Our stories reveal the true meaning of life
Thursday, February 02, 2012
11:13 AM
It is a stereotype, of course.
The Irish have a reputation for being storytellers. It is a stereotype and one that I questioned for a long time; even though I come from a family of storytellers.
Yet, many years ago, the first time I had the joyful experience of visiting Ireland and the land of my ancestors, I began to understand where the stereotype came from; and it happened on an old dirt road.
My friend Steven and I were driving along. Well, to be honest, Steven was driving and I was navigating because, apparently I could not be trusted to drive from the right side of the car. I acknowledge the fact that I hit a mail box and one street sign with the side view mirror of our rental car, but I do not necessarily think that meant I should be banished to the passenger side for the duration of the trip.
But I was, and so I was navigating and we came to a place where the map we had did not help, as often happened in the back country of rural Ireland. So we needed a bit of help finding the right road to Athenry.
As we were driving along, I saw an elderly gentleman, wearing a lovely woolen hat, overshoes and a suit coat, carrying a walking staff, making his way down the road. We pulled over so I, as navigator, could ask directions. I hopped out of the car while Steven stayed behind the wheel and waited.
He was congenial and hospitable, as we found most of the people in the heart of Ireland, and was more than happy to assist me. And that assisting me involved being Irish; being very Irish. I got back to the car to an exasperated driver who asked me, “Why did it take so long?”
The why was simple; I did not just get directions, I got the history of the county. I was not told to go to the fork in the road and turn left, I was told to go to the fork in the road by the old barn that was built by the Murphy’s before they sold it and the new owners sold it later to someone who let it get run down, but he still keeps it there and we’re not sure why… Well, you get the idea.
It was wonderful.
Just a kind man stopped in the middle of the road who simply shared the delight of spinning a wee tale for a visiting Yank.
I was thinking about this the other day when a friend of mine asked me what made Irish storytelling different from the regular kind. The only real answer I could give was this: Irish storytelling may or may not have a point. The point is not the issue, the story is what matters.
That becomes abundantly clear each time my family gets together. A few weeks ago most of us made our way to Aberdeen for Christmas, and the time was filled with gifts and laughter and love…and a lot of stories. Some of the stories had a point, most of them did not; they were just the sharing of memories and thoughts and the events of days since we had been together last.
It was a wonderful gift, and a great reminder of what a clever and humorous family I come from; Irish storytellers all.
This tradition of storytelling makes me think about the story of our faith. We can sometimes fall into the trap that this great story is something for us to figure out, it is simply an object of our study, or just a matter of history.
If we fall into that trap, we lose the amazing ability to embrace this story as being our story as well. If we are so concerned with proving the historical, or scientific, reality of the creation story in Genesis, then we run the risk of seeing creation as an ongoing reality in which we play a part. We lose the sense of God as Creator, creating still.
But we risk losing more than that; we could lose the sense of our lives as a story. Perhaps as a person gets older, the desire to have a point or a reason to life becomes more important, or even necessary. We may begin to lose that sense, that children have naturally, that life is simply a gift best enjoyed by living it. Children do not seek out the “meaning of life,” they know life is its own meaning.
If we begin to think that there has to be a point, then we are convinced that what we bring to the world is what we do, and not the greater gift…who we are.
As we allow the story of our faith to become our story as well, we begin to learn this truth, and we begin to embrace it. We come to discover how the Lord’s commandment for us to love another is really done by sharing ourselves, fully and without fear.
We offer our greatest gift.
This is why God has spoken our lives into his creation. It may not have a point we can discern or even study, but the more we love, the better the story itself.
Beginning the new year with hearts ready to be amazed
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
3:13 PM
There is something interesting about the beginning of a new year. It’s such an arbitrary thing, we just decide by mutual consent that this particular day is the beginning of the year, and while it is really just a day like any other day, it is full of significance.
The days leading up to the first of the year are full of all sorts of lists. We have lists of the best movies and books and TV shows, we hear about the major news events of the year and how things have changed in our world in the last 12 months.
There will be, of course, good things and bad things to reflect upon, times of joy and times of sorrow. They all become a part of who we are, a part of our lives, the things that make us who we are; but while this time of reflection is an opportunity to look back and appreciate, there is also a sense of letting go.
There is a part of this time of year that feels like unloading, a cleaning out.
It is as if we have a full treasure chest that is emptied out and prepared for new gifts. It is a moment of receptivity. We are open to receiving the gifts the Lord wishes to grant us.
It is for just this reason that I love the fact that the new year begins with the wonderful festival of the Mother of God. As we gather to begin again, we are invited to listen to the wonderful words from Luke’s Gospel:
The shepherds went in haste to Bethlehem
and found Mary and Joseph,
and the infant lying in the manger.
When they saw this,
they made known the message
that had been told them about this child.
All who heard it were amazed
by what had been told them by the shepherds.
And Mary kept all these things,
reflecting on them in her heart.
Then the shepherds returned,
glorifying and praising God
for all they had heard and seen,
just as it had been told to them.
In the midst of this great scene, we have so much amazement and rejoicing. The shepherds are filled with wonder and gratitude that God had come to them…to them, poor and insignificant shepherds. They see a newborn in a manger and it all makes sense to them.
The others are amazed by the story the shepherds tell; a story of angels and glory and the most unexpected coming of God that anyone had ever imagined.
And there is the Mother of God, receiving each word, each teary-eyed gaze upon her son, each moment of amazement as a gift. They are gifts that fill the treasure chest of her heart and she honors each one; honors each one at this moment and she honors each one forever.
It is such a wonderful way to begin the new year, with a reminder that we will be blessed throughout the days ahead with all manner of gifts and treasures; to remember that we will be amazed and surprised by the unexpected working of God.
It is for us to be open to these gifts, to be open to the unexpected and the amazement that will be all around us.
The days of the old year have ended, and the usual, the routine has passed away for us. Our treasure chests are open and ready to be filled with gems of glory, with diamonds of utter amazement.
There will be dark days ahead, times of struggle and pain, but we learn to receive these as gifts as well. We learn because we are open to the mystery of God who comes to us in shadow and in light, in manger and in majesty, in cross and in a resurrection.
The shepherd’s story is ours as well, as is the amazement of the others, as is the pondering, treasure-filled heart of the Mother of God.
Elegy for a Sacramentary
Friday, December 02, 2011
2:49 PM
When I was a boy, it was new,
shiny and red;
we were young together.
I would sit in the pew and see it,
held in the hands of the parochial student,
the red so bright against black cassock
and white surplice;
or I would see it resting gently upon the altar--
the priest’s eyes flowing over its pages,
reading the words that transubstantiate
simple gifts, praying people, all the world.
The priest’s hands would gracefully use tabs to
flip pages from front to back,
knowing the intricacies of a mysterious book
that held the mysteries of God.
When we were both a little older,
I held the book for the first time,
awed by its weight,
awed by the black and red words,
the same words I had read so often;
but as I looked at those words,
they carried a weight no missalette could bear,
they were the words, not read, but spoken,
prayed, offered.
Years later, it was the book I had to buy,
the book I had to study,
I had to learn its intricacies;
which tab at what time,
which ribbon for which day.
The words became as familiar to me
as the faces of my friends,
and the book,
as much a part of my daily life as
waking, eating, breathing.
Sometimes,
as often happens in such friendships,
the words seemed to read me even as I was
reading them.
It was a companion who taught me.
In the front of the book:
Sundays, the start of the week
and its joy.
In the back of the book:
Saints, united with us in prayer,
and our hope.
In the middle of the book:
Mass, always at the center,
always at the heart.
Now I am praying from a new book,
and I am learning its new intricacies.
But I cannot put that old, frayed
red friend on the shelf without a moment
of gratitude; because,
through the words and rituals it contains,
I learned to love Jesus
when we were young together.
Thoughts at the funeral of a brother priest
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
11:45 AM
It was on a beautiful morning when we gathered to pray Father Brian Fawcett to his rest. Father Brian, while the pastor in Ft. Pierre, had been diagnosed in the spring with an inoperable brain tumor; after a summer of struggle and prayer, the autumn brought him his rest.
It has been quite a while since I have been to the Mass of Christian Burial for a priest, and as I gathered with my brothers in the beautiful church of St. Ann in Miller, I reflected on the mystery of priesthood, as, I’m sure, did the other priests.
We do not have a wife or children mourning at our funerals, we have each other. Our tears might be few, being Midwestern men after all, but our singing is heartfelt, and our prayer deep. After communion, we sang a hymn written by Cesareo Gabarain, and as the strong male voices filled the Church, the mystery of our vocation was set before us once again.
Lord, you have come to the seashore,
neither searching for the rich nor the wise,
desiring only that I should follow.
As we stood in our albs and stoles, gathered around the new bishop of Rapid City, the words reminded each of us that we were called, lovingly, carefully, not only to follow Him, but to be brought in…brought into a wonderful and unique brotherhood.
We did not earn it, and it is a fact most of us fought it for a while, but the invitation was insistent, and eventually became an embrace. It’s what that strange and wonderful Man who shows up on the seashore does. Slowly and patiently, He makes the invitation a thing of beauty. It becomes a desire.
Lord, see my goods, my possessions
in my boat you find no power, no wealth.
Will you accept, then, my nets and labor?
One of the struggles about being a part of this brotherhood is how different we are; we each have our own temperaments, our own way of doing things, our own personal issues that get in the way, our own histories. What it means for us to be a priest can be so different from man to man, how it is lived can be so unique, that it can become a source of division and polarization.
Yet, that Man walking on the seashore has called us, not because we are the same, but because we are different. It is the difference itself that He seeks, uncomfortable though it may be. It is up to us to have the faith to look beyond the various distinctions and see the deeper reality, each of us were chosen to follow Him, and to walk together.
Lord, take my hands and direct them.
Help me spend myself in seeking the lost,
returning love for the love you gave me.
We all walk with Him. He is the central point that binds us together. The divisions and disagreements will be there to bless and curse us, but that Man on the seashore is always there, calling us each day with the rising of the sun.
And my eyes moved from the brothers sitting around me to the brother lying both in the casket before us and in the arms of the first Priest. It doesn’t take long to realize that accepting the invitation is only the first step. Once you say yes to the Man on the seashore, you have to start to live the life to which He invites you, and all that means.
Like most priests, Father Brian loved his parish and its people. He loved to hunt and to support the local sports teams, to preach and to celebrate the Eucharist. He did what priests do, and he did it as only he could, and found in that gift the presence that gave his life its meaning. It is the movement from saying “yes” to becoming “yes.”
The movement that could give him faith and courage for the end of his life with us in this world.
Lord, as I drift on the waters,
be the resting place of my restless heart,
my life’s companion, my friend and refuge.
Not the end of priesthood; it is one of the great marks of our tradition that priesthood, once conferred, is eternal. It is a vocation lived in this world and in the next. As the funeral ended and our songs were sung, as we got into our cars to head back to our own parishes, we each had homilies to prepare, weddings to rehearse, sick to visit, all the elements of priesthood lived in this world.
None of us could even guess or imagine how Fr. Brian would be living his priesthood on that soft, gentle day. All we know for sure is that, in a wonderful way, he does.
It’s nice for each of us, standing around the body of our brother, to be reminded of this, and to be grateful. Some brotherhoods never end.
O, Lord, with your eyes set upon me,
gently smiling, you have spoken my name;
all I longed for I have found by the water,
at your side, I will seek other shores.
Manners always have their proper place
Monday, October 03, 2011
9:35 AM
The other day, while enjoying a nice cup of coffee, I read the newspaper. One of the columns I read and always enjoy is the column by Miss Manners. One of the reasons I love her column is because it almost always teaches me something and it almost always makes me think.
What I primarily think is this, “I wonder if even Miss Manners follows all these rules?”
Although I enjoy the column a great deal, it is also a cause for some anxiety. Every time I learn some new aspect of mannered living, I wonder why I did not know it before, and I wonder about all the rules I am breaking by unknown omission.
I look up over my coffee cup and wonder just how rude I am.
It is, however, an anxiety that barely lasts through the next sip as I remind myself of the lesson I did learn about manners when I was in junior high. The teacher taught us that manners are less about rules than they are about respect; respect for others and for self. All in all, not a bad guiding principle.
When wondering what is the proper protocol in any given situation, one simply pauses and asks what is the most respectful thing to do. The rules, the guidelines become guides to help us stay respectful, they are the lubrication that keeps a society humming along.
But, of course, the United States, being such a young country, does not have the same long established regimen of manners that would be found in older countries. Our nation did not evolve over long periods of time, growing, changing, rising upon the foundation of “how to behave.” We rose up almost fully formed from the heart of personal liberty.
There is our conflict; when the rules of manners run into our well established desire to do as we choose. Any parent knows this conflict; teaching children how to behave automatically means trying to get them to do something they do not want to do. It is a long battle, and one we ultimately have to wage within ourselves.
This battle will occasionally involve stopping and challenging our own desires that we might do the respectful thing, that we might be respectful.
This happens a lot when dealing with manners in church. We have to learn how to act, what to do, how to look, and sometimes simply because it is the right thing to do. We do not have to focus on sin, because a lot what seems unmannered in church is not sinful, but we can focus on what is most respectful to ourselves and those around us.
This was a lesson I did not learn in seminary, or in school, but in my backyard. One Sunday, when I was high school, I was leaving to go to a later Mass than the rest of the family and I walked past my mom who was working in the back yard.
“Go back and put some socks on,” she said to me.
“I don’t think God cares if I have socks on or not,” was my adolescent response.
“You’re not doing it for God, you’re doing it because I asked you to,” was her wise lesson. The socks were worn for Mass.
So, we come to this bit of information that will be a shock for anyone. Priests have their pet peeves, things they see from the front that makes them crazy. Sometimes we know what they are because they are preached upon, or they come up occasionally in the bulletin. Coming late, leaving early, sitting in the back, all manner of clothing issues, most of these are not sinful, most are the personal irritation of one priest or another, but they do come down to a question of respect.
What are mine? Well, I also have some that are personal peeves and two stand out (and grandparents, if you feel called to cut this column out and highlight this for the grandkids, feel free), the first is gum.
Chewing gum in church is wrong; it’s cell phone ringing, clipping your fingernails in the pews, wrong. Fresh breath is a virtue, but chomping on gum while praying at Mass is not.
The second is attire at weddings. I have a number of thoughts in this regard, but one stands out: unless he is under five years old, no male should wear shorts to a church wedding for any reason. A man invited to a wedding should take his cue from the groom. If the groom is going to be in a tuxedo, or in a suit, then a male guest to the wedding should at the very least tuck in his shirt, put on shoes that neither flip nor flop, and even wear a tie…yes, a tie.
Walking in the door of a wedding looking like you are taking a break from playing 18 holes to stop by is not being respectful to the couple, your fellow guests or the formality of the moment.
Those are two, and trust me, I have more, but those are the ones I have been noticing lately…noticing a lot.
While we may not have the tradition of long established etiquette, we do have the wonderful ability to stop and think and ask what is most respectful, and what would makes our mom’s most proud of us.
That, after all, is what ladies and gentlemen do.
Remember to look around and be amazed
Thursday, September 01, 2011
10:53 AM
A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to give a weekend retreat to the permanent deacons, and the deacon class, for the Diocese of Cheyenne, Wyoming. The retreat took place in the city of Thermopolis which is (if my non-existent Greek is correct) a hot city.
That might have something to do with the world’s largest natural hot spring on the edge of town.
It is also hot temperature-wise.
But it is also in the middle of some beautiful landscapes, and on the western side of the Big Horn Mountains. So as I drove there, this flat-lander had the chance to drive through the mountains. Ears popping as I climbed higher and higher, I was struck, as I often am, with how beautiful our little part of the world can be; and how quickly it changes from one landscape to another.
As they used to say, a land of infinite variety.
There was so much to see during this little trip, sights to make the long drive seem not quite as long. I had to stop and enjoy the beauty of a little lake hidden in a dark green valley. I had to enjoy the clouds which billowed and piled on top of each other, held back by a mountainous wall.
I even enjoyed the long, desert-like plains of eastern Wyoming, with its small, hard towns and oil pumps churning away.
We had a wonderful retreat, and the deacons, candidates and their wives were in good spirits and filled with a very good Spirit.
But among the sights I enjoyed during this wild west weekend, one sticks in my mind as most unique.
The church where we were holding the retreat was a few blocks from the hotel where we were staying, so I mostly walked there. One evening, making my way back in the early darkness of the Wyoming summer, I walked past the large brick complex which is the Hot Springs County High School.
As I walked past the parking lot something caught my eye. On the far end of the school was a back door with a large, florescent security light over it. It lit the area in warm yellow light and lit up the young man who was leaning against the wall next to the door.
Maybe it is too many years as pastor, and too many years having to keep an eye on a building that made me wonder what he was up to. As I walked by he took a few steps away from the door and then jumped.
Well, I can’t say he just jumped. He threw himself into the air and did a back flip, landed on his feet, did another standing back flip, then did a frontward flip. As his feet hit the ground, he fell forward and did two summersaults, jumped up and did another back flip.
Then he went into a handstand, took about 10 steps on his hands and then did five pushups…yes, pushups from a hand stand position.
After all this, he went back to the door and leaned against the wall again.
I was amazed and started walking again. But, this was just one of those times when I couldn’t just get back to what I was doing. I turned and started walking across the parking lot to the young man leaning against the wall.
As I got closer I could tell he was a little apprehensive about the man with the big backpack walking towards him. I can’t say that I blame him.
As I walked up to him I said, “I have no idea who you are, or what you are doing, but I just had to say that was dang impressive.”
At this point, seeing that I wasn’t crazy, or wasn’t going to yell at him, he smiled and said thanks. I put out my hand and said, “I’m serious, that was amazing.”
He told me it was because of “many years of practice” as he shook my hand.
I told him it was definitely paying off and he should keep up the good work. Again he smiled and thanked me, and I started back across the parking lot.
As I reached the end of the parking lot, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another back flip.
Now, I was thinking about something else as I walked. I thought about how little effort that took on my part, a lot of effort on his to perform some amazing gymnastics, but only a bit of effort, and a few extra steps, for me to encourage him and to acknowledge something wonderful.
As I walked those last few blocks I thought about how I sometimes forget to simply look around and be amazed by the wonderful things that life can present. I thought about how I can become so concerned about the next step, about looking one foot in front of me, that I forget how easy it is to lighten another’s day.
Each of us, through baptism, is called to be ministers of the Gospel. Each of us is called to be a person who brings light and hope and life to the world in which we live. In a society that is becoming increasingly polarized, uncivil, critical and rude, this ministry is needed more than ever.
Too often, we find it easy to speak the critical word, to allow the negativity around us to invade our way of living, to the point where we find it takes a great deal of effort to speak a word of joy, of hope, to simply encourage another person.
But we should try, try every day to do just that. Their body might not be able to do it, but I guarantee, in their heart, they will joyfully do a back flip.
It's like a dorm room, only holier
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
9:37 AM
The other day I was walking down the hall and I walked past the guest room. The door was open and I glanced inside. There, surrounded by stalagmites of boxes, books and bags, was my associate pastor, Father Kevin Doyle.
He had moved into the guest room in preparation for the arrival of Deacon Kristopher Cowles, who would be moving in to the associate’s quarters. Deacon Kristopher would serve as a deacon in our parish for a month before his ordination as priest.
Then he will return to us as our newly ordained associate. So, in the meantime, the parish is blessed to have a pastor, associate pastor, deacon and seminarian.
Which leads us back to the guest room where Father Kevin sits surrounded by boxes of all his belongings. It made me instantly think back to a July morning three years ago when I saw him climbing out of an old van, a box full of belongings in his arms, and we introduced ourselves.
Now, he is in the guest room as we prepared to welcome Deacon Kristopher and to introduce ourselves to him. First impressions might matter, and the introductions are important, but there is also this awareness that they are just one step on a long journey.
Father Mark Axtmann told me he had a suspicion he was going to be assigned to Christ the King Parish in Sioux Falls, when, one evening at Clergy Days, I sat down next to him, leaned over and said, “Say, you’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
He assured me he was not, and I said, “That's good, I’m Michael Griffin, by the way.”
Then we shook hands.
While I commended Father Mark for his astuteness to read through my cryptic message, he assured me it did not take a CIA agent to break the code. Not a bad introduction, actually.
It was not much different with Deacon Kristopher, except I had to ask if he was allergic to dogs. My goodness, so many changes in life.
Since I left the Newman Center and moved to Christ the King, I have had the privilege of working with three associate pastors, soon to be four, and I have found my relationships with them to be enlivening and challenging and, mostly, a great deal of fun.
Father Mark Axtmann, Father John Rasmussen, Father Kevin Doyle and (soon) Father Kristopher Cowles, have each been a blessing to me and to the parishes we serve. From personal experience I can testify that each is, in his own way, a wonderful expression of priesthood (or will be).
One day one of my sisters asked me a question. She wanted to know if I have ever really known any of my associates before they have moved in. I had to tell her truthfully that I had not.
She considered that a wonderful expression of faith, on both our parts. Until she asked the question, I never really had thought about it before. It is an act of faith, I suppose, but it is also expressive of something more.
It’s priesthood. It’s just the way it is.
These two priests who begin to live together have to do more than just rely on a common priesthood, they have to make peace with divergent understandings of liturgy, of church, of what it means to be a priest. This is not easy, but it is necessary.
An associate has to have the humility to allow himself to be mentored and to accept that seminary does not teach everything about being a priest. A pastor needs to have the humility to know that experience is not always wisdom, and sometimes the young dog can teach the old dog new tricks.
Really, I wear a cope at baptisms now.
Those are just the church related compromises, there are the multitude of things two people have to work out in order to make a rectory more than just a place where two priests live. You have to work out cooking and cleaning, and chores, and space, and TV habits and differing levels of acceptance regarding dirty dishes left on the coffee table.
But it is the intention, always, that we begin as brothers and become friends.
I can say that I have been blessed in that regard, that I have enjoyed the company of each associate I have had the privilege of serving with; and that each has taught me something wonderful about priesthood. They have been a support in trying times, and in times of great joy, well, I am grateful to God they have been there to share it with me.
I pray to always be so blessed whenever a new priest brother moves into the rectory and into my life.
As Keisha, our black lab, said when Deacon Kristopher moved in, “Look, its someone new,” and she wagged her tail.
She’s a smart girl.
Above the flood waters, there is hope, there is love
Friday, July 01, 2011
10:18 AM
When I was younger I was taught a valuable lesson from the farmer side of my family. I was told to never complain about moisture.
Well, more times than not, I have to admit it is easy to follow that advice. Sometimes when the snow is piling up and the shovel is getting heavier and heavier, I have let some complaints slip.
This spring has pushed that advice to the limit. In the cities of Pierre and Ft. Pierre, the water is everywhere, and the struggle along the swollen banks of the Missouri River is ongoing and heartbreaking.
For most of the last month I was in South Carolina for some training, and I followed the flood news as best I could. It was horrible to be so far away from my parish family while they endured so much. I knew I was where I needed to be, but that did not make the separation easier.
Through phone calls, text messages and the internet, I was made aware of the work that was going on, and the news both saddened and inspired me. I was so touched to see images and to hear about the hundreds of people who labored day and night to fill sand bags and to build the levees and berms that hold the water of the river back to this very day.
Now the rain is falling and through it all members of the South Dakota National Guard walk along the levees, day and night, patrolling, watching and keeping our city safe.
As I made my way back home, we flew over the city and I had my first look at the river. Flying over Farm Island State Park, I saw a grove a trees in the middle of the river and recognized the place where I had, just a few weeks before, take my dogs for a walk.
That path was about a quarter of the way into the river.
Driving through the city I saw sandbags everywhere and ample evidence of everyone’s effort to protect their neighbors. I also saw signs, many signs all over town thanking the volunteers for their hard work.
Then I started to hear the stories, the stories of how people went above and beyond the expected to help each other out, how so many worked to make sure the volunteers were fed with pizza and pies and cookies and sandwiches.
There are, all around us, a thousand expressions of the work done those days, the work that is still being done. There are the signs on the levees in front of home which make a quick joke to remind us that a sense of humor still makes a difference.
It is easy, actually too easy, to let all of these sights become a reminder of how tenuously the river is being held back, of how “not normal” this spring and summer are going to be. It is easy to allow these sights to become a cause of depression and even despair.
Or, these very same sights can be an expression of something more powerful. In the months ahead, it will be hard for most of us to not give in to depression and fear, but it will help if we see the sandbags and levees as a reminder of what it means to be a part of a community.
We can easily take one another for granted, or simply rely upon the mistaken belief that our own strength and ability will be enough to get us through the tough times. The people along the banks of the Missouri can no longer harbor such illusions.
They stood together, or would go underwater alone.
When the need was great, neighbor worked for neighbor. When the need was great no one said, I’m on a hill, I am safe and dry. When the need was great, citizens and citizen soldiers stood side by side; they still do.
This effort, of course, expresses more than just a community’s ability to work together, this effort is also an expression of the grace of God moving us beyond our own abilities to do something magnificent.
The Spirit of God, binding people together and reminding us all that we are not alone.
The signs are still there, all around us, the silent expressions of a community that went above and beyond; and silent expressions that still speak with the voice of God saying, simply, “Do not be afraid, I am with you.”
The end of the world, again and again and again
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
10:38 AM
Well, it is my understanding that the world was to end a few weeks ago.
If you are reading this then I will have to go with the assumption that it didn’t happen. If it did happen, I am pretty sure we are all enjoying ourselves in paradise and you may have found other things to do than to read this column.
I thought I would write it, just to be on the safe side.
Apparently there is a preacher from California who has done some math with the Bible and determined that May 21, 2011 was exactly 7,000 years since God commanded Noah to enter the ark, telling him that in seven days the flood would come.
Since the Bible also tells us that for God, each day is as a thousand years, this preacher has concluded that on the 7,000th anniversary of that event, the rapture will occur and the universe will be destroyed five months later.
Apparently this is what was suppose to happen, as he has been quoted: “When the clock says about 6 p.m., there’s going to be this tremendous earthquake that’s going to make the last earthquake in Japan seem like nothing in comparison. And the whole world will be alerted that Judgment Day has begun. And then it will follow the sun around for 24 hours. As each area of the world gets to that point of 6 p.m. on May 21, then it will happen there, and until it happens, the rest of the world will be standing far off and witnessing the horrible thing that is happening.”
If nothing else, it would be pretty dramatic. But then again, the end of all things usually is dramatic.
It had me thinking about the end of the world, but when I do that I usually do not think about it on a global, or even universal scale. I tend to think about it as it happens to us all, our own personal end of the world.
I was thinking about this very thing a few weeks ago as I was standing by the bedside of a sweet woman, surrounded by her family, as she was preparing to die. We had a conversation about death while she was still conscious a few days before and I was running through it in my mind.
She was, of course, nervous about dying. In the course of the conversation we began to speak about our births. Together we were reminded that, most likely, no baby warm and comfortable in the womb wants to be born. In those last few moments as the contractions begin to push this child out into a new world and a new life, there might be some moments and feelings of regret, of nervousness, of a desire to stay in the life that is the only one this child has ever known.
Yet, very soon this child, born and placed into a mother’s waiting arms, would never choose to go back.
Here there is light, and touch and love in abundance.
It is the end of the world, it is dramatic.
It is beautiful.
Sometimes, with all the news we read and hear, the images of destruction and storm and struggle, our minds begin to think that we are in the throes of the end. Sometimes I am even asked if I think there is a deeper meaning hidden in the events of the news.
My response is usually that we know not the day nor the hour, and that this lack of knowing can either paralyze us with fear, or become an invitation. The day will come when each of us will have to make that transition which the end of the world, the end of our world, demands. We know not the day nor the hour.
We can, however, practice for that great moment with the many opportunities given us on a regular basis in our lives.
Change is inevitable, transition is simply a part of life; as much as we may wish things to remain the same and to find some comfort in that soft stability, it cannot happen. As always, how we embrace the chance and accept the transition makes the difference.
We are called to be a people of faith. Our faith in the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth is meant to empower us, inspire us and even challenge us to understanding change and transition in a new way. Some will use “the end” and judgment to keep others afraid, thinking that this fear will assure morality, they focus on fire and destruction and wrath.
With that, every change and transition becomes a source of fear and anxiety, and we do not even have the comfort of knowing God’s love to endure it, we have been taught to fear Him and His wrathful judgment.
As this Easter Season 2011 draws to a close, we can allow the grace of these days to remind us that we do not have to fear the future, or its changes or its transitions. We know we are loved beyond measure and, for those who know this love, we move from grace to grace.
We may not see right away, but we have trust, and we believe in God’s love; that makes our future bright indeed.
As the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu said: “What the caterpillar calls the end, the rest of the world calls a butterfly.”
Pausing to remember before the book is put away
Monday, May 02, 2011
9:26 AM
A few days ago I had the great opportunity to celebrate the Rites and Liturgies of the Triduum for the 21st time. Of course, I, and all priests, look forward to those great days of renewal and mystery. It is such a blessing to gather with the People of God and to celebrate in word and in ritual the saving event of Christ’s death and resurrection.
This year, as we were praying and meditating and celebrating, I noticed the well worn red book I was using.
The Sacramentary in our parish, as in most parishes, is looking pretty beat up, because it is. Most of us should have replaced them years ago, but we haven’t. Every time we think about it, we remember that, for years now, we have been told a new translation of the Roman Missal was right around the corner.
So, rather than spend the money for a book we will only use a few years, we have made do.
Well, that new translation will begin on the First Sunday of Advent this coming year, and we will all have shiny new Missals from which to pray.
This is an exciting thing, and it is a great gift. Yet, as I was praying those prayers, so familiar and powerful, from the Triduum, I could not help but notice the worn book that held those prayers. I have been studying and praying the words from that Sacramentary since my first seminary days. It was that red book that lay upon the altar on my ordination day and it was the book I used the first time I had the privilege to celebrate the Eucharist as a priest.
Even before then, even before going to the seminary, this strange and wonderful book held a fascination for me. As a small boy I remember being interested in that book that seemed so mysterious, that only the priest was able to open and use.
When I was in college and helped to serve Mass, I would sometimes flip through the pages and think that all the words of the Mass, all the words I had heard for so many years, words so familiar and powerful, were right there.
Reading those words made me think of the time I had spent as a young boy, sitting in Church, hearing those words and trying to learn them, trying to give the right responses even before I could read them in the missalette. Some of the words I got wrong, most I got right, but I knew it was important to know them and to say them.
As I got older and could read along, I learned the words and even memorized them. I could give the proper responses from memory just like everyone else. It was an important time, a time when I didn’t just go to Mass anymore, but prayed and celebrated life with everyone else.
I had to learn those words and appreciate them as a part of preparation for my first Communion. From that moment on, even in the midst of teenage angst and rebellion, the words were there, they had become a part of me and a part of my spiritual life.
Years later, in the seminary, I had the opportunity to study those same words, learn their history, how they came to us and experience them in a new way. All in preparation for the day when I would be privileged to stand at the altar and speak the words I had heard for 27 years, words I had learned to respond to but could not speak. Now they were the words I spoke and others gave response.
But, in reality, it was not me speaking those words, and it never has been. To paraphrase Cardinal Avery Dulles, the Lord borrows my voice at that moment to speak the words.
And now we are just a few months away from putting away the book that held those words which the Lord spoke through me for the first time so long ago. As we move towards the new translation of the Roman Missal, I have been thinking a lot about things I have heard for years now about the Mass celebrated with that old, worn, red book.
I have heard people say it lacked mystery, subtlety, poetry. I have heard some few say it is an aberration, and some, fewer than that, say it is perhaps a perversion. When I hear things like this, I remember a simple truth about this Mass.
Although the Eucharist may be celebrated today in both an ordinary and an extraordinary form, although there will be a new translation to grace our celebrations in a few months, this simple truth remains.
And it will be the truth I will call to mind as I put the old, worn, red Sacramentary into the bookshelf, and why I will always honor it.
The simple truth is this: I fell in love with Jesus at this Mass.
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