Nicholas Hardesty

February 14, 2020 by Nicholas Hardesty

Someone I follow on Instagram recently captioned a photo with, “Isn’t that just like the present, to be showing up here like this.” As someone who is forward-focused, that struck me, so much so that I’ve been repeating it almost daily when anything slightly impactful happens. When I run into someone I know, when I see a cute dog, when the barista blesses me with a free coffee, when I share a meaningful conversation with someone I love, I am reminded that it is just like the present to be showing up like this.

Then I went to Mass on Sunday. Imagine sitting in the second-to-last pew of the most ornate church you’ll see in the Midwest, listening to the priest speak softly. There’s a family five rows in front of me, with four children, all under the age of 10. Two of the children have little clips in their hair with a green light on them, their hearing aids. These two are around 4 and 6 years old and they are babbling up a storm, with coos and sentences that don’t make sense but you can tell are very important to them and need to be said.

Their little voices got louder and louder, while any attempt for their parents to shush them wasn’t working. How do you tell a baby that doesn’t know he’s being loud to be quiet? The girl (who was older) was having an especially hard time accepting the fact that she wasn’t allowed to speak. She cried and screamed, and her dad scooped her up and took her into the back to soothe her. This upset her brother who also started to scream, his mother responding by cuddling him until he was quiet.

This all happened so fast, yet at the same time with so much gentleness and love. Each parent had to silently communicate who was going to help which child. They were working as a team. As I watched this unfold, I was thinking that these parents could never have imagined being blessed with such sweet, rambunctious babies. Now, I’m sure going to Mass isn’t always easy for their family. I doubt they imagined this would become their Sunday routine, that they’d have to quickly adapt to a life of silent communication, and swaddling crying children who just want to be heard and can’t understand that they’re coming in loud and clear.

Then I thought, “Isn’t it just like love to be showing up here like that?” I had to snap out of it because it was time to kneel for the Sanctus. But then it came back. I looked up at the priest, who has had to make some hard decisions that impact two parishes and I thought, “Isn’t that just like love?” The server rang the bells and, before I bowed my head, I looked directly at the Eucharist and thought, “Isn’t that just like Love?”

As a millennial, I’m scared of my vocation, but this family with the sacrifice of the Mass in the “background” was a testament that love does not just think (and overthink), love acts.

One of my best friend’s gave a homily to a group of campus ministers recently and he said, “Love leads us to foolishness, and it is so freeing to be a fool for the one you love.” Which makes sense. Those who love the most, who love the purest, seem like fools to the world. Jesus seemed like a fool to the world, big families seem like fools to the world, priests and religious seem like fools to the world. But if looking like a fool gets us even a tiny percentage of the love radiating off that family at Mass, then we should run towards love.

Love casts out all fear. Run to love. It is acting and moving, and it is foolishness to accept anything less.

Sarah Rogers

December 16, 2019 by Nicholas Hardesty

As we enter into the third week of Advent, which is presented in rose colored vestments and called “the week of joy,” we light the third candle, the one that sticks out from all the rest.

I’m going through an Advent devotional that is relaying all the generations of the Old Testament. To be frank, it’s depressing. Adam and Eve brought about sin, Cain killed Abel, everyone was acting up, so God brought in the flood, Abraham almost had to kill his son, Jacob hurt Esau, the first-borns were murdered, the Israelites were disobedient. Some of these stories have happy endings, some don’t. Regardless, it seems like so much damage has been done that there’s no point in trying!

I’m at the part where Hezekiah destroys everything that is keeping his people from God, and I have to think, “Okay but what about their hearts?” Then the bible makes it sound like they turn back pretty quickly, but I’m skeptical. (This is where I realize I would’ve made a terrible prophet because of how little trust I would’ve had in these people.) After this, you see that things actually are really bad. “Ah!” I think, “this is what I would expect.” But I can only think ahead to what will be coming, Jesus’ birth. That sort of smacks me with the thought, “Well that’s not fair.” All these families ruining generations of people, then they get a pass? Seems kind of ridiculous.

Then I realize, I’m comparing these families to my own, to the families I know, to the examples before me, to what the world portrays as average. The families I know don’t just give up their idols and cry out in repentance to God — I don’t just give up my idols and cry out in repentance to God. And He knows that, and He wants me anyways, He wants my broken family anyways, He wants your broken family. He wants every part of it, even the parts that you don’t.

This third week of Advent is a pause, to sit in joy. “The desert and the parched land will exult; the steppe will rejoice and bloom. They will bloom with abundant flowers, and rejoice with joyful song.” (Isaiah 35:1-2) You may be a desert, your family may be parched land, but that is not where God wants you to stay. Thinking of flowers this time of year, when it’s cold and snowy, makes my heart ache for spring. That ache is a shadow of the ache I feel for my family to bloom. This makes me realize that the goodness I desire, the Lord desires it all the more. His birth healed so many horrible, violent, broken things. Let Him heal what seems impossible to heal in your life, and let Him do it in His time.

It is good to sit in the JOY of this week, to pause on this weary journey to Bethlehem and ponder what is coming when we finally arrive there. I encourage you to reflect on the thing(s) that give you joy this week, and may they be your offering to Jesus at His birth. And don’t give up! Eventually your family will arrive in Bethlehem. It may take generations, but each piece of the story is important to Him, and each part He wants to heal.

Sarah Rogers

November 15, 2019 by Nicholas Hardesty

I’ve never met my best friend. Yet, she’s been in almost every important moment in my life, especially the ones I didn’t realize were important at the time. She always shows up.

She lived in Lisieux, France, in the 1870’s. She was a nun. She’s my Confirmation saint. Luckily, I didn’t have to go through the process of picking a saint. I knew it was going to be her from a young age. I received gifts of St. Therese even from my First Communion. But, most Catholics I talk to don’t even remember who their Confirmation saint is!

Why do I feel such a connection with her? It may have something to do with the fact that she was a brat growing up, and that’s something I identified with. Following her life story inspires me to strive to be like her everyday. She died when she was 24. I just came up on 25, and now that I’m officially “older than her,” I’ve been reflecting on my life thus far. I believe that our Confirmation saints, being outside of time, know that we’ll pick them, and they start looking out for us from the beginning.

Therese got her whole family involved in my life! Her parents have helped heal my view of marriage, family, and mental illness. They have helped me realize: I could have a daughter like Therese. I could BE a daughter like Therese!

Of course, we’re different too. Therese makes loving Jesus sound so easy, whereas my whole life I’ve been making it so hard. I look back and I realize she’d been nudging me to just surrender to my littleness. Our personalities are very opposite (from what I can gather by her books and her seemingly melancholic disposition). But when I read about her and pray with her, I imagine us getting coffee and chatting about our Lord.

I have some amazing friends on earth too, people who the Lord has used to love and heal me in ways I didn’t know I needed. What’s great is that sometimes even their Confirmation saints enter into the story of my life. I love it when I discover that a friend’s Confirmation saint is someone I already have a devotion to. You could say it’s coincidence, since some saints are more popular than others, but I like to think that our saints have been scheming for us along the way.

I encourage you, friends, to meditate on your Confirmation saint (go through your parish records if you can’t remember who it is!) as a way of drawing closer to the fact that God is integrated into every tiny aspect of our lives. We tend to think He doesn’t care about the small things, but He does. And He’s even sent members of His Body along the way to help us.

Reflect on the story of your saints: their personality, the sins they struggled with, how they overcame them, the things they are the patron of, the lives of their friends and family. God will reveal the ways He has placed the saints in your path and even the reason why it was put on your heart to choose them.

At the time you may have picked a particular saint because he or she had a cool name. But God always has more in store for us.

Sarah Rogers

November 3, 2019 by Nicholas Hardesty

Next year, the men in my family will celebrate an important milestone: 25 years of going on a yearly camping trip together.

When it all started my dad and an uncle were there, but the rest of us were just boys. We idolized the grown-ups for their ability to put up a tent, to start a fire and cook over it. But, we really looked up to them for their quick-witted sense of humor. Even when we were little, we knew their jokes were hilarious, even when we didn’t fully understand them.

As the years went on and word got around that this was a heck of a good time, the list of participants grew. Uncles, cousins, even unrelated family friends eagerly awaited the next Hardesty camping trip. The catalog of stories and inside jokes grew, too. It is now a veritable tome, almost impossibly dense to the newcomer. We like it that way.

In the last several years, the camping trip has given way to the next generation. This year the weight of that reality was perhaps the most keenly felt. Only two men from the first generation were present. Mind you, we still had a blast. We grilled steaks and sausages, and smoked several heads of cabbage. We played cornhole and beach volleyball. We imbibed the occasional fermented beverage. Best of all, we spent hours seated around a roaring campfire, zealous to keep up a hearty coal base. And we just laughed.

But, we were still aware that if we wanted this splendid tradition to continue, we had to be intentional about its preservation. It was no one else’s responsibility but ours, and if we did not bear it then it would not be born, either in our lives or in future generations.

This is the closest thing to a “rite of initiation” that we have in my family. This is our legacy we’re talking about here.

Of course, I’m always looking for analogies to my spiritual life. And since I’ve returned to the land of Wi-Fi and running water, I’ve been filled with questions:

What if I cared about my faith as much as I cared about this camping trip?
What if, with my own witness, discipline, and habits, I was initiating the people around me, not into fireside humor, but into holiness?
What if my own passion and zeal for Christ was a roaring fire, compelling others to gather around and be delighted?

My faith gets a lot bigger when I realize it’s not supposed to end with me. Just imagine what state the Church would be in if the apostles had decided that their faith would end with them. I dare say the Church would barely even exist!

Back when I prepared parents for their child’s baptism, I would always remind them: Your children, your grandchildren, your great grandchildren, even your great-great grandchildren are depending on what you do today to cultivate your faith and pass it on. I still firmly believe that.

Even for a young, single person, a legacy of faith is not an irrelevant concern. You can’t wait until you’ve got your vocation figured out. You can’t wait until you’re married or until the kids are all grown up. What you do now – the decisions you make, the habits you form, the initiative you take to know Jesus, and the risks you take to share Him with others – is already shaping the impact you will have and the stories people will tell about you long after you’re in the ground.

Seize the moment and make your legacy a great one.

The men in my family are already planning on how we’re going to celebrate 25 years of laughter and friendship in the forest. And, as long as we stay passionate and intentional about this tradition, we can be sure that one day our children will join us around that roaring campfire.

Nicholas Hardesty

October 11, 2019 by Nicholas Hardesty

Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. This gets me in the mood to host, which makes me reflect on hospitality. When you think of the word hospitality, who or what do you think of? Is it a person in your life? Is it someone in the Bible? Is it a cozy, familiar place?

For me, it’s my mom. I grew up in a house that was always hosting parties. People I’d known my whole life, people I’d never met because my mom invited them over after one interaction, it didn’t matter. They were at my house. Our house was warm and inviting, and we had a big backyard. It was the perfect place for it.

My mom got her desire to host from my gandma. What they have both taught me is that measures of hospitality are not confined to a place. Hospitality is a person. And that person must be you.

The story of Martha and Mary is my favorite. It shows that hospitality is not all that it seems. Instinctively, I believe Martha was in the right. Do you know how annoyed I would be at Mary? Or how easily annoyed I get at the Marys in my life? I think to myself, “She should know better!” Other people would clearly argue that it is Mary who is in the right, sitting at our Lord’s feet, soaking up every word He says.

It’s easy for us to identify as one or the other. However, I believe we are called to be both. Jesus said, “Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.” He does not condemn Martha or say her work has no purpose, but reminds her that what she’s doing is fleeting. Closeness with Christ is the most worthwhile.

However, the food still needs to be made, and the house still needs to be cleaned sometimes. In taking care of the necessary tasks, we are able to be fully present when the guests arrive. Isn’t that how we should live our lives? Always being in a prepared state so as to be hospitality to others? When my mind is in order, my priorities are straight, and my soul is in a state of grace, then I am able to freely enter into someone else’s needs.

Our Church is also a mother, and we find the highest form of hospitality when She offers us the Mass. Think about it:

The space is properly prepared and adorned.
It is ready to welcome whoever shall enter.
Welcomed by the Word of God and taking our seat at the table that is prepared, we are then invited to share in the greatest meal.
This gives us a renewed sense of life, and we are then enabled to go out and share that life with others.

Our small attempts at being hospitable to others should reflect what we receive in the Mass. Everyone we encounter should leave us feeling welcomed and respected. They should feel fed. They should feel impacted by Christ’s love.

That’s hospitality.

Sarah Rogers

September 13, 2019 by Nicholas Hardesty

When I thought and prayed about what to name this column, the same phrase kept coming to me: gratia plena. It comes from the angel’s words to Mary. “Ave gratia plena” — Hail, full of grace.

It’s St. Jerome’s best shot at a Latin translation, but the original Greek word that Luke used in his gospel is hard to translate. Kecharitōménē. It’s the feminine perfect passive participle of the verb charitóō, which means “to bestow grace upon.” It points to the fact that the amount of grace Mary received was “overflowing.” She was filled up and completed in grace, and this grace persisted.

Mysteriously, this also points to Mary as the New Eve, the Mother of the New Humanity, of the Church, of you and I. Mary, like Adam and Eve, was born immaculate. They all have an advantage that we don’t. And they all chose to do something different with it. Eve was rebellious, Mary was faithful. Adam was passive, and Mary receptive. She was sent to undo the knots caused by Eve. Too often we fall, just as our first mother did.

There’s a statue of Eve in my local art museum, it’s my favorite piece. She’s carved in white marble, she’s still naked, gazing into the distance, taking a small step, but limply covering herself with her hands, almost as if she isn’t sure the gravity of what she’s done just yet. The statue is displayed in front of a giant, floor to ceiling window, displaying the trees that hide our downtown skyline.

I often gaze upon my first mother with a mix of emotions: sadness, love, anger, but most of all empathy. If it were up to me, would I have made a better decision than she did?

My eyes stare at that statue in reflection. But my eyes stay on Mary for inspiration, for guidance. How inspiring, that God still loved Eve. How inspiring that He loved all of humanity enough to send us His Son, through His mother, the most perfect vessel.

I look at Eve and I can’t help but love Mary so much. Imagine how meek and humble, yet strong and courageous Mary was. The perfect blend of what a human person is meant to be. The less we sin, the more human we become. So just imagine what the perfect, sinless, human was like.

If the words of the angel are not easy to translate, surely they are not easy to imitate. This column is not an account of my quest to reach the impossible. Rather, kecharitōménē, gratia plena, “fullness of grace” — these words remind me to take comfort in the fact that, while I’ll never be as perfect as Mary was in this life, I can still find rest in her shadow and I can strive in small ways to be more like her. Gratia plena is my prayer that, one day, by following Mary as closely as I am able, she may bring me into the Light of her Son.

I’m taking steps in that direction, and I want to share them with you.

Sarah Rogers