RonRolheiser,OMI

John Allen RIP

February 2, 2026

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The renowned anthropologist Mircea Eliade once issued this warning: No community should botch its deaths. He’s right. Death washes clean and only after someone is gone can we fully drink in the gift that he or she was for us and the world.

On January 22nd the Christian community, and the Catholic Church in particular, lost someone who had been a gift to us for a long time. John Allen, the editor-in-chief of Crux, died in Rome at the age of 61. He had been battling cancer since 2022.

John Allen was one of the most prominent (and important) English journalists commenting on religious issues, particularly on ecclesial issues and the shifting demographics of religion in the world. He worked out of Rome as a Vatican correspondent and out of the USA as editor-in-chief of a news site that helped keep us abreast of what was happening religiously in the world.

A number of things made John stand out as a journalist. He had a talent for having his finger on the pulse of things, not just in what was happening in the churches, but also what (in his words) were the mega-trends in the world. For those of us who didn’t have time to scan the news every day and read the numerous articles in religious magazines and websites – well we could read John Allen.

But, even more important than his talent for having his finger on the pulse of things was his always fair-minded, balanced commentary. John Allen did not fall into either of the current ecclesial categories of liberal or conservative. He was both, and neither. He was comfortable in both liberal and conservative gatherings, comfortable with Popes John Paul II and Benedict and with Francis and Leo. He had devotees and critics on both sides of the ecclesial spectrum. That speaks well of him. If I may use a time-worn cliché, he was too conservative for some liberals and too liberal for some conservatives. He didn’t have a full home with either of them, even as he was at home with both. Moreover, he was never accused of being unfair, even by those who disagreed with him.

Then, beyond the journalist, there was John Allen the man, the friend, the one who forever brought lightness, warmth and humor into the circle. I was privileged to get to know him (and his favorite restaurants) during my years on our General Council in Rome. He befriended our Oblate community and we befriended him. Our friendship continued after my return to Canada and the USA and John accepted invitations to speak at various symposia and conferences at our school and at other Oblate sponsored events.

And he was always memorable, not just for his solid content, but also for his color and humor. He would introduce himself to the audience by sharing that he came from Hill City, Kansas, where, in his words, “there is no hill, and sure as hell no city!” The local bar there, he said, had a sign in the men’s restroom: Please don’t gut your ducks in the sink! He carried that earthiness into his presentations and no one ever left wondering what exactly he was talking about. He didn’t only bring balance and fairness, he also brought color, humor, and wit.

John carried that into his life in general: insight, balance, and color. My image of John is this: a cigarette in hand, a drink in front of him, sitting with a group who are holding forth on every kind of issue, with John providing colorful banter along with keen insights from his wide world experience. I remember a story he shared at just this kind of gathering, about how he was with his family inside a mall in Minneapolis when his phone rang. He looked at the number and then told his family he needed to step outside to take this call. It was Pope Benedict. How do you tell your family in a shopping mall in Minneapolis that you just had a phone call from the pope?

As Eliade says, no community should botch its deaths. In his discourse at the Last Supper in John’s Gospel, Jesus repeatedly tells his disciples that they will only be able to receive his spirit after he dies. Like Eliade, he is warning them not to botch his death. They didn’t.

After his death, his first disciples, for all their misunderstanding and infidelities while he was alive, didn’t botch his death. In the light of his death, they were able to grasp, fully for the first time, his person and his message.

We lost a giant in John Allen and we shouldn’t botch his death.

We need to drink in his spirit so that, among other things, we might be more fair-minded, not fall into any one-sided ecclesial ideology, and always bring warmth and wit into a room.

John Allen, RIP, you were always the good Hill City man who was far too sensible to ever gut your ducks in the sink.

The Meek Are No Longer Inheriting the Earth

January 26, 2026

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It is becoming ever more acceptable today, whether in politics or in general discourse, to speak of brute human strength, force, and power as being the forces we need to guide our lives. Indeed, empathy is now sometimes named explicitly as a weakness.

It is one thing for people to say that strength, force, and power are in fact what govern the world, but it is dangerously wrong to try to throw a Christian cloak over this. In brief, this is the antithesis of Jesus, as the Gospels make clear.

Here’s how the Gospels define strength and weakness.

For centuries the chosen people, feeling oppressed, longed and prayed for a Messiah from God who would come brandishing intimidating muscle, would vanquish their enemies, bring them prosperity, and bind them together in community by a strength, force, and power that was superhuman. But that’s not what they got.

Against every one of their expectations, when their hopes and prayers were finally answered, their longed-for Messiah appeared, not as a superhuman, but as a helpless baby unable to feed himself, helpless to nurture himself into adulthood.

Granted, as an adult he performed miracles and sometimes displayed a strength and power that was supernatural. However, the power he displayed in his miracles was never political, militaristic, or physically intimidating. His miracles were always displays of God’s compassion and fidelity.

There’s an interesting play of words in the Gospels when they speak of “power” or “authority”. They use three different Greek words: Sometimes they refer to power as Energia – the type of power a star athlete can bring to a playing field; and sometimes power is referred to as Dynamis – the type of power a rock star can bring to a stage. However, whenever the Gospels refer to Jesus as powerful or as having authority, they never use these words. Instead, they use the word Exousia (for which we have no English equivalent), though we do have a concept of it.

Exousia is the paradoxical power a baby brings into a room. On the surface, it looks like powerlessness, but ultimately it’s the greatest power of all – vulnerability, the moral power to create intimacy.

Simply put, if you put three people into a room: an athlete in the prime of his physical prowess, a rock star who can electrify a stadium with energy, and a baby. Who ultimately has the most power? Jesus answers that.

We see this clearly in the manner of his death. As he hangs on the cross, suffering and humiliated, he is being taunted, if you are the son of God, come down off that cross! If you have divine power, show it!  Jesus doesn’t take the bait. Instead of demonstrating the kind of power we like to believe God should be using, Jesus instead resorts to another power, a higher one. In his powerlessness, he gives over his spirit in love and empathy and, in that, shows us the place where intimacy is born.

Moreover, Jesus could not be clearer in his teaching. As he makes clear in the Sermon on the Mount (perhaps the greatest moral code ever written) human strength, force, and power are not what bring about the kingdom. What creates community and intimacy among us?

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5, 3-11)

Unfortunately, today in our politics and in our civil discourse (which sadly often lacks civility) people are increasingly putting their faith in brute human power – political power, economic power, military power, social media power, historical privilege. These, as many politicians now claim, are what’s real. They decide things in the world. It’s the strong, the powerful, and the rich who will inherit the good things of this earth. Those who are poor in spirit, who mourn, who are meek, who are merciful, and who are persecuted, will miss out on life. And, undergirding this is the belief that empathy is a weakness.

What’s to be said in the face of this? What should be the Christian response?

Since the beginning of human life on this planet, brute strength and power have always made themselves felt and have often been a dominant force in shaping history.  The meek haven’t always inherited the earth (at least not this earth). And, today the meek are being threatened from all sides. However, whatever its political or economic expediency, this kind of raw strength and power may not cloak itself with Jesus and the Gospels. It is the antithesis of Jesus and the Gospels.

Myrrh – The Unwanted Gift

January 19, 2026

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In the Gospels we find the story of the three Magi, coming from the East and laying their gifts at the crib of the newborn Jesus. The gifts were not practical: baby food, diapers, blankets. They were symbolic. What do they symbolize?

At one level, they symbolize, as we have been classically taught: kingship, divinity, and humanity. But there are other levels of meaning as well. Gold can be seen as a gift that resources the young child for the things he will need in life; Frankincense can be seen as honoring the unique dignity of his person; and Myrrh can be seen as reminding him that he will die one day.

Now, these are three gifts which every parent needs to give a child, namely, resources for the things the child needs in order grow: a pride in the child that honors his or her dignity; and a reminder (in whatever form this might take) which makes and keeps the child aware that one day he or she will die. These are the gifts from the Magi: we are resourced, we are honored, and we are reminded that one day we will die.

As children, we yearn for the first two gifts, the gold and the frankincense, but we resist the last gift, the myrrh, a reminder that we are mortal, a reminder we don’t want but very much need.

Growing up, my father and mother gave me these three gifts: gold, the resources I needed to live and grow, frankincense, a sense of my unique dignity, and myrrh, a sense that someday I will die, that this life isn’t all there is, that youth and health don’t last forever, and that my life decisions need always to be made against that horizon.

Growing up, I always resisted that last gift. I didn’t want to look at dead bodies at wakes or at funerals, and all talk of the fragility of life sent me scurrying from the room. I didn’t want to see or hear anything about death. For me, this was morbid talk which blocked out sunshine and drained oxygen from a room.

But my parents, in all the good things they gave me and my siblings, never let us evade the myrrh. In all seasons, there were reminders of our mortality, of the fact that life was fragile and that death eventually awaited us. My father and mother weren’t cruel, sadistic, or particularly pessimistic; they just kept this awareness always in front of us, reminding us of what was real. All the while, I longed for Disneyland.

Perhaps in some of this they were not just influenced by their faith, but also from the Germanic culture from which they came, the culture that gave us Grimm’s Fairy Tales, that had a particular stoicism regarding death, and one which believed that adults weren’t doing children a favor by shielding them from the darker aspects of life.  But, in the end, this particular gift did come from their faith and was healthy and very much needed.

For all my resistance and attempts to evade this gift, it slipped through and slipped through so powerfully that I can in all honesty say that all the major decisions in my life have been made against its horizon. I would never have entered a religious community and become a priest, except for what this gift kept me always aware. I would not have persevered in my religious vows, except for this gift. Who would want to live the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, if there were no awareness of the reality of our mortality? Indeed, in any walk of life, who would have the strength to be faithful if there weren’t an awareness of this bigger horizon?

As a child I wasn’t grateful for my parents (and the Catholic culture they lived in) for never letting me forget that I was mortal, for symbolically bringing myrrh to my crib. But I look back now and realize that this was one of the greatest gifts they gave me – a gift I didn’t want but desperately needed.

I remember a particularly dark period in my childhood, the summer and fall when I was thirteen. In the space of five months, three young people I knew, two neighbors and a classmate, all died suddenly – two in accidents and one by suicide. Each of these deaths which took a young healthy person out of life was an assault on my youthful energies and dreams, all of which were predicated in walking in light, in sunshine, in health, in youth, and in a world where death wasn’t real. For six months I struggled with denial, in a painful and isolated teenage loneliness, trying to make peace with the brute fact of death. And that struggle branded my soul at a depth I still feel today. That summer I was, again, given the gift of myrrh, the blessing that comes from making peace with your own mortality.

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