Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the Christian heresy of Catharism gained momentum in northern Italy and southern France. Like the heresy of gnosticism in the first few centuries, Cathars were dualists who believed reality consisted of two opposing cosmic forces. The spiritual realm (like the soul and the heavens) was good while the material realm (like the body and world) was corrupt and inherently evil.

St. Anthony of Padua faced daily challenges with the Cathars when he was assigned to preach in southern France from 1224-1227, as Father Pat McCloskey, OFM, points out. St. Anthony’s skilled preaching in combatting the Cathar heresy would earn him the nickname “Hammer of the Heretics.” As preachers like St. Anthony demonstrated, heresies like Catharism that demonize material reality simply did not compute with Church teaching or the ethos of the Franciscan movement which invites prayerful gaze upon creation as a source of divine beauty. Creation, as St. Bonaventure would note, contained divine vestiges (or “footprints”) that can lead the soul into contemplation toward union with God.

So, what does any of this have to do with today? The medieval heresy of Catharism may have been buried in the past by, yes, Church-sanctioned military crusades, as well as convincing preachers like St. Anthony, but if I’m honest with myself, this failure to see beauty in the material realm has taken on different forms in my own life.

During my years in conservative evangelicalism there was such an emphasis on salvation and the afterlife that it fostered a certain blindness to how God could be experienced in the here and now: through friends and family, through creation, through work, through play, through music and art and even sports. In this form of spirituality, the body could not be trusted; thus, neither could our hearts and minds, our emotions and our thoughts, all these human aspects that, sure, were not without brokenness but were also fundamental portals to divine beauty. During my years in progressive Christianity, that evangelical emphasis on salvation was simply replaced by “justice”: our material reality was doomed until this politician was in office or this initiative was achieved. In a sense, the material realm of America was portrayed as corrupt and inherently evil. But writing off a person as evil or ignorant who voted differently from me was its own self-centered theological disposition: divine beauty only radiates from an individual if they align with my worldview and politics. That’s a small conception of beauty, of grace, of God.

To be clear, I think that both conservative and progressive camps within the broader Christian church can emphasize important doctrines and actions that add to the beautiful diversity of Christianity. But, like the Cathars, when one believes they have “insider knowledge” to ultimate truth, this can cultivate a dualistic view of people and the world: one of “goodies” and “baddies,” one that blinds us from experiencing divine beauty where we may least expect it. St. Francis of Assisi modeled an openness to divine beauty taking on unexpected forms in his relationships with lepers, with Sultan Malik al-Kamil, and with creation.

Cathar-like dualism can take on its own dimension in my personal life as well. With a 1-year-old and 3-year-old, my wife and I are in the thick of parenting (and exhaustion). Yes, it is beautiful. But it is also maddening. It is the most challenging thing I’ve ever done and, as I’ve told my wife, not a natural skillset for me. There are many days when I find myself coasting to the finish line, self-medicating just to get to bedtime. I should be creating or writing, I think to myself as I explain multiple times in multiple ways to my 3-year-old about why he can’t have ice cream for dinner. As exhaustion settles, all I’m craving is Netflix in bed with a bourbon: get me out of this hell into what I’ve defined as heaven. Human, perhaps. Integrative, no. Not unlike the Cathar heresy, this mode of being can become its own form of escapism where reality is parsed into good and bad. There are tear-filled eyes before me that long to be seen with compassion and grace, even in my umpteenth “no” that he cannot have ice cream.

Many times I’ve seen my creative and professional life take on a similar dimension. It is easy to think to myself: Once there’s clarity, I’ll be at peace. Once I achieve this thing I’ve been working toward, then I’ll be happy. Once this wrong is acknowledged, I’ll forgive. Yeah, maybe. But creativity is inherently messy and anything involving people is inherently complicated. I think of the great quote from Toni Morrison that Murray Bodo, OFM, often references: “This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That’s how imagination heals.”

Might there still be vestiges of divine beauty in the messiness?

Of course there are aspects of existence and this dark world that are intrinsically evil and should be named as such. But most things in life, I’ve learned as a creative and now as a father, are beautifully messy, where wheat grows among the weeds, where the transforming power of grace never ceases. It may be worth asking oneself: What am consciously (or unconsciously) labeling as heaven or hell? How are my own labels closing off my soul from experiencing beauty in the here and now?

St. Anthony of Padua, that Hammer of Heretics, serves as a model to me that I am to preach against any dualism within myself that blocks an openness to beauty. And I pray he helps me awaken to a deeper understanding of beauty in this divine-saturated, albeit messy, reality.

Questions for Reflection

✦ What in your life are you consciously or unconsciously labeling as heaven or hell? What would it look like to open your heart to divine beauty in the messiness? Maybe things are difficult at work, but can you remind yourself of the co-workers who you love and can support? Maybe you’re navigating an exhausting phase, but can you open your heart to savoring the beautiful moments along the way?

✦ What dualistic tendency within yourself do you need to preach against? What would you say in this sermon to help open your heart to beauty?

“When you look into muddy or choppy water, you will not see your face reflected. If you want the face of Christ, who looks on you, to be reflected within you, come away from the disturbance of exterior things, and let your soul be at peace.” —St. Anthony of Padua

Life can often feel like, in St. Anthony’s words, “choppy water,” and we can indeed lose our sense of bearing when things get chaotic or even hostile. To continue with his words as inspiration, what does it look like for you to “let your soul be at peace”? For me, leaning into spiritual practices such as prayer cultivates peace in my life. But I’m consistently surprised by how actions and activities that are not traditionally considered “spiritual” do, in fact, enrich my soul. When I’m out for a hike and a gentle breeze blows by, for example, if I’m attuned and in the right mood, it’s not just physically pleasant; it feels like my soul is expanding, breathing.

However, it’s often when something is lacking that you gain a deeper insight into the very nature of what is missing from your life at that moment. It might seem a bit of a stretch, but if your well-being is lost, there is a saint who is particularly good at finding lost things who might help here. St. Anthony—whom many have offered up the quick but effective “Tony, Tony, turn around. There’s something lost that must be found.”—can be equally effective in helping to find intangible things as he is in tracking down wallets, wedding rings, and car keys.

When I prayed for St. Anthony’s intercession to help regain well-being, the answers came from a few different sources, and I needed all of them working in concert. Here are the areas St. Anthony helped me rediscover.

Engaging with the Arts

Art can take on so many forms that there might be a kind of artistic expression you haven’t even discovered yet. Or maybe there’s something you do routinely that you don’t consider very creative. Consider finding ways of inserting some creativity into these mundane tasks. Are you mediocre in the kitchen? A cooking class or even YouTube videos can make the kitchen a dynamic, fun place instead of just a room with a microwave and refrigerator in it.

I’m partial to music, so I’m constantly on the search for new sounds while digging, much like an archeologist, for musical gems from the past. The next time I sit at the computer to look for more music, I think I’ll ask St. Anthony to help me find something different and surprising.

A Mental Pause

Meditation, or mindfulness, is another practice that isn’t overtly spiritual but that seems to have an interplay with our spiritual health. From YouTube videos to counseling to apps like Calm, there are plenty of resources for people to try out to help relax and center our busy, sometimes frenzied, minds. I have taken especially to the Calm app myself, since it only takes about 10 minutes to go through a guided reflection and has lots of other meditation-related content.

Meditation certainly can take on a spiritual aspect, but the fundamentals of quieting our minds to get better grounded in the present don’t require religious belief, so to me, it’s quite distinct from prayer. Taking good care of our mental health—whether one has a diagnosed condition or not—is a big step in being the best version of ourselves for others. That’s where self-care bleeds into and impacts our interpersonal relationships.

The Diet-Exercise-Sleep Triangle

It might seem obvious, but establishing and maintaining good nutrition, exercise, and sleep patterns is a major component of well-being. But I’ve found that bringing in my Catholic spirituality to each is like a secret weapon. Choosing the right ingredients for a meal isn’t just about calories and vitamins. It can be a moment to consider: Is this food ethically sourced? Sometimes the best remedy for insomnia has been prayer. And I’ve certainly offered up a prayer to launch me out of my laziness and into the gym.

Spending time with the arts, meditating, and taking good care of our bodies are major spokes on the wheel of well-being, and each is a powerful tool in its own right. But for me, without spirituality as the central hub, these activities seem less potent and more disconnected from each other. When they are reoriented in connection with the soul, they make more sense together, and the interplay between these practices starts to emerge. Reoriented this way, taking care of ourselves isn’t just healthy, it’s good.

Thank you, St. Anthony, for pointing me in the direction(s) to regain my footing amid life’s often shifting sands.

Questions for Reflection

✦ How does well-being take on a spiritual dimension for you? My Catholic spirituality seems to intersect with and inform areas such as art, healthy lifestyle choices, and meditation. But what are some other ways that well-being and your soul interact? When you identify some, think of ways to strengthen that spiritual connection.

✦ In many ways, suffering is the opposite of well-being. Who in your life or in the history of the Church inspires you to make your way through suffering to a place of well-being? Perhaps St. Dymphna, patron saint of those with mental health conditions, or St. Raphael, a healing angel and patron saint of healing, could be good first options for a prayer of intercession.

✦ The journey toward well-being is exactly that: a process. And it can be a lengthy one at times. Consider journaling to chronicle your ups and downs, your spiritual discoveries, even your frustrations. What do you notice when you look back at an entry from a week ago? A month ago?

One of my favorite stories of St. Anthony is the one about how, during the final years of his life, the friars built Anthony a treehouse in a large walnut tree not far from the friary. Anthony would climb up into it and stay there for days, weeks, or months. 

Why he did so is unknown. Was it to get closer to God above? Was it to get away from the people below? As someone who often preached to enormous crowds, the latter question would be understandable. Anthony cherished time to contemplate and pray. The treehouse provided that. 

Through his preaching, St. Anthony affected the faith lives of all the people and communities to whom he preached. He spent a great deal of time spreading the message of the Gospel to all who would listen, often huge crowds. Sometimes, when people wouldn’t listen, he even preached to the fish, as the story goes. That had to be exhausting. So, I can understand why he would feel a need to step away and recharge his own faith life. 

My Own Walnut Tree 

I guess St. Anthony and his treehouse is a favorite story of mine because I like the idea of climbing up in a tree, away from the hustle and bustle of the world, and just sitting there. In fact, I’ve done it. When my four kids were younger, my husband, Mark, and I built them a treehouse in our backyard. They spent hours in that treehouse.  

What they didn’t know, though, was that they weren’t the only ones who used it. Sometimes, when life got overwhelming, I would steal away to the backyard and climb up in the treehouse. I would quietly sit for just a little while to try and achieve a sense of peace before returning to everyday life. And I knew that the treehouse was one of the last places anyone would look for me. 

Sometimes I would just sit and listen to the water in the creek behind our house and the birds in the trees. Other times I would pray—for patience or strength. I wonder what St. Anthony prayed for in his treehouse. 

Gathering Together 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to stay in that tree for as long as possible. And while the treehouse is no longer there, the idea of retreating to it is especially appealing to me during these days of tension, animosity, and struggle throughout the world. 

But, like Anthony, I always knew I eventually needed to climb down. I needed to return to the community of my family. Anthony knew that too. In his final days, he came down from the tree and returned to his community of friars to join them for lunch. While there, he became seriously ill. It is then, surrounded by the community of his brothers, that he drew his last breath. He could have stayed up there in the tree. But he didn’t. He came back to community. 

So, while there is certainly a time and a place to step away and recharge our own faith lives, we are always drawn back to community. We affirm that when we gather together to celebrate Mass. It is in that community that we find strength and companionship. St. Anthony knew that. 

Questions for Reflection

✦ Think of all the communities you’re a part of—family, friends, parish. In what ways have those communities helped sustain/grow your faith life?

✦ If you were to go off into your own treehouse, what would you pray for while there?

✦ Why do you think community is so important?

I do not live for thrills. I will never jump out of an airplane or squeeze my way through an intricate cave system or climb a large rock. I do not come alive in these moments. Friends have pestered me for years to join them in their adventures, but I always decline. Adrenaline, for me, should not be triggered: I like my feet firmly on the ground. I’ve always been this way.

My sister, Lauren, was born fearless. When she was first learning to walk, mom would steady her and then, like a pinball, she’d fly: little legs charging, arms akimbo. Not me. When I was learning my steps, I’d always have one hand on something to stabilize me. Balance is my goal. As I have aged, that need for stability is even stronger. And nothing right now in our culture is steady.

When I survey the American landscape, I still see a nation divided. When I consider the world at large, it’s even more dispiriting. Over 700 million live below the poverty line. Over 122 million are displaced and are seeking asylum. Economic strife, a rise in mental health challenges, and general malaise seem commonplace. If I stare at it all for too long, I am dizzy. I’m like that baby learning to walk who wanted a hand to give him stability.

A quote attributed to St. Anthony of Padua gives me a measure of steadiness: “We are formed by environment and grace, by politics and prayer, by church and conscience. All God’s creatures conspire to teach us as well. We stumble. We stutter. We rise. We are lifted.”

Powerful words! They give me the permission to exhale and leave my worries to God.

God’s Preacher, Our Teacher

Poor St. Anthony. He’s never had quite the same emotional draw as his brother-in-alms, St. Francis of Assisi. When you are a doctor of the Church and known as the “Hammer of Heretics,” it’s little wonder. But this Franciscan saint has met with worldwide popularity in his own right. Beyond the “finder of lost objects,” Anthony can, through meditation and prayer, help us find a sense of calm long enough to hear God’s voice.

When I take real inventory of my internal life, I understand now that I haven’t been OK, really, since COVID—and that’s been over five years. I’m a step slower than I used to be. I look down now as I walk instead of looking up. I suppose I’m less whole in some way, unhealed. Our roller coaster of a political ride in this country hasn’t helped. Like the quote from Anthony, I feel we as a nation and a Church have stumbled and stuttered. We aren’t as kind as we should be. We lash out before we reach out; we harm when we should heal. Cruelty is a sport now.

That’s why I look to the saints to help me in my own struggles. What I admire about the “holy trio” of Franciscan saints—Clare, Francis, and Anthony—is that they each led different ministries, and yet they never lost touch with their shared central mission: to be the living face of Christ to everybody.

Anthony himself was no stranger to a shifting political landscape and a world hurting for grace. He likely saw firsthand civic aggression, disease, poverty, and closed borders in his travels. That’s why we cherish the saints: They lived the human condition. They endured what we are enduring—and it many cases far worse—so they have pearls of wisdom for us to cherish. We are never alone on this journey.

For my own mind and heart, I pray for stillness, for a minute of quiet, and, yes, stability. While I appreciate his assistance in finding keys, wallets, and glasses, I think St. Anthony prefers to help us find the intangibles: grace, healing, wholeness. I pray that St. Anthony, who not only understood Scripture but could translate the love behind the words, brings me into closer union with the divine, where every journey ends.

I pray that he can find me in this large crowd of hurting people and bring me the stillness I can’t locate myself. I pray that St. Anthony continues to remind me of God’s love when I stumble and when I stutter. Because I will. But I will rise. I will be lifted.

Questions for Reflection

✦ How do you use prayer and meditation to stabilize your emotions when you are upset? How can prayer bring you to a place of peace and stillness?

✦ St. Anthony can do more than find our lost items. What else can he do to bring you closer to God? How can we lean upon his intercession to help us do that?

✦ St. Anthony was known as a Scripture expert. What passage in Scripture speaks most to your heart? Why?

“Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost that must be found!”

I know that many Catholics have belted out this sing-song ditty in one of its many variations or recited it silently out of long engrained habit when we’ve misplaced the keys to the car or some other useful thing. I can’t say this has ever been a go-to prayer for me. But as a convert to Catholicism, I have found it to be more than just a quaint plea in times of frazzled stress over a lost object. I have been touched by the light-hearted way our faith can be expressed, not with disrespect, but with a lightness that buoys the spirit and even offers hope.

I’ll admit my own penchant for a dash of lightheartedness in my faith life includes glow-in-the-dark statuettes. My collection includes St. Anthony. This little statuette has sat on my nightstand for the last 25 years since becoming Catholic. In the middle of the night when I wake up due to thunder, an unexpected creak in the house, or far more frequently, stress from the weight of my life’s commitments, I see the strange light green glow of St. Anthony holding the Christ Child and smile. Yes, this little $2.50 tchotchke from a California Franciscan Mission gift store brings me peace.

I write this while I am in the midst of leading a week-long retreat on the spirituality of interdependence. Franciscan spirituality is not built on abstractions. Instead, we live into this path forged by Francis and nurtured in his own way by Anthony and others by being in relationship with one another, with all the ups and downs, and all the celebrations and tensions relationships offer. Through the volatility, Franciscan spirituality calls us to remain present; to stay engaged.

This is not a passive calling. Instead, it is a path to peacemaking. This can become complex when we are aware that abusive relationships or those of mere disrespect can call us into a place of self-care by retreating or monitoring engagement with care. But the calling remains.

St. Anthony was attacked and mocked by those who disagreed with him, often called heretics in the sources. Anthony chose his responses with love, care, and most of all presence.

Some of the hagiographic stories of Anthony’s life show us how he demonstrated faith to others. While he was a famous preacher, his most effective preaching that has come down to us today are found in anecdotes from this hagiography. In one story, heretics caused a ruckus with their contempt for Anthony and his preaching. Instead of arguing with them, Anthony went to a nearby shore and began preaching to the fish. As the story goes, the fish sensed his words and presence so compelling, they swam to the shore to “listen” with interest. The townspeople and naysayers alike noticed Anthony’s capacity for peaceful presence and were moved.

There are many other hagiographic stories highlighting Anthony’s capacity for bringing about peace, not by preaching, not by teaching—both skills that mark his life as a friar—but by his peaceful presence.

I am reminded of the famous Zen teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh, who was exiled from his native Vietnam during war of the 1960s. Upon arriving in the US, he found the anti-war demonstrations as unnerving as the violence of war itself. He came to understand that one cannot end violence with equally combative protest. Violence does not put an end to violence; peaceful presence does. Disrespect does not put an end end disrespect; peaceful presence does. There are accounts of Thich Nhat Hanh leading followers through the streets of New York City in a peaceful walking meditation, thus with their calm presence transforming the volatile speech and energy of anti-war demonstrators, not with words, and certainly not with counter-protests. Instead, through peace. Thich Nhat Hanh is known for planting seeds of peace by being peaceful, just as Anthony sowed seeds of peace, by being peaceful.

So, when I wake up in the middle of the night disturbed by lightning or the divisive state of our world and see a greenish glow emanating from my night table, I feel a little less anxious and a little more at peace. I am reminded of the effect peaceful presence has on others and try to be that presence come morning. St. Anthony’s peaceful way of being still impresses after 800 years. But it is up to us to heed the reminders that even a glow-in-the-dark statue of him can have and be that peace in our world today.

Questions for Reflection

✦ How do you find peace when you are unsettled?

✦ Have you ever met someone who exudes peace with their very presence? Describe their way of being.

✦ What does St. Anthony of Padua mean to you?

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Often attributed to John Lennon, this quote from American journalist Allen Saunders speaks to me especially this week of April 21, 2025, as I write this piece. In recent months, since November 20, 2024, when the Canonization of Carlo Acutis was announced to take place during the Jubilee of Teens on April 27, 2025, many people have been making plans.

Authors and their editors have been finalizing texts, and publishers have been selling books and booklets on the young soon-to-be saint. Liturgists have been preparing prayers, liturgical settings, and environments for services and celebrations. The faithful have made travel arrangements and have paid for tickets for plane fare, train fare, bus fare, lodging. For many this involved significant saving and planning to redirect hard-earned money to experience a once-in-a lifetime event: the canonization of the first millennial saint.

But life—and death—happen while we’re busy making plans.

The world woke up on Easter Monday to the news that Pope Francis had died. With his passing, a new celebration started, one filled with the mixed emotions of grief and gratitude, both sown with faith in new life with Christ and in time, resurrection.

Given that the proclamation of sanctity requires papal authority, the canonization of Carlo Acutis has been suspended.

What do we do with this suspended time?

I have been reflecting on real presence for many years: the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, yes, and my own capacity to truly be present in situations that are unsettling or unexpected. I admit that I sometimes expect things to go a certain way and when they don’t, I can brood or feel disappointment. Sometimes I can get flustered and even angry if I have put a lot of planning into the preparations of a task or event that ends up going in ways other than I expected. If I cling too tightly to those expectations, I can lose sight of the hope that might be found in what transpires. 

In reading about the life and faith of Carlo Acutis in recent months, I have naturally been impressed with the faith of this young man. But I have also noticed the faith of those around him, especially his nanny, Beata Sperczynska, when he was a young boy. In reading about Beata in Courtney Mares’ book, Blessed Carlo Acutis: A Saint in Sneakers, the brief passage on Beata points to the profound effect of being deeply present with her faith and with those around her.

According to Mares, Carlo was just three when Beata came to work for the family as his nanny. Having traveled from her native Poland to work in Milan, she brought with her prayer cards and a fervent hope in Christ’s love. She was the first to teach little Carlo in the Catholic faith, showing him that it is a faith of relationship and presence. She took him with her to Mass and also taught him to drop in churches as they passed by and say “hi to Jesus.” To me this brief anecdote relates a possible influence on Carlo and explains how he came to be so social and interactive in his faith as a youth, showing up to greet strangers and offer them food or clothing that they needed, for example. 

Did Beata expect little Carlo to become a saint? Not likely. But there was great hope that he might discover faith through these small acts of devotion and relationality that she brought into his life when she was his nanny. This was not so much an expectation that he would take on her Catholic faith as much as her own buoyant hope in Christ that could not be suppressed. 

This hope spilled over onto Carlo who in turn shared it with so many through his short life and now as many more flock to Assisi to pray near his body. 

There could be a tendency now to wait in expectation of the announcement of a new canonization date after a new pontiff is elected by the Cardinals. But I wonder if while waiting in expectation, we could miss the opportunity to spread the hope faith gives us that Carlo and before him, Beata, showed in their presence with others. Perhaps that’s the invitation of this time: show up and be really present with all we encounter. That is a faith that gives me hope.