A Jesuit Catholic University
in Omaha, Nebraska, since 1878

[299] Acts 20:28-38 Ps 68:29-30, 33-35a, 35bc-36ab John 17:11b-19

Weekly Guide for Daily Prayer The Daily Reflections

“‘Holy Father, keep them in your name that you have given me,
so that they may be one just as we are one’”(Jn 17:12-14).

Suddenly all of my energy went into paying attention. My head snapped up, I pinned my eyes to my ethics professor, and strained my ears to catch every word she was now saying. As we discussed the Rwandan Genocide, one idea, one very important idea was flashing in big, searing-white letters in my mind: “The Genocide occurred because we forgot that we, that each and every one of us, is human.”

The air was hard to breathe. In an instant one extremely horrific event could be pinned to a not-so-complex idea, and an overlooked truth started pumping through my body with each heartbeat. For so long I had taken for granted this simple idea that we—that every single person on this earth—is human, and by that very basic fact alone, we are connected. You, me, and the rest of the world are connected very intimately, simply through our humanity.

In trying to process the Genocide, the best conclusion I could make was this: It is only in forgetting each other’s humanity that one human being can truly make another suffer so much.

With this thought came a terrible realization. When reading about horrific events, it’s easy for me to distance myself from the suffering, because I am not involved. I am neither the victim nor the perpetrator. I can empathize, but never fully understand the suffering; I can witness the horror but not feel drawn to action since I am not accountable. How easy it is to be complacent! How easy it is to be content with our personal bubbles, safe from the suffering in the world. How dangerous it is to feel so comfortable!

I felt disgusted as I realized that the Rwandan Genocide and other horrific events have taken place throughout the world, throughout my life, and I have never thought much about the suffering that my brothers and sisters endure. I glance through the news headlines nearly every day and read about violence, materialism, and corruption, but I never closely consider the pain that common people suffer through it all.

It took that moment in class for me to truly open my eyes to how connected I am to every person in this world, regardless of how far we live from each other. Not only are we connected in our humanity—thus our unalienable dignity as humans—but we are also connected through something even stronger: Christ’s passion.

As Jesus prays in the garden of Gethsemane, he asks God to “keep them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one just as we are one” (Jn 17:12-14). Jesus is referring to us. Jesus gave his entire self so that all of us on this earth might be joined in the unity that is his body. Perhaps there is no greater example of this than in the Eucharist. For when Catholics receive the body of Christ in the Eucharist, we are intimately joined to Christ, and thus to each other, to every person who receives Christ’s body, to every person who lives in Christ, to every person that Christ died for. We are united with everyone.

And, if we are all joined into one body, than we are all one. We know from experience that when one part of our body is hurting or not functioning properly, the rest of our body is affected. If we are so intimately connected into one body of Christ with our brothers and sisters around the world, then their pain and suffering should become our own. If I turn away from the hurting my brothers and sisters encounter, then I turn away from our unity, from our shared humanity. In a sense, I cut myself off from the body of Christ.

It is this image of Jesus in today’s passage from John—Jesus so earnestly praying that his death might bring us into one with him—that challenges me to move beyond my comfort zone and allow my brothers’ and sisters’ suffering to truly touch me, that I might remember my unity with them and strive to end their, in a sense our, suffering.