat field or the Sea of Galilee. In his preaching of the good news of God’s saving love, Jesus easily used images of the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, also foxes, pearls, salt, fig trees, mustard seeds and lost sheep, to name a few.

Jesus used created things in his saving work—wet clay on the eyes of the blind man to bring healing (John 9:6-7). He used the products of wheat and grape—bread and wine—to convey his very presence in the Eucharist.

Finally, after his resurrection, Jesus seemed to leave another hint, near the end of Mark’s Gospel, that the whole family of creation is included in God’s saving love. After his death and resurrection, he tells his disciples: “Go into the whole world and proclaim the gospel to every creature” (Mark 16:15). Mark doesn’t say “to every human being,” but “to every creature”!

In the final book of the Bible—the Book of Revelation—the inspired writer presents to us a heavenly vision in which all creatures are standing before the throne of God. Obviously, that glorious gathering is not composed exclusively of saved humanity: “Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, everything in the universe, cry out: ‘To the one who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be blessing and honor, glory and might, forever and ever’” (Revelation 5:13). In this picture of heaven all creatures are present and praising God together.

We take a closer look at the vision of St. Francis of Assisi. If ever there was a saint who took to heart an inclusive and integral vision of salvation, it was this poor little saint. The most important key to Francis’ vision—that all creatures are meant to form one family—is the Incarnation.

Francis had a great fascination for the feast of Christmas. Francis was deeply aware of one moment in history, namely the moment that God entered creation and the Word was made flesh. In his mind, this event sent shockwaves through the whole fabric of creation. The Divine Word not only became human. The Word of God became flesh, entering not only the family of humanity but the whole family of creation, becoming one, in a sense, with the very dust out of which all things are made.

Francis had a keen sense that all creatures—not just humans—were to celebrate the feast of Christmas. Francis’ biographers tell us that Francis wanted the emperor to ask all citizens to scatter grain along the roads on Christmas Day so that the birds and other animals would have plenty to eat. Walls, too, should be rubbed with food, Francis said, and the beasts in the stables should also receive a bounteous meal on Christmas Day. By right, all creatures should participate in the celebration of Christmas.

Francis had a clear sense that the saving plan of God, as revealed in the child-Savior born at Bethlehem, was to touch every part of the created world.

Given this vision, it was natural for Francis to take literally Jesus’ command in Mark’s Gospel to “proclaim the gospel to every creature”—to birds and fish, rabbits and wolves, as well as to humans. Why shouldn’t he preach to the animals and birds? St. Francis refused to be a human chauvinist—presuming that he was to be saved apart from the rest of creation.

Our Catholic liturgy supports and mirrors this kind of vision. “Father, you are holy indeed, and all creation rightly gives you praise.” These words, which begin Eucharistic Prayer III of the Roman Missal, express wonderfully how the Catholic Christian community includes the whole family of creation in its public rites and prayers of praise.

The Catholic liturgy, with its many sacramental rites, makes abundant use of the created world: water, oil, fire, bread and wine, incense, ashes, palm branches, flowers, candles, stained glass, colored vestments, paintings and images of biblical creatures such as eagles, lions, oxen, serpents and doves.

The Catholic community includes all kinds of created elements in its prayer-journey to God. The spirit of St. Francis seems very much in evidence in Catholic liturgical life.

The world of sound, of course, also plays a part in many Christian liturgies. Psalm 150 serves as a good biblical model for this approach: “Praise [the Lord] with the blast of the trumpet, praise him with lyre and harp, praise him with timbrel and dance, praise him with strings and pipe….Let everything that has breath praise the Lord! Alleluia” (3-6).

Again, it would seem strange if all these created beings, which assist us in worshiping God on earth, are not invited to join us in worshiping God in heaven!

Our Christian teaching about the resurrection of the body also reinforces the idea that our whole created world is included in God’s saving plan. Our Christian belief in the resurrection tells of the great significance of our earthly bodies and earthly environment.

At death, our bodies are not discarded like empty shells, as if only our souls are precious and meant to live with God. Not at all. The resurrection affirms that our bodies are precious too and destined to rise again like Jesus’ own body.

At one point in the Catholic funeral ceremony, the priest—without saying a word—solemnly walks completely around the casket, gently swinging the censer, allowing clouds of rising incense to honor the bodily remains of the person who died.

This awesome gesture of respect toward our earthly bodies reinforces our central Christian belief that these earthly bodies—and all that they represent—are meant to be transformed and saved as was Jesus’ glorified body. Indeed, our bodies are vitally interconnected with the whole created world. They could not exist one moment without the sun or the oxygen transmitted by plants. We depend, as well, on our environment for water and food, as well as for the minerals that make up these earthly bodies.

Because of the intimate linkage between our bodies and our environment, it’s hard to imagine how we can be transformed and saved apart from the rest of creation. The doctrine of the resurrection of the body seems to assure us that no genuine part of our human or earthly experience will be lost.

And so we come back to our original question—the question our children ask so earnestly: Will I see my dog or cat in heaven? The question may sometimes sound a bit naïve and simplistic.

But from all the evidence shown above, I believe we can make a good case for the hope embedded deep in each human heart, namely, that the whole family of creation will someday share in the fullness of salvation won by Jesus Christ. The more we see the full implications of our belief in the resurrection of the body and understand the biblical vision of God’s inclusive love, the easier it is for us to give a hopeful answer to our children’s question.

In the final analysis, how many of us are truly satisfied with a vision of heaven that does not include the whole family of creation? We take comfort, therefore, in St. Paul’s words that “all creation is groaning” for its freedom and redemption (Romans 8:22). More than that, we embrace the great apostle’s “hope that creation itself would… share in the glorious freedom of the children of God” (Romans 8:21).

Notes from a Friar: Do Animals Go to Heaven?

Fasting with purpose can give new meaning to Lent and increase your Easter joy.

One Sunday morning during Lent, I was amused to hear a homily advising parishioners to avoid giving anything up for Lent. Instead, the homilist encouraged looking in the mirror every day and telling yourself how fabulous you are! His point was valid: This Lent, see yourself the way God sees you. A friend says that her priest gives out candy during Lent to point out that it isn’t about giving up superficial things such as sweets.

The homily and the candy—and the growing trend away from fasting during Lent—encourage us to reprioritize our Lenten experiences, to realize that Lenten sacrifices aren’t simply something to check off a list or something to make ourselves miserable. No one wants to be around people who are making themselves unhappy in the name of Jesus.

But does an old-fashioned Lenten fast still have value? Are the small sacrifices we traditionally make (giving up sweets, alcohol, snacks, meat, television, or social media) stifling and distracting, or are they life-giving and transformative?

Fasting is an ancient practice of the Church; at its best, it is an authentic exercise in trust and a quiet form of deep devotion. It joins us to Christ and to one another. Fasting—in whatever form it takes—is nothing less than a participation in the transforming cross of Jesus Christ, which is the goal of every worthwhile Lenten journey.

So, in defense of an ancient practice with perennial benefits, here is my list of 10 good reasons to fast this Lent.

1. Jesus did it.

Fasting was a Jewish tradition that Jesus clearly expected would continue. His own 40-day fast endorsed the practice. Before beginning his ministry, he went into the wilderness, where he fasted from food and was tempted by Satan (Mt 4:1‚ 11). Jesus emerged from the wilderness, having been tested, strengthened, and prepared for what lay ahead.

Jesus even told us how to do it. Always concerned about hypocrisy, he clearly taught that when we fast, we shouldn’t make a show of it to others. Instead, “your Father who sees what is hidden will repay you” (Mt 6:18).

2. Fasting is a traditional sign of sorrow.

Lent is a season of repentance, and fasting helps us express that. Instead of a self-inflicted punishment, it is a willing offering, a purposeful act of humility. Rather than merely acknowledging our sin in thoughts or words, fasting lets us put our whole selves into the experience of repentance.

The Old Testament is full of references to the people of God fasting as a sign of their sorrow for sin. Often this was accompanied by other physical signs—wailing, wearing sackcloth, sprinkling ashes or dirt on the head, even the tearing of clothing or lying flat on the ground (Neh 9:1; Est 4:3; 1 Mc 3:47). Though we no longer express our sorrow in such outward signs, the symbolism of fasting remains. We not only tell God we are sorry; we show him.

3. Fasting helps us empty ourselves and focus on God and others.

When we fast, we rid ourselves of things that distract or burden us. Whether we’re giving up entertainment, our favorite snack, or unnecessary shopping, the stripping away of distractions allows us to turn our focus away from ourselves and toward God and others.

Jesus said, “No one can serve two masters” (Mt 6:24). We should enjoy the good things in our lives, but it is sometimes wise to give them up for a time, to regain our focus on what is most valuable.

4. Fasting gives us that familiar ‘yearning’ feeling.

Fasting helps us get in touch with our inner voice that says, “I want.” As humans, we want good food, good drink, and other good things. But deep down we know these things can bring us only limited happiness. If we reflect on our inner voice, we may hear a deeper voice, a yearning for something greater—something perfect and eternal. Jesus called it the “living water” and the “food that endures” (Jn 4:10; 6:27).

Lent is a time to experience this deep yearning, identify it, and reorient our lives because of it. The living water and the food that lasts are there for the taking.

5. Fasting helps us develop self-discipline.

When I was in high school, I decided to give up the snooze button for Lent. I just loved hitting “snooze” (I still do). Could I really get out of bed when the alarm went off? That was a tough Lent. But it was also liberating. Every morning, the alarm sounded and—wonder of wonders—I got out of bed. And by the end of Lent, getting up at the sound of the alarm was much easier. Knowing I could do this boosted my confidence about what else I could control.

This is a small example, but as Jesus said, “The person who is trustworthy in very small matters is also trustworthy in great ones” (Lk 16:10). Once we master something small, we can conquer bigger, more important things like fasting from gossip or envy.

6. Fasting reminds us that our bodies are part of our prayer.

We may think that what really matters in the spiritual life is our souls, and that our bodies are separate and secondary. But the Jewish understanding—which we Christians have inherited—is that we don’t only have bodies; rather, we are our bodies. Our bodies and souls belong together. Everything we do rightfully involves our bodies, including prayer and worship. Sitting, standing, kneeling, eating, drinking, singing, crossing ourselves, genuflecting, touching holy water—all are part of our worship. Using our bodies in these ways changes us inside.

Fasting is like this too. It is a way to get our bodies involved in prayer and worship. When King David wanted to pray for the healing of his deathly ill son, he fasted as he prayed (2 Sm 12:16). It was his way of showing God with his body what he was feeling inside—emptiness, desire, loss, and uncertainty. He gave it all over to God.

7. Fasting helps us be more mindful of others.

Fasting is not an inward-turning exercise. A fast, when freely offered, turns us outward—toward God and others. Our own time of “going without” can make us more mindful of those who “go without” on a regular basis, those experiencing the poverty of hunger, oppression, loneliness, or pain.

A true fast turns us away from a focus on ourselves and creates a space for serving others. We can fast from free time and use that time to serve those in need. We can fast from unnecessary shopping and give that money to charity. We can fast from cynicism and work against the injustices that plague our world.

8. Fasting builds our sense of community as Church.

Fasting during Lent is something we do together. Like wearing ashes on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday, fasting is a beautiful bond we share as Catholic Christians.

Just as the leaders and prophets of Israel used to “proclaim a fast” among the people to unify them in prayer (2 Chr 20:3; Jl 1:14), so we “proclaim a fast” during this season of repentance and transformation. Fasting binds us together in one spirit, one mission. It gives us an identity and a communal purpose. And it can change us not only as individuals, but also as a community.

9. Fasting makes Easter more joyful.

Just as the warmth of spring feels so good after a long winter, a celebration feels even more joyful after a time of “holding back.” I remember giving up sweets for Lent one year and then attending a potluck brunch on Easter. Every dessert on the table looked amazing! I remember how good mine tasted.

Jesus told a story about a young man who squandered his inheritance and ended up so hungry he wanted to eat slop from a pigs’ trough (Lk 15:16). When he finally returned home, his father prepared a great feast. Ample food would have been a regular part of this young man’s life had he stayed at home and lived obediently. But it was his time of wandering and loss that led to such joy. The loss we experience—some small deprivation as we approach the cross—can prepare us for the joy of Easter.

10. Fasting helps us imitate Jesus.

Years ago when I was working in a parish, I gathered a group of children to talk about Lent. I asked them why they thought we give something up for Lent, and an earnest little boy responded. He didn’t say that we give something up because our parents tell us to, but “because Jesus gave up everything for us.”

I don’t think anyone had ever told that little boy this deep, simple truth. My hunch is that he knew it from looking at a crucifix—the cross that we cling to—an image of someone giving their all, giving it all up.

This is why we fast. We give something up because he gave it all up for us. This is why St. Paul considered every pain, every loss, and every failure to be a great blessing—because it gave him some share in the cross of Jesus: “to know [Christ] and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming conformed to his death” (Phil 3:10).

We, too, want to know the power of the Resurrection. In fasting, we can have some small share in the cross of Jesus.

A Heartfelt Offering

Keep in mind that God does not judge us on the “success” of our Lenten fast. We don’t fast to make God happy; our fast is an authentic sign of our love for God. It cannot merely be an external act; it must go deep—to stretch us spiritually, to open our eyes to the needs of our brothers and sisters, to prepare us for what lies ahead. It must be an offering from the heart, like that of Jesus on the cross.

Then our fast becomes not an obligation but a gift, not a dead custom but a fruitful offering, not a cause for self-congratulation but an occasion of self-giving. May our Lenten fast strengthen us for what lies ahead, which is nothing less than death and resurrection.

After saving 14,000 refugees during the Korean War, this captain turned monk is being considered for sainthood.

Captain Leonard LaRue never wanted to be called a hero, though he saved 14,000 lives by one incredible act during the Korean War. It is very unlikely, then, that the idea of being called a saint ever crossed his mind. Yet the same action deemed heroic by two different countries has also been deemed saintly by a core group of Catholics, and these devotees are working to have that title bestowed on this man by the universal Church.

The War Story

It was the bitterly cold winter of 1950. LaRue, captain of the Meredith Victory, an unarmed cargo ship, was summoned to the harbor of Hungnam, North Korea, to support a desperate evacuation. UN forces, pursuing a battered North Korean Army, had been surprised by the sudden entrance of Chinese troops into the Korean War and were surrounded at the infamous onslaught now known as the Battle of Chosin Reservoir.

About 105,000 US Marines and soldiers and 90,000 Korean refugees were pinned to the sea as the Chinese forces drew nearer. Evacuating the troops was a priority, but American colonels believed that if the refugees were left behind, Communist troops would view them as American sympathizers and slaughter them.

“I trained my binoculars and saw a pitiable scene,” LaRue would later recall. “Refugees thronged the docks. With them was everything they could wheel, carry, or drag. Beside them, like frightened chicks, were their children.”

“When the Army representatives asked Captain LaRue if he would volunteer—they could not order him—to go in to the beachhead, take off as many refugees as [he] could,” says 90-year-old retired Rear Admiral Robert Lunney, who was the staff officer of the crew of 35 men, “Captain LaRue, without hesitation, said, ‘I will take my ship in, and we’ll take as many as we can.'”

With a cargo of 300 tons of highly flammable jet fuel, the Meredith Victory navigated through the 30-mile minefield surrounding Hungnam. The freighter was the last of about 200 American ships to finish loading. As the crew urged the desperate refugees into the cargo holds using one of the few Korean words they knew, bali (faster), Chinese forces advanced to about 4,000 yards from the beachhead, naval and air bombardments fired overhead, and demolition teams laced the harbor with explosives.

By the morning of December 23 after only 13 hours, the Meredith Victory had packed 14,000 refugees on board and, still carrying jet fuel, steered into waters infested with enemy submarines. The ship had no escort or any way to defend itself against potential attacks.

The cargo holds, as well as the entire deck, were swarming with masses of humanity. There were no food rations, no bathroom facilities, and not enough warm clothing sufficient for so many people. Yet despite three days at sea in freezing temperatures, not one person perished. In fact, by the time the ship safely delivered the refugees to the small island of Geoje on the southern coast of South Korea on Christmas Day, five babies had been born on board.

Many years later, Lunney still vividly recalls the scene and wonders at his captain’s decision to attempt such a dangerous rescue.

“I asked him how [he was] able to make that decision when they described all of the danger in taking a ship in, how close the enemy was to the beachhead, and [he] stood to lose [his] ship or [his] men?” Lunney relates. “He just reached over and he touched the holy Bible and said, ‘The answer is here—no greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for his friends.'”

LaRue would later recall: “I think often of that voyage. I think of how such a small vessel was able to hold so many persons and surmount endless perils without harm to a soul. The clear, unmistakable message comes to me that on that Christmastide, in the bleak and bitter waters off the shores of Korea, God’s own hand was at the helm of my ship.”

From Captain to Monk

The hand of God would continue to guide LaRue, just as Christmastime would continue to bring about miracles for the old captain. In 1954, LaRue left the sea to join the Benedictine congregation of St. Ottilien at St. Paul’s Abbey in Newton, New Jersey. He made his first profession on Christmas Day, 1956, and took his final vows at the Christmas midnight Mass three years later. The name he chose, Marinus, was both a tribute to the Blessed Virgin Mary and an appropriate appellation for a man of the sea.

“He always had a soft spot for the downtrodden,” recalls his last abbot, Father Joel Macul, OSB. “If a poor person would come to the door, he always would want to help. Sometimes [he] would go to the kitchen after hours and maybe put a food bag or something together.”

Brother Marinus spent his days serving others at the monastery. Rarely did he speak of his heroic rescue of 14,000 people and preferred that others not ask about it.

“He once said to me, ‘You know, people come down and they forever want to talk to me about this rescue,'” says Lunney, who visited his former captain at St. Paul’s Abbey several times. “He said, ‘All I did [was] what was right.'”

Reaching Out to Korea

As Brother Marinus approached the age of 87 with failing health, the hand of God would intervene again through the lives of those he saved. St. Paul’s Abbey, with a dwindling community no longer able to support itself, was on the verge of closing its doors. Leadership of the congregation asked a community in Waegwan, South Korea, if they would send young members to Newton to save the monastery.

The monks in Waegwan were aware that Brother Marinus lived at St. Paul’s and, even more, knew what he had done for the Korean people. One of their members had been rescued as a young boy aboard the Meredith Victory.

“There was this human connection because of the story of Brother Marinus; it affected the lives of many people they knew,” says Father Macul. “That is one of the motivating factors for them to say, ‘Yes, this man did something for us; now we can be missionaries on the other side.'”

On October 12, 2001, the monks of Waegwan informed St. Paul’s Abbey that they would accept this new mission. Two days after his monastery was assured to be safe, Brother Marinus passed away. In yet another yuletide miracle, the first group of Korean monks arrived in New Jersey 10 days before Christmas.

Continuing Influence

The ripples caused by LaRue’s heroic rescue at Hungnam continue to spread. In June 2017, the new leader of South Korea, President Moon Jae-in, publicly acknowledged that he owes his life to this incredible captain. Moon’s parents were among the thousands saved aboard the Meredith Victory. In fact, the president was born just two years later on the same island where the freighter had disembarked.

“Had it not been for the valiant warriors of the Jangjin [Chosin] Reservoir Battle and the success of the Hungnam evacuation, my life would not have started. I would not even exist today,” said Moon, speaking at a new monument to the battle at the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Quantico, Virginia. He had made this memorial his first stop on his first trip as head of state. “So, how can I fully express my gratitude for your sacrifice and devotion with any words in any language in this world? Words like respect and gratitude just seem to be far from enough,” Moon said.

A Seed Is Planted

Rear Admiral Lunney was among the small, handpicked group in attendance as Moon paid his respects and acknowledged Captain LaRue. In addition to Moon, Lunney recalls meeting yet another person rescued aboard the Meredith Victory several decades prior. Sister Bernadetta-Maria, who is now a member of the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart in Busan (formerly Pusan), was the first to suggest to Lunney an incredible notion.

“She told me that she prayed every day that Captain LaRue be named a saint,” says Lunney. “The thought process never really occurred to me. No matter who you know, you never think of them as being a saint.”

The hand of God seemed to have also planted that same idea in the depths of another heart a thousand miles from Lunney’s New York state home. Father Sinclair Oubre, a pastor in the Diocese of Beaumont, Texas, and certified Merchant Marine, came across the story of Brother Marinus and immediately felt he had found a spiritual mentor.

“[Due to] his unhesitating response to take care of the refugees who were not his relatives, who were not of the same ethnic group, [he clearly placed] himself and his ship and his crew in a dangerous situation and yet [recognized] that dignity that lay within them,” explains Father Oubre. “The fact that he lived a humble life of prayer, all those things sort of came to me and spoke to me that there [are] examples here from which the Church can draw upon.”

As the diocesan director of the Apostleship of the Sea, the official Catholic ministry to mariners, Father Oubre recognized the impact that a merchant sailor-saint could have on the lives of those he serves. He approached the apostleship in late October of 2017 to see if they would spearhead a sainthood cause for this exceptional captain. The apostleship agreed. “Merchant mariners are often marginalized and are often looked upon as drunks and fighters and brawlers. It [Brother Marinus’ sainthood cause] can certainly give us a tremendous amount of dignity in our own lives,” says Father Oubre.

The Journey to Sainthood

The process of recommending a person for canonization, full of research and investigations, is long and easily stalled, but Father Oubre says that, thus far, it has been “smooth sailing” for Brother Marinus. Vatican guidelines instruct that a sainthood cause must be officially initiated by the bishop of the diocese in which the person passed away. In this case, that responsibility falls to Bishop Arthur J. Serratelli of the Diocese of Paterson, New Jersey. In a meeting with Father Oubre and Lunney on October 13, 2017, the bishop gave his blessing.

“He told us he wants to do anything he can to help move this thing forward,” says Father Oubre.

Going beyond verbal support, Bishop Serratelli secured a Rome-based postulator, whose job is to act as a guide through the process. The next step is to send an outline of Brother Marinus’ life to the Vatican’s Congregation for the Causes of Saints and officially request to begin a sainthood cause. If the congregation does not object to this request, it issues a nihil obstat, which translates to “no objections.” This means that the cause is open and Brother Marinus may be referred to as Servant of God.

“Then the tough grinding gets started,” laughs Father Oubre.

Extensive research into the life and writings of Brother Marinus must be done to progress the title from Servant of God to Venerable. The next two steps along the road to canonization—Blessed and Saint—both require that miracles occur as a result of Brother Marinus’ intercession. For this reason, Father Oubre and Lunney are eager to share the story of this devout seafarer and encourage the faithful to seek his intercession in daily life.

“This is truly an example of Christian faith in action,” Lunney asserts. “When it came to making a decision to do something as dramatic and within the realm of heroic virtue, he did it without hesitation. And that must be told.”

“I love you, LORD, my strength…”
(Psalm 18:2)

A marvelous beginning: “I love….” Only one other psalm begins with these words—Psalm 116. They bespeak an open heart, a joyful appreciation of God’s goodness. They are the main reason I was first attracted to this psalm. I have since found many more attractive traits. Three levels I find in this psalm convince me to call it a favorite.

Royal Protector

First, I have a God who protects me. A Davidic king thanks God for deliverance from and victory over enemies. The king’s narrow escapes and daring exploits exhilarate—like an Indiana Jones movie.

We hear how God protects the king. We see the earth reel and rock, the mountains tremble, smoke from God’s nostrils, devouring fire from his mouth. God rides on a cherub, comes swiftly on the wind, reaches to draw the king out of mighty waters. There is no doubt that God is realizing his promises made to David. Through all the sacraments, especially the Eucharist, and through the daily praying of the Office, I also sense God’s protection and promise.

In spectacular ways, God is faithful to the covenant made with the king and the people. Already on this level we rejoice and thank God for his goodness. With the Davidic king, we say, “I love you, LORD, my strength.”

Personal God

Second, I have a God who is connected and involved. “Personal” does not mean individualistic. Christians (and many others) do not pray alone. United to Christ by the Spirit, Christ prays in us. Furthermore, united to Christ, we are one with all the members of his body. Indeed, since by becoming human, Jesus has united himself with all humans, we carry all humanity on our shoulders as we approach God. Thus, even if we ourselves are not in danger, our prayer reaches into the lives of others who are.

We even come to realize that we have no real enemies. Others may think of us as their enemies, but we see them as our brothers and sisters. We may certainly pray that God will rescue us when they plot evil against us, but our prayer can be steeped in hope.

This psalm helps me realize I have a stake in everyone’s life. I am not alone in my approach to God.

Perhaps our worst enemy is ourselves—our selfishness, lukewarmness and indifference. We beg God to shake our mountains of pride, draw us out of the mighty waters of self-pity and help us leap over the wall of apathy.

Power Source

Third, I have a God on whose strength I can lean. Jesus is the descendant of David. Jesus is also a Davidic king, but of a different sort. He never brandished the arms of a warrior, yet he won the greatest victory of all.

Jesus defeated the most powerful of all enemies on many occasions. At his death, the earth shook and rocks split. At his resurrection there was an earthquake. He continues to shake up the world by sending his Spirit. In Revelation, he is “King of kings and Lord of lords.”

As the Lord of glory, he wins because of his death on Calvary (“robe dipped in blood”) and his all-powerful word (“From his mouth comes a sharp sword”). Jesus does have “armies of heaven” following him, but the enemy is defeated without wielding a weapon.

Psalm 18 is a psalm of love, a love shot through with thanks and praise for a God of exciting exploits, daring deeds and remarkable rescues.

Understanding Psalm 18

Psalm 18 is a lengthy one, celebrating the victory of the king, God’s representative, in some unknown battle. The conflict is described twice, in slightly different ways. First, it is told in more cosmic form, drawing on common ancient Near Eastern symbols (verses 4-30); then, second, in more personal and concrete terms (verses 31-48).

The king’s strength derives completely from God. Being true to God’s Kingdom will involve struggle, but God (“our rock, our fortress, our deliverance, our shield, our stronghold, our light”—verses 3 and 29) is the basis for hope.

Next Month: Psalm 42