Run Like a Deer
23rd Sunday of the Year
If you’ve made it down to my office in Campus Ministry, you may have noticed a picture of the ornate back wall of a church. The church in particular is the Basilica of San Clemente in Rome, and the mosaic that adorns the apse—the area above and behind the altar—is simply marvelous. It dates from the 12th century and depicts the Cross as the Tree of Life. From the base of the Cross come sprawling vines, and within and around them are found all kinds of living things—drawing their life and breath from the Cross. No photo can do the apse mosaic of San Clemente justice. It is a true masterpiece of Christian art.
A Jesuit priest I knew in Rome pointed out that at the bottom of the Cross there are three deer. Two drink from the water of life that flows from the Cross. The third is found in a bush above them, contending with a snake.
Father Joseph Carola, who is an expert in the Fathers of the Church, explained that this image comes from antiquity.1 The Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder observed that deer “seek out serpents’ dens and by the breath of their nostrils they drive them out despite their resistance.”2 The Christian tradition read this into the 42nd Psalm, which reads, “Like the deer that years for running streams, so my soul is yearning for you, my God.” The 6th century theologian Cassiodorus explains that the deer “attracts snakes with its nostrils; when it has devoured them the seething poison impels it to hasten with all speed to the water-fountain, for it loves to get its fill of the purest sweet water.”3 For Christians, Cassiodorus continues, “[W]hen we imbibe the poisons of the ancient serpent, and we are feverish through his torches, we may there and then hasten to the fount of divine mercy. Thus the sickness by the venom of sin is overcome by the purity of this most sweet drink.” The apse mosaic of San Clemente was almost certainly made with Cassiodorus’ gloss on Psalm 42 in mind.
People in antiquity didn’t always understand how animals work—and I wouldn’t trust their zoology on this one—but they did much better in understanding how human beings work. We know that we drink the devil’s venom all the time, when we are lured into his traps and enticements and fall victim to sin. But if the myth were true—if deer really did go running for water after encountering a snake—then the deer would prove wiser than us. For though we drink the poison readily and often, rarely and only obstinately do we run to the streams of living water that cleanse and refresh us.
How we behave after we sin is, in part, already the effect of the venom. The devil’s poison infects us with delusion regarding our condition. We fail to notice that we are wounded. We do not perceive how we are already being corrupted. And so, we carry on, unawares. We feel that we have skirted by, lightly brushed up against death but made it out alive, when, in fact, death has nicked us, and the decay has already set in. Only when the bottom has completely fallen out do we recognize the reality of our situation. Then do we come seeking out the stream that makes us whole.
In seminary, many of the hallways had funny names and their own unique, and often strange, culture. One was called “Trailer Park,” and their crest featured a stag in front of a green and yellow shield, bearing the Latin inscription: Sicut cervus nihil currit. Nothing runs like a deer.
In favor of running like a deer, I want to make three general recommendations. Consider them antidotes to the venom, or, if you will, survival tactics to take with you out into the field where the snakes lie in wait.
The first is to perform a daily examination of conscience. Think of this as checking yourself for ticks after spending time in the woods. Or looking for signs of a bite that may have passed your notice in the moment. You can do this at any time of the day, though nighttime comes easiest to most. Go over your day, hour by hour, if you can. Remember what you did, where you went, who you talked to. Does remembering anything that happened sting or burn? Make a note and resolve to try and work on it.
The second is to set a regular time for confession. It’s better to get in the habit of going regularly than to try and go for as long as you can until you “need it.” Regular and frequent confession teaches us humility. Pushing it off and relying on our own strength to avoid sin inflates our pride. We should remember the words of Saint Thomas Aquinas’ Prayer before Mass: “I come sick to the doctor of life, unclean to the fountain of mercy, blind to the radiance of eternal light, and poor and needy to the Lord of heaven and earth.” Put it on your calendar to go to confession every month or every two weeks. If you examine your conscience regularly, you’ll know that you have plenty to confess; and you’ll receive the grace—the refreshing water—that heals and strengthens you for the journey ahead.
The third is to bring others to Jesus, so that they can drink from the waters of life. This might seem backward—and it’s quite possible to do this wrong, so please pay attention. Notice in the Gospel that the deaf man with a speech impediment is brought to Jesus by people. Now, this man didn’t have all his senses, but what he wasn’t was blind. He could see just fine. He could, presumably, have found his way to Jesus, despite the fact that he couldn’t hear or speak. But perhaps something within him held him back from seeking out the Lord as he came into the district of the Decapolis. Others brought this man to Jesus, and the Gospel tells us they “were exceedingly astonished.” That this man was healed helped their faith. The same is true for us. When we bring others to Jesus, his life does not only reach them. It also benefits us. Now, we shouldn’t use others so that we can enjoy some spiritual consolation. When we ask someone to come with us to Mass or Adoration, or encourage them to take advantage of the sacrament of Reconciliation, or invite them to join a Bible study or to join us on retreat—when we do all this for their good—the Lord blesses us richly for our labors. It’s sometimes easier to marvel at how grace works in others than it does in ourselves.
The Communion Antiphon for today’s Mass is taken from Psalm 42. As we come forward to receive Holy Communion, may those words be on our lips and in our heart, as we draw near to the fountain of life-giving water that we may be cleansed of our iniquities, healed of our sins, and refreshed by the purest and sweetest water of the Lord’s grace.
Homily preached September 8, 2024 in the Chapel of the Immaculate Conception at Mount St. Mary’s University.
Joseph Carola, SJ, “Saint Clement of Rome, Lent 2015: Yearning for God Like the Deer for Running Streams” in Conformed to Christ Crucified, vol. 2 (Rome: Gregorian & Biblcal Press, "2015), 145-148.
Pliny the Elder, Naturalis Historia, 8.32.118.
Cassiodorus, Expositio in psalmo 41.2 (CCL 97, 380).