Letting the wind do what the wind does
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
4:10 PM
A few weeks ago, while the state of South Dakota was being walloped by this winter’s biggest storm, I was in Wyoming. South Dakota, I was told, had a lot of snow and some wind, Wyoming had a lot of wind and some snow.
The wind in Wyoming during those days was brutal, and rarely let up. I spent a few days outside in it and I was amazed at how wind burned my face became. It was a wind that did not simply bite, it seemed to consume you from the inside out.
One morning we were driving and the people in the car with me were talking about how windy it was, and then we stopped and I got out and was almost knocked over.
I am, by the way, not a small person, so that might give you an idea of what we were dealing with when I say it was windy.
Yet, as I told some people later, at least you do not have to shovel wind.
That is the bright side, on the other side, I grew up in Aberdeen, so I am aware of the power of wind, up in the northeaster part of the state, it is a fact of life. I remember hearing stories when I was younger about how the incessant wind drove early pioneers out of their minds, and I believe it.
The dust, the noise, the grit in the teeth, the noise, the biting cold, the noise, it all begins to add up. The days in Wyoming were taxing but I did not lose my mind, but I was not living in a sod house either.
We may be speaking about hurricanes or typhoons or tornadoes or simply the driving wind of the prairie, but we are speaking ultimately about a force of nature.
A force of nature, and also a force of God.
As we move through this Easter Season to its fiery conclusion at Pentecost, the power and presence of the Holy Spirit begins to dominate our thoughts and prayers. There are several images the Church uses to denote the mysterious presence of the Holy Spirit, and most of them are gentle.
We see the snow-white dove and it makes us think of the Holy Spirit. We read in the Acts of the Apostles that the Holy Spirit descended on the apostles in the form of tongues of fire. In our art, and therefore in our imagination, we see the soft flickering glow of a candle in the dark.
We are told in the Acts of the Apostles that the Holy Spirit came upon the apostles as wind and we imagine a gentle breeze, softly, almost subconsciously, moving them into the world.
Couples in the throes of love may use gentle candles as a symbol, but they know, as do we, that it is a passionate fire that has taken over their lives. They will not be the same because they have embraced that fire which burns but does not consume them.
I stood in the wild wind of Wyoming and felt its force almost knock me to the ground, and I thought about the power of the Holy Spirit, not a gentle breeze, but the driving wind the Acts of the Apostles speaks of; and the wind the Holy Father spoke of a few weeks ago.
In a daily homily, Pope Francis said, “We want to tame the Holy Spirit. And that is wrong. Because He is God, and He is the wind that comes and goes and you do not know where. He is the power of God, what gives us consolation and strength to move forward. But move forward!”
We are invited in these holy days to open ourselves more and more to this power that can change us, and in changing us, change the world.
When we embrace the Holy Spirit, not as a gentle force, but as a force of nature, as the force of God, in all its power and strength, then we learn how to let that force move us to greater holiness, greater love, greater forgiveness, greater justice.
If we try to tame the Holy Spirit, or let it be a gentle force in our lives, then we are the ones who get to decide how much holiness we need, how much love we should share, how much forgiveness we should offer, how much justice we are comfortable with; and then we wonder why things never seem to get better in the world.
This wind, this fire will move us to places we may not wish to go, to do things we may not think we have the ability to do, but we will find ourselves empowered to go beyond the measures of human nature.
Again, as Pope Francis said in the same homily, “Do not resist the Holy Spirit: this is the grace that I wish that we all ask from the Lord - docility to the Holy Spirit, in the Spirit that comes to us and makes us go forward in the path of holiness, the holiness of the beautiful Church. The grace of docility to the Holy Spirit. So be it.”
Sometimes, we just have to be knocked down.
The light and darkness that binds us together
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
4:30 PM
Last summer, as were millions of others, I was thrilled and inspired during the Summer Olympics by the story of Oscar Pistorius.
He was a man, born without femurs, who had his legs amputated when he was only a small child, who grew up and learned to walk, and then to run, on artificial limbs. He was a man who fought for and won the right to compete in the Olympics, and it was a thrill to see him dash along the track in his prostheses.
It was one of those moments that remind us how resilient human beings can be, our capacity to overcome so much in the pursuit of a goal; the conquering strength of the human spirit and all of that.
The next time I saw Oscar Pistorius, he was being led out of his home, his head and face covered with a hoodie. He had just shot his girlfriend through a bathroom door. Whether it was accidental or deliberate will be for the South African courts to decide.
It was difficult at that moment not to think back to a white bronco making its slow way through the highways of Los Angeles as O.J. Simpson negotiated his arrest for the death of his wife and the death of a local waiter and friend.
I thought about a news story I read the other day about two high school students convicted of assaulting the classmate when she was passed out. I read this article in the sports section because they were football players, and that apparently made a difference.
I thought about Lance Armstrong, also inspiring, also an expression of the conquering strength of the human spirit, as he finally admitted the truth. He sat before the eyes of the world and acknowledged that he had used performance enhancing drugs, that he had lied and even threatened others to hide the truth.
I thought of the baseball players, now so much smaller than in their playing days, sitting before the Congressional panel, each in his own way trying to find just the right words to not admit anything and to not commit perjury as well. Had they used steroids? Had they cheated? Were their records tainted? Each had been an inspiration and an example and now they were just small men trying not to lie and trying not to tell the truth either.
I thought of Michael Phelps, such an amazing example of commitment, talent and grace. I have considered it an honor to cheer for him in the past and still have no problem with him gracing my box of Wheaties in the morning. So a picture of him is snapped while at a college party and the world is shocked to discover that he is more than a swimmer, more than the vessel of our hopes and dreams, that he is also just a college kid.
At some point in life, it is discovered that some of us have the ability to run, or swim, or sink a three-pointer, or throw a football, or hit a home run, better than others. This is life. Nature gives them this ability and they make the choice to practice, suffer, sweat and develop their gift; this is nature, and their effort.
It is our culture that says, because they can do this, they must also be better than others. It is our culture that expects them to be examples, to be role-models, to be that through which we vicariously achieve greatness.
As I was reading a story in a magazine about Oscar Pistorius, the author said that we had to somehow separate the man on the track, the man who runs so fast with artificial limbs, that man who inspires us, from the man who could shoot four times at a closed bathroom door, killing the woman inside.
Why do we have to separate them? Can’t they be the same person? Aren’t they the same person?
As we stand in the light of Easter glory, we are reminded, in that light, of our common experience as human beings. This light falls upon us all, and all of us have parts of our lives that drink in that light and parts of our lives where the shadows shrink from it. We are all bound together by our common heritage of sin and grace, defeat and victory.
In the light of Easter glory, we are challenged to grow, to allow the light to conquer the darkness just a bit more each day. If we expect that, somehow, others are immune from this challenge or journey because of their skill, then we expect too much of them.
Even those among us who can achieve great things still have to do the work of growth, they still have shadows which need to be touched by the light, as do we all.
When we embrace this simple and necessary truth, then we can commit ourselves again to being a support for one another. When we remember we are on this journey together, and one of us falls, we do not stand in horrified amazement that one so talented could have some darkness within, but we help them up.
Just as we hope to be lifted up as well.
We walk together, support one another, love one another and we remember that all of us have fallen and all of us have greatness and the love of God flows over us all. It matters little if we be priest, or prophet, or point guard, the Risen Christ is our inspiration, example, role model.
An empty chair as a Lenten reminder
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
3:52 PM
Someone asked me a simple question…can a pope retire? The answer is, evidently, yes. The Code of Canon Law has always allowed for the possibility, as long as it is a free act; the possibility is certainly different from the reality.
“…I have had to recognize my incapacity to fulfill the ministry entrusted to me. For this reason, and well aware of the seriousness of this act, with full freedom I declare that I renounce the ministry of Bishop of Rome, Successor of Saint Peter…in such a way, that as from 28 February 2013, at 20:00 hours, the See of Rome, the See of Saint Peter, will be vacant…”
With these words, the world was stunned. I woke up on an early morning after a huge winter storm to discover that for the fifth time in my life, the cardinals would be gathering to elect a pope.
Before we turn our attention to the quiet inside the Sistine Chapel and the puffs of smoke rising from small chimney giving the outside world news from within, it might be beneficial for us to pause for a moment and ponder something.
As the Holy Father said, as of now the Chair of Saint Peter is vacant, and it might be good for us to pause and simply reflect upon that empty chair and why it is empty.
During this Lenten season, we look at that empty chair and learn something profoundly spiritual from the man who stepped down from it. After a lifetime of teaching, the Holy Father gives one last, and lasting lesson.
By all accounts, the ministry of Bishop of Rome and Successor of Saint Peter is a demanding one, but also a powerful one. In many ways, although not totally, the one who sits upon that chair represents who we are as the Church, he is the singular point of unity for over a billion Catholics worldwide.
Although most of the monarchical externals of the ministry have been done away with, he remains one of the last people in the world who is ultimately responsible only to God, the last authority who is under no human authority.
Yet, by stepping down and, in doing so, speaking of the “ministry entrusted to me,” His Holiness has reminded us that the position, as powerful as it is, remains a ministry to and for the Church.
It appears to me, in my reflection on that simple, empty chair, that the Holy Father was making an important distinction, that what truly matters is what is permanent, and this is what fosters and sustains his relationship with Jesus.
In a simple and humble way, he is teaching us that what matters most is not that he was pope, but that he was baptized, confirmed and ordained. Each of these sacramental encounters marks the soul and establishes a permanent and eternal relationship with the Lord, these are unrepeatable and of great value.
On April 16, 1927, a boy was born and on that same day he was baptized. One day, he would be elected bishop of Rome and he would take the name Benedict, but on this day the Lord called him by the name Joseph. It was the day when Joseph took his place, with all of us, as a member of the People of God, called to service, to love and to prayer.
On that day he became a Christian.
He was confirmed and sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Spirit which has and continues to lead his life. He was ordained a priest and became an alter Christus, a minister of the Sacraments and pastor of souls. Later he received the fullness of ordination as bishop and became a successor of the Apostles and teacher and shepherd for the Church.
These sacramental encounters are the heart of a relationship with the Lord and all of his ministries, even as pope, are born from these gifts.
By stepping down freely from the Chair of St. Peter, His Holiness shows the world, in his own humble and beautiful way, that what matters most to him is the life of the Church, and his life as a Christian…even being pope must be secondary to this.
This is a powerful and magnificent teaching and gift given to the Church during this Lenten season. We are reminded by this empty chair, and the man who stepped down from it, and from the season itself, to return to what truly matters in our lives. We are called to return to that first love in our lives from which all other loves flow.
His Holiness ended his announcement with these words about himself, “With regard to myself, I wish to also devotedly serve the Holy Church of God in the future through a life dedicated to prayer.”
Spending the remainder of his life in prayerful union with the Lord who so lovingly called him at the moment of his baptism, and spending the remainder of his life in prayer for the Church is a blessing for him and his last, great ministry to the Church as Christian, as priest, as bishop, as pope, and now, as bishop emeritus of Rome.
Learning to see the blessings that are always around us
Monday, February 18, 2013
10:38 AM
It’s the little thing that a person misses the most.
A few days ago, the water heater in the rectory shut down and, as usual, such an event caused a bit of consternation.
Now, it did not just die, it sort of lingered a while, the water simply got cooler and cooler, until it started to get colder and colder.
Then, one wild moment, there was no hot water at all.
So I made the necessary phone calls and then began the waiting, the waiting for hot water.
Between the time when I noticed there was something wrong with the water heater and the arrival of the plumber, a lot of adjustments had to be made in my daily routine. I found that I could handle the big things pretty well, but it was the little things that challenged me.
It did not take me long to realize that showers were going to have to be shorter, and then non-existent in the house for a while. We have showers in the Family Center, so that was a bit inconvenient, but not unacceptably so.
After a while, a person just makes the necessary accommodations, putting laundry off until later, making schedule changes and packing up some things to shower, those things take planning and thought and so the adjustments are on the mind.
It is the little things that make it difficult.
I lost count of the number of times I went to the sink to wash my hands and stood there with my fingers under cold water waiting for it to turn warm before I remembered.
I had also forgotten how much I disliked brushing my teeth with cold water.
One evening, as Fr. Kristopher and I were making dinner, the recipe I was using said I needed to add two cups of hot water. I was scrambling to find a container to heat the water in the microwave while Fr. Kristopher was heating a soup pan full of water on the stove to do dishes later.
It was sort of like living in pioneer days, I suppose.
That was a little fun…for the first day. On the second day, someone mentioned that it must be something like our grandparents had to go through. I did not take that as well.
History, I find, is better learned than lived.
Anyway, the plumber showed up and had a few new elements and a new thermostat in his pockets, he went to the basement and came up about a half an hour later and an hour after that we were back in the modern world.
As he predicted, when I turned on the hot water an hour after he left, the cold water came out, and then, after the wonderful spitting and spurting, the hot water flowed; and I washed my hands.
I washed my hands about 50 times that first day, it was just so nice; each time was like a celebration.
In fact, there were a lot of celebrations, clean clothes, clean hands, clean teeth, clean bodies; the house was a veritable extravaganza of cleanliness. I do not want to seem like I am unappreciative of what our ancestors had to do, I was just so glad to have hot, running water again.
Those brief days spent in the “good old days” caused me to stop and think about how I take some many things for granted. Fr. Kristopher and I talked about this very thing that evening as we did dishes (by hand, mind you, which also felt like a celebration). There are so many gifts and blessings all around us, things our parents and grandparents would have been amazed to see and experience.
Sometimes they become such a part of our lives that the simple blessing of modern luxuries can slip past us; a few days without them become a good reminder not to take anything for granted.
Most of us were taught when we were younger that it is good to count your blessings and this is one of the little childhood lessons we should not abandon with adulthood. When we pause to remember, to be grateful, to think of the blessings we receive, then the bitterness and cynicism that can so easily afflict us flees.
As we approach the wondrous season of Lent, we might commit ourselves to spending a part of those days indulging in the holy practice of noticing the little things, the little important things all around us, the things we use and do not notice each day.
From the automatic coffee maker in the morning to the electric lights in the evening, we are surrounded by wonders and marvels. If we are able to notice them, and appreciate them, then we might just be also able to marvel at the blessings great and small that flow each moment from the hand of the good God who gives everything that we might have life.
Lent challenges us to notice and to be grateful once again.
It’s very much like the gratitude we should feel when we take a shower…a nice, hot shower.
We hear a prophetic word from 30 years ago
Friday, December 28, 2012
3:10 PM
I am always amazed with the passing of time, how some things that feel like they only happened yesterday have, in fact, happened long ago. I am never sure at those moments if I am really just getting older or if time is actually speeding up.
I generally presume that time is speeding up, it is just easier to presume that the laws of physics are changing than to presume I am getting older.
I had one of those moments a few weeks ago when I was having a discussion and someone mentioned the pastoral letter on war and peace that was written by the National Conference of Catholic Bishops. It seems like only yesterday that I was in college and reading and reflecting upon the challenging words offered by our bishops.
Yet, it was not yesterday, in fact 2013 is the 30th anniversary of the publication of this letter.
It was not an easy letter for the bishops to present, and they certainly were criticized for it; yet they took the difficult path and spoke their prophetic words to the nation. As successors to the Apostles, who first received the Easter gift of peace, they made real the bishop’s greeting: “Peace be with you.”
Written during the heat of the “Cold War,” the letter was given to the faithful eight years before the collapse of the Soviet Union and its restructuring of global relationships. There are many historical and geopolitical reasons for the end of the cold war, and I count among them this letter that focused the minds and hearts, and prayers, of the faithful on the paths of peace.
The title of the letter is powerfully expressive, “The Challenge of Peace: God’s Promise and Our Response;” we are taught in these few words that peace, and peace-making will always be a challenge in our world, yet it is born of the promise God has made to us, the promise which comes to birth in Bethlehem. In the light of this unimaginably beautiful promise, we stand as a Christian community to respond, to embrace the struggle.
The bishops presented to us an image of that promise, born in the paschal mystery:
The resurrection of Jesus is the sign to the world that God indeed does reign, does give life in death, and that the love of God is stronger even than death. Only in light of this, the fullest demonstration of the power of God’s reign, can Jesus’ gift of peace - a peace which the world cannot give - be understood…The peace which he gives to them as he greets them as their risen Lord is the fullness of salvation. It is the reconciliation of the world and God; the restoration of the unity and harmony of all creation which the Old Testament spoke of with such longing. Because the walls of hostility between God and humankind were broken down in the life and death of the true, perfect servant, union and well-being between God and the world were finally fully possible. (paragraphs 50-51)
This is the promise and the gift we celebrate this, and every Christmas season. This is the promise and gift we celebrate at every single Eucharist. It is the dream of God, and it demands a response from us. We are still challenged by the bishop’s words to strive each day to make the world more just and forgiving, to work each day for a world at peace.
As they so beautifully wrote: Freed from the bondage of war that holds it captive in its threat, the world will at last be able to address its problems and to make genuine human progress, so that every day there may be more freedom, more food, and more opportunity for every human being who walks the face of the earth.
Let us have the courage to believe in the bright future and in a God who wills it for us - not a perfect world, but a better one. The perfect world, we Christians believe, is beyond the horizon, in an endless eternity where God will be all in all. But a better world is here for human hands and hearts and minds to make. (336-337)
We do not need to look beyond the headlines to see why this need of “human hands and hearts and minds” to make a better world is necessary. As we live in the shadow of two wars, as the threat of terrorism changes our daily lives, as the long litany of sorry grows (just this year: Oakland, CA; Seattle, WA; Aurora, CO; Oak Creek, WI and now, Newtown, CT), as people cry and then cry again, in sorrow and in longing, we are called to respond to the promise of God.
One way to pray and work for peace, to focus our souls on the challenge of peace, is to renew the call given us by our shepherds 30 years ago. As this year begins, I offer to you the commitment they made, and invited us to make with them:
As a tangible sign of our need and desire to do penance we, for the cause of peace, commit ourselves to fast and abstinence on each Friday of the year. We call upon our people voluntarily to do penance on Friday by eating less food and by abstaining from meat. This return to a traditional practice of penance, once well observed in the U.S. Church, should be accompanied by works of charity and service toward our neighbors. Every Friday should be a day significantly devoted to prayer, penance, and almsgiving for peace. (298)
As this new year begins, let us hear again the voice that cried out three decades ago and be the Christian people we are called to be; a commitment renewed each morning as the Church rises and prays: “In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.”
Walking Advent's dark path together
Thursday, November 29, 2012
2:03 PM
There are times when I am thinking back on my childhood that I think about the first paragraph of Dylan Thomas’ “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.”
He wrote, “One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”
I have to admit, there are times when I am looking back on my life and things get somewhat blurry and fuzzy, and I have clear memories of things which may or may not have happened. I remember something and then when I talk about it to my parents or family or friends, they do not remember it at all.
Although I will talk with people and they do not remember this, there is a time that is firmly lodged in my memories.
I am pretty sure that one year, when I was in grade school, that President Nixon, or maybe it was Congress, decided that we would not go off of daylight savings time. I was thinking about this the other day because the weekend when we “fall back” has been moved back so far it was still pretty dark around 8 a.m.
Just that momentary darkness reminded me of the time when it was still a little dark when we had to walk to school and each day it got a little darker and darker until sunrise wouldn’t happen until close to 9.
What I remember is walking to school for the first few days in the soft glow of dawn, but dawn was going to come later and later. I don’t remember if it was our parent’s idea or if the police suggested it, but we eventually started to walk to school with flashlights.
Which of course makes it a perfectly fine memory and a wonderful way to go to school, but we were children and children generally won’t leave something like this alone. It was too safe. We were walking in the darkness, so how could we not try to scare each other.
Soon all manner of stories grew about mean men who came to town simply to prey on children walking to grade school in the dark. At the time, Aberdeen was a fairly quiet city, but you would never know it during those six block walks. Aberdeen became a den of evil and villainy. There were, there just had to be, monsters and madmen behind every tree.
How could there not be? It was dark, after all.
I have not made any attempt, via Google or otherwise, to determine whether or not this is a true historical fact, because I happily hold the memory close.
There was something so wonderful, almost magical about making our way to school in total darkness, and something so enlivening about the frights and scares we would give each other. We were walking in the darkness from one familiar place to another, from our homes to school, and following a path we‘d walked hundreds of times before; but the mere fact it was so dark made it an adventure.
The darkness took away the familiar, and the light of the school up ahead became a haven.
This wonderful memory, whether it happened or not, is one I like to embrace as we enter the Advent season. This season is a time when we walk through familiar places and do familiar things; everything around us is familiar, and yet the long nights remind us that we often walk these familiar paths in darkness. We make our way, sometimes more out of habit than with vision and insight.
As we walk, me may grow frightened, we may see monsters all around us, but we are called during these dark and holy days to remember the light that is within us and right in front of us. This is the gift given us by God, who loves us and leads us home.
But, one never really appreciates the light unless there has been some darkness first.
This is why, in the midst of all the Christmas decorations and preparation of this month, we are also asked to be aware of the darkness around us, the darkness that covers our path. We are asked to be aware, not that we will be afraid, but to renew us in hope. We are asked to be aware, not to notice how powerful is the darkness, but to know how wonderful is the light.
This is Advent’s gift, and we are children walking a dark path together, giggling, scaring each other, enjoying the novelty of it all, and confident because we know, in a few weeks, we will gather together in the warmth of Christmas Mass and hear the words Isaiah the prophet cried out millennia ago:
“A people who walk in darkness have seen a great light.”
November is about the story as an act of faith
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
4:18 PM
The young prince was dying.
Around his dying body lay the bodies of his mother and his uncle. Into this scene of tragedy and death, the young prince’s best friend comes over to him and to be with him in his last minutes of life.
The young prince makes a request of his best friend, based upon their affection for each other. The young prince asks:
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story.
Hamlet asks his friend Horatio to do a most human thing, a powerful and wonderful thing; he is asked to pause for a moment in the living of his life and remember, and to share.
It is, of course, the great invitation given to us each November, to do the same. We are invited as believers to pause for a moment in the living of our lives, and to remember and to share the stories of those we love.
Throughout the year, I have in the living room, pictures of family members and friends who have died, it is a small shrine and a visual reminder of those whom I love and who pray for me. During the month of November, a candle burns and the stories come out in earnest.
The stories we tell about those who have gone before us do a number of things. Each story is an expression of love and a reminder of what this person meant to us, and to our world. Not all of us are destined to make the history books or be remembered universally for what we have done; but the stories about our family members and friends become our personal history.
The stories we tell also are a part of our tradition, in the fullest sense of the word. It is a shared history, passed on to the next generation. Sometimes children did not get a chance to know a grandparent, or an uncle, or a family friend, and the stories are the way in which they can learn to love and appreciate those who have gone before us.
Finally, each story told, each picture honored, is an expression of our belief in the resurrection. We honor them because they live, and our November acts of devotion and memory strengthen the bonds of affection and love which unite us in Christ. We pray for them, they pray for us, and we continue to do so until we all rise and, hand in hand, look upon the face of God.
This month, in addition to those I have been honoring for many years, I will also be honoring and remembering my friend Phil Becker. Phil and I met decades ago when we were both students at SDSU.
What I remember most about Phil is his smile. He had, what is called, a winning smile; always at the ready. His sense of humor was abundant and there were a group of us who would hang out in the dayroom of Young Hall and eat lunch and spend a great deal of the afternoon watching TV, joking and being young. Somehow, we all managed to graduate.
There are few people I have enjoyed watching “Days of Our Lives” and “The Love Boat” with more than Phil. We would sit, sprawled out on the couches, making our own version of “Mystery Science Theater 3000,” finding something funny in every scene.
Phil graduated from State a year after I did; and while I was in the seminary, he married our mutual friend Lisa Welsh and served his country honorably in the United States Air Force. He was a brilliant engineer and a good friend; and, as a representative of the Catholic Church, I would like to add that we were blessed beyond measure to have him join his life to ours.
He was, by anyone‘s measure, what a man should be as a husband and a father to his daughters Molly and Claire. Lisa and Phil celebrated 25 years of living the sacrament of Marriage this past March; a true celebration for a family who built their home upon the rocks of faith and love.
When I first heard last August that Phil had died suddenly at his home in Ohio, I stared out the window, stunned by the news. And I remembered his smile, and his laugh and how he helped make my years in Young Hall as enjoyable as they were. I was blessed to know him, and am blessed still, to know him and to know he prays for me in the presence of God.
His story is important, to his family and friends, as are the stories of all we love. We, and the Church, are richer in their being shared. For this reason does the Church, each November, ask us to do just that.
If I may be allowed a small personal note to Phil: Now that your soul rests in the heart of God, I am grateful that you are the first of us to finally know just how much authority Captain Stubing has in heaven.
As believers, we are in this together
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
4:01 PM
In the world of heroes, there are those who do extraordinary things and there are those who do ordinary things in extraordinary ways. And there are those who do both.
One such hero was born in the small town of Wapakoneta, Ohio. Having first flown at 6 years old, his heart was set on making aviation his life’s avocation. He studied hard and ultimately earned a degree in engineering and became a Navy pilot, flying nearly 80 missions during the Korean War.
He was, in short, one of those small town heroes, one of many men and women who grow up, learn, serve their country and go on to make their mark on their small corner of the world. Often the larger world does not notice them, or even take notice of what they have done, but those whose lives are touched by them do notice, and do remember.
They are common heroes, local and unsung and our world would be so much poorer without them.
However, our young pilot from Ohio was noticed, not that he wanted that, it was just the way things turn out. After the war, he became a test pilot, a particularly dangerous job and, more than once, almost lost his life. He was, by all accounts, steady, focused and unemotional. He did his job.
It was life full of changes and adventure, and yet his heart was always focused on one thing, the job he had to do, the mission he had to accomplish.
This is who he was, this is the way he was raised, this is what mattered to him. In a multitude of ways, it would seem like a great way to live, with focus on the job ahead, on the mission to be accomplished.
But, for a while, it was a cause for concern for those around him. You see, this young Ohioan, this young pilot was ultimately given a mission so profound, so intense, that those who worked with him wondered if, just maybe, he would be so focused on the mission, on the job to do, that he would miss the larger implications.
The eyes of history would be upon him, the eyes of the world would be watching, and would he simply do his job. That would be enough, of course, but there is also the longing of people to have momentous moments marked by momentous words or actions. Would our young pilot be able to mark the moment, to take note of the significance?
He may have been a young man from a small town, he may have lived his life to this moment in such a way that doing his job well was reward enough. He was also wise enough to recognize that what he was doing was more than a single act on his part, that what he was doing was the culmination of work and struggle and sacrifice involving hundred of thousands.
He was wise enough to recognize that what he was doing involved us all.
So, in the end, without any great fanfare, when everyone was watching, wondering, awed, he did what he had been trained to do. He did an ordinary thing, he took a step, and in doing so, spoke extraordinary words.
“That’s one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind.”
With that, he, and we all, stepped on the moon.
Neil Armstrong, a young pilot from Ohio, was wise enough to know that he carried with him, on that small step, the hopes and dreams of the world; his words could not have been more perfect.
As heroes often do, he acknowledged the fact that his success was not singularly achieved; he knew he was simply a part of a team. Years later, in an interview, Armstrong said, “I am, and ever will be, a white socks, pocket protector, nerdy engineer,” and added, “I take a substantial amount of pride in the accomplishments of my profession.”
Men and women do not walk on the moon through glorious individualism. We accomplish great things by common struggle and focus, by uniting our talents and knowledge to face down challenges, failures and problems.
It is the nature of community; a word we often hear, and sometimes fail to appreciate. We live in a society that honors the individual who achieves greatness by his or her own abilities and in isolation; in short, we live in a society that esteems that which does not exist.
The other day I was celebrating the wonderful sacrament of Baptism, and I thought, as I often do at that moment, how blessed this child is to be surrounded by such loving parents, godparents, family and friends, but how this child is also brought into a community made up of individuals called to unite the strength, wisdom and grace they have received from God to transform the world.
Our wounds and fears and sin may drive us apart, may keep us focused on what is different and divisive, but the grace we have received draws us together. We are sent into a divided world as a community of believers bound together by the empowering gifts of faith, hope and love. This is the way, this is the only way. For this reason did Jesus insist upon our being united to Him, and to one another; as vine to branches, as members of one body.
He knows, and continues to teach us, that we go to the stars together or we don’t go at all.
Sharing the words of a time gone by
Tuesday, September 04, 2012
4:54 PM
I have started and deleted this column more times than I care to count. I find that words fail me, which is a rare thing for an old Irish priest. I cannot begin to comprehend the Abrahamic faith needed for holy men to walk away from home, their home, our home, and begin anew.
Perhaps all I can do is share the words I wrote on retreat several years ago while in the warm community embrace of my brothers at Blue Cloud Abbey.
It is early morning when they
enter the dimly lit chapel.
Their black robes mirror the blanket
which lays across the prairie.
A sliver of the sky can be seen
down the long aisle through the eastern door
to the outside world.
The black outside gently moving to blue.
By the time the brothers stand to
Bless the Lord, the God of Israel,
the blue sliver will be touched by color:
blue to pink to red to white to light.
Thus begins the work and prayer.
The work: a multitude of tasks done in daylight,
done in every family, in every home.
The other work: done in the quiet recitation
of the Psalmist’s words, words that fall like drops of water
to wear away the darkness, words planted like seeds
that other hands will reap come harvest.
Thus is a world upheld, thus is a Church sustained,
by men become brothers,
who mirror every human family,
with its table full of blessing and laughter and a thousand
annoyances,
with its living space full of news and sarcasm and the poetry of
daily life.
So they did yesterday,
they will do tomorrow,
and they do today.
Gathering in the dimly lit chapel, as the sun sets unseen
behind the Abbot’s chair, as the sliver of sky
through the far door slides from blue to black:
in black robes, they stand and face each other,
their brothers who are the source of their
joys and fears, their angers and holiness.
As they did yesterday, as they will do tomorrow, and so they do
today.
They face each other, take a deep breath, and say:
“O God, come to my assistance.”
Rereading it now, perhaps I was premature with “as they will do tomorrow;” at least in that gentle “school of the Lord‘s service.” Yet, they will say those words, again and again, in a new home, with new brothers. Where those words are spoken will be their home and each of them will be a blessing to their new community.
They have blessed us with their presence and peace for over a half century. As the chapel at the abbey grows quiet, as the cells are emptied and the doors locked, we remember how God blessed us with holy men who lived, prayed and worked in our midst, quietly, lovingly and with an openness of heart to make St. Benedict smile.
While my sad heart cannot comprehend the undeniable fact that this noble edifice of monastic life is gone, I hold to a stronger, undeniable fact…we are better because they were with us.
So, as they would end all things: Peace.
Finding ourselves in the place of peace
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
2:02 PM
I was at a meeting when the news came in.
Someone had received a text message telling them that Andy Griffith had died and they shared the news with the group. Now, this group was of various ages, and those differences could be seen in the reactions to the news.
One young man asked if he was that “Matlock guy” and we said, of course he was; those of my generation and older got a bit wistful. As much as people might enjoy Matlock, we knew him as something more. Someone had just told us Sheriff Andy Taylor had died.
And he took Mayberry with him, and something was now missing from us all.
Of course, we know it was just a TV show, and that Sheriff Taylor was just a character, but we began to whistle those familiar notes and we smiled.
Later that evening I received a text message from my friend in Saudi Arabia, he had just woke up and heard the news and had to contact me. He was sad to hear it and I knew he would be, but the one I knew would be the most sad would be my brother.
James loves “The Andy Griffith Show,” and it is still a delight for me to watch an episode with him and to listen to him recite all the dialogue with the characters. It is a great Christmas gift he gives to the whole family as he speaks the words of Old Ben Weaver, opening his suitcase and finding it full of toys for the kids who have none at Christmas. “Now how did this doll get in here, you take it,” he says as he hands it to a little girl.
The show holds a special place in the Griffin family. It is one of the few shows we all enjoy and can watch together, mostly just enjoying how the others are enjoying it. In fact, if one of my sisters is having a bad day, all I used to have to say to her is “Check Point Chickie” and she would smile.
For me, there was always something wonderful about Ernest T. Bass showing up. I loved his rhymes and his goofiness always made me laugh. Although there is some disagreement among some family members, I also enjoyed the arrival of the Darlin’ family and, to this day, love their music.
I think everyone loves “Tom Dooley,” even if that one makes you cry.
Yet, what I think we loved the most is the idea of Mayberry. I think that is what touched most people the most.
We know that Mayberry did not exist, and perhaps could not exist, but that did not mean a part of us didn’t want to live there anyway. There is something beautifully seductive about that small town and the people who lived there.
It was a life spent in the quiet simplicity of going to the fishin’ hole in the afternoon and Sunday afternoon after Church was spent on the front porch after a big lunch (well, at least the men enjoyed the porch, I think Aunt Bea had to do the dishes).
It was a place with blue ribbon winning pickles and friendship and problems that could be solved in a half hour with a little common sense and wisdom. A happy place, peaceful and simple.
Over it all presided a good man who became a surrogate father for millions. He was not as funny as Barney Fife, but he was clever, wise and kind; and a darn fine guitar picker too.
I realize, of course, that I might miss all the modern gifts of today’s world, and that at some point I would want to watch TV or look something up on the internet, and then the entire world of Mayberry would collapse around me. But in those moments of stress and struggle, when it seems as if my life is spinning a bit out of control, I long for that simple place, that quiet town in North Carolina. A place where I am known, accepted and loved unconditionally.
It is then that I remember that our faith also affords such a place. I am not speaking of a heavenly promise, but the actual living of our faith in this world.
Sometimes we think of our faith more as a verb than a noun, it is more about what we do than a place where we find our rest. We can think that our faith is simply something to study, or proclaim, when it is also a center of peace in the midst of the tempests of life.
Our faith gives us a unique and beautiful access to the Lord, and in that access we find our rest. We can rest gently in his presence and be known, accepted and loved unconditionally. In this home we can allow the problems and struggles of life to slip away, if only for a brief time, and remember who we are as children of a wise and loving Father.
It is a gift, and one we should indulge in daily. It is for us to be loved in this way and find our peace and then share this peace with all we meet.
No, it’s not Mayberry, it is in fact better, because it is real.
|