Easter & Updike

An interesting piece from Religion & Ethics News Weekly:

On Easter and Updike
by David E. Anderson

Easter is not easy for most poets and writers, the difficult mystery of resurrection being more intractable than incarnation.

One of the best examples of the problem is perhaps the most famous Easter poem of the second half of the 20th century, John Updike’s “Seven Stanzas at Easter.” Updike identifies the difficulty in the opening line:

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

The crucial word in the center of the first line—if—states what might be called “the Easter problem” starkly, and Updike’s insistence on the orthodox doctrine of the physical, bodily reality of the resurrection, even when hedged with the doubting if, provides a succinct but apt statement of one of the key themes of his work—the terror of death and the search for some sense, some promise, of overcoming, and he will not brook any evasions:

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The tension between belief and doubt in the face of death, between faith and its opposite—certainty, and the need for resurrection run through all of Updike’s vast body of writing, from his early novels, stories, and poetry (“Seven Stanzas at Easter” was written in 1960, just a year after his first novel was published, and the poem was the winning entry in a religious arts festival sponsored by a Lutheran church on Boston’s North Shore) to his later work, including Due Considerations, his final collection of essays and criticism, and Endpoint, a posthumous book of poems published this month.

“Endpoint” does not directly address Easter, but its many meditations on Updike’s impending death—he died January 27 at the age of 76 and was battling cancer as he wrote many of the poems, specifically addressing his illness in a number of them—underscore the tension he wrestled with throughout his career between the fear of death and the hope for some kind of afterlife. In a poem entitled “Death of a Computer,” he writes of an old computer’s final crash and the “hopeful garble” on the monitor’s screen: “I in a spurt of mercy shut it down. / May I, too, have a stern and kindly hand / bestow upon my failing circuits peace.” In “Fine Point 12/22/08,” the last of the seventeen poems in the title sequence, he asks, “Why go to Sunday school, though surlily, / and not believe a bit of what was taught?” He praises Jews who “kept faith / and passed the prayers, the crabbed rites / from table to table as Christians mocked”:

We mocked but took. The timbrel creed of praise
gives spirit to the daily; blood tinges lips.
The tongue reposes in papyrus pleas,
saying, Surely—magnificent, that “surely”—
goodness and mercy shall follow me all
the days of my life, my life, forever.

Updike wrote in an early autobiographical essay, “The Dogwood Tree,” of his fascination with what he called “the three great secret things”—art, sex, and religion and how they combined and interacted in his artistic mission to “transcribe middleness with all its grits, bumps, and anonymities, in its fullness of satisfaction and mystery.” While the appreciations and obituaries that poured forth at his death duly noted how art, and especially sex, wove themselves into his work, few noted what British novelist Ian McEwan called Updike’s “religious seriousness,” his being “constitutionally unable to ‘make the leap of unfaith.’” . . .

read the rest here.

The complete "Seven Stanzas at Easter":

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

When I Think of Easter . . .

I remember Mayo Kikel.

Mayo was one of the first teachers I met when I visited Jesuit High in Tampa the Spring prior to starting work there in 2002. She impressed me with her conviction that God wanted her there. She could easily have worked at a school closer to where she lived, but instead she made the extra long trek to our school each day. I have only met a few teachers like her, so convinced that they were fulfilling a mission. When I began work at the school the next Fall, she quickly became one of my favorite colleagues.

This made it all the more difficult when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. We were already to chip in and fill in for her wherever needed. But, amazingly, even after she started the cancer treatments, she never missed a single day of work. It was what she lived for. And though it left her with little energy to do much else, she came back day after day. None of us would have faulted her for taking a day off, much less complaining, but she rarely did.

As Easter approached, she came to ask me a favor. I was the Director of Campus Ministry and was in charge of the program for our once-a-week morning convocations, when the whole school gathered in the chapel to begin the day. She told me how good the boys at the school had been to her, and she wanted to use the convocation just before the Easter break to thank them. What she wanted to do, she explained, was to sing a song, an Easter song. Now this was not without its risks. Such an endeavor at a school of some 650 boys was just as likely to invite ridicule, as it was reverence. We talked about this, but she was determined. So we made plans.

When the day came, I stood up at the podium and said, "Mrs. Kikel has told me how wonderful you all have been to her during her illness, and she asked if she could do something to thank you." The music began.

The song she sang was told from the perspective of Peter, beginning with a Peter all too aware of how he had failed Jesus. And, now that Jesus was dead, there would be no opportunity to make amends. Then it took up where our Easter Gospel reading began, with Mary come to announce that Jesus had been taken from the tomb. Peter runs to the tomb, John running up ahead. They find the burial cloths set aside, and Jesus missing, and they begin to realize what has happened. In the song Peter exclaims, "He's alive!" "He's alive!" "He's alive and I'm forgiven. Heaven's gates are open wide!" "He's alive!" "He's alive!" The song built until Mayo sang out the final, "He's aaaalive!" And then something happened which even now when I think about it inspires tears. Immediately and without hesitation, every boy in that chapel stood up and applauded.

We speak a lot in our Jesuit boys' schools about being "men for others," and I have yet to see a better example of that than I did on that day. When we speak about Easter, we speak about everything being made new because of what Jesus did for us, and because God raised him from the dead. Things were made new for me that day. No matter what they did after that day, I could never quite see those boys in the same way again. They had stepped up when it was most important. And I can never think of Easter without thinking of Mayo Kikel who because of her humility, faith and courage was able to inspire such a moment.

Mayo beat the cancer, but was stricken just a couple years later with a rare disease which took her from us. But I will never forget her. Few people in my life have exemplified as well as her what Easter is all about.

Watch Your Metaphors

Friday morning I joined some ministry colleagues for a Good Friday service at an assisted living facility. It was my my job to give a brief reflection after some readings from the Passion. I began by saying "today we are invited to stand at the foot of the cross with Jesus . . ." To which one of the people attending replied incredulously, "You want us to stand?!" "No, please don't," I replied quickly, not completely holding back a laugh, "I was just speaking metaphorically."

I'm Not So Sure About This

I don't want to think about it too much, but somehow it seems to miss the point.

(Though maybe you could combine it with a car wash to raise money for the youth group!!)

Holy Thursday

Today I received an e-mail from someone thanking me for being a priest. I'm not always sure how to respond to such gratitude, for how often do we thank others for answering God's call to their particular vocation? I generally don't see my choice as any more heroic than that, for example, of the parent who serves God by devoting his or her life to children and family. Nevertheless, since I know that a priest can be taken for granted by his church or congregation just as easily as a parent might be by his or her children, it is nice to receive thanks now and then. So, perhaps in humility it's better not to overthink such things.

And, indeed, it is Holy Thursday, a day when priests are invited to give thanks for the privilege of serving the people of God as we do. Lest we become too impressed with ourselves it's also the day on which, according to Jesus' injunction, we wash others' feet. Especially on my first Maundy Thursday as a priest, it reminds me of an important moment in the realization of my own vocation which I wrote of some years ago:

Did I do what? I stopped and looked at her ugly, twisted old woman's feet and I thought no, absolutely not! But I hardly had time to think about what I was doing when I saw my hands reaching for those feet because I realized something else. If my answer was not yes, then it was time for me to leave all this and go home. Because if I couldn't do this, then I couldn't possibly be a Jesuit, I couldn't possibly be a priest. Because what I was trying to be, what I had to be, was someone who does rub feet. I would be a fraud if Jesus couldn't say to me on that final day, "I was dying and you rubbed my feet."

You can read the complete article here.

Abandoned & Forsaken

Some stories for Palm Sunday:

Theologian Jurgen Moltmann found his faith and his vocation during World War II. A soldier with the German Air Force, he was captured and brought to Scotland as a prisoner of war. He describes his worst day in the prison camp:

“And then came what was for me the worst of all. In September 1945, in Camp 22 in Scotland, we were confronted with pictures of Belsen and Auschwitz. They were pinned up in one of the huts, without comment . . . slowly and inexorably the truth filtered into our awareness, and we saw ourselves mirrored in the eyes of the Nazi victims. Was this what we had fought for? Had my generation, as the last, been driven to our deaths so that the concentration camp murderers could go on killing, and Hitler could live a few months longer? Some people were so appalled that they didn’t want to go back to Germany ever again. Later they stayed on in England. For me, every feeling for Germany, the so-called sacred ‘Fatherland’, collapsed”

In the midst of his despair, an army chaplain gave him a Bible to read:

“I read it without much comprehension, until I stumbled upon the psalms of lament . . . They were the words of my own heart and they called my soul to God. Then I came to the story of the passion, and when I read Jesus’ death cry, ‘My God, why have you forsaken me?’, I knew with certainty: this is someone who understands you. I began to understand the assailed Christ because I felt that he understood me: this was the divine brother in distress, who takes the prisoners with him on his way to resurrection. I began to sum up the courage to live again, seized by a great hope . . . Christ’s God-forsakenness showed me where God is, where he had been with me in my life, and where he would be in the future”

Elizabeth Johnson, reflecting on Dietrich Bonhoeffer's words in his prison journal, "Only a suffering God can help," relates this story from Margaret Spufford:

“Closer to the point is the reflection of another woman who spent endless days and nights on a hospital ward with her tiny, sick daughter, helping the nurses with the other babies when she could. It was a dreadful exposure to the meaningless suffering of the innocent. ‘On those terrible children’s wards,’ she writes, ‘I could neither have worshipped nor respected any God who had not himself cried out, “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Because it was so, because the creator loved his creation enough to become helpless with it and suffer in it, totally overwhelmed by the pain of it, I found there was still hope.’ This is one way the symbol of a suffering God can help: by signaling that the mystery of God is here in solidarity with those who suffer”

Angry Mass

I've already had plenty of experiences of "sleepy mass," and only a few instances of, thank God, "totally uninspired" mass (I'm talking about my own masses, not those presided over by other priests), but today was my first experience of "angry" mass.

I'll explain. If you made it to mass today, you'll know that the readings were the story of Susannah, from the Book of Daniel, and the story of the woman caught in adultery, from the Gospel of John. As I considered what to say in my homily this morning, I realized that there was no way around it--today's readings definitely had something to say about injustice against women. To avoid the issue, as some might have, seemed to me to be ignoring the elephant in the room. Today's readings clearly had something to say to use about gender justice, and the injustice perpetrated against women by abuse of power and sinful double standards. That's what I spoke about in my homily. I admitted that I myself haven't exactly been the best advocate of gender justice, and have been known to roll my eyes at academic discussions of the evils of patriarchy, but that it was clear in these two readings that gender justice is something we are meant to be concerned about. We are called, like Daniel, not to stand idly be but to speak up when we see injustice being perpetrated against women. And, we are challenged by Jesus to examine the ways in which our own attitudes and opinions ignore such abuses of power, and conform to sinful double standards. And while we can often point to more egregious examples of injustice and violence against women in other countries, that shouldn't prevent us from recognizing that there is plenty happening here, right in our own communities.

Honestly, this was a bit out of my comfort zone, and so I was pretty nervous. I wasn't sure how people would react. I was pleased with the homily, though it took a lot out of me. And, as I reflected for a few moments afterward, I was confident that what I had said indeed reflected God's concern.

And that was why I was so appalled and angered by the prayers of the faithful! Now, they come from a book which the parish bought, so no one there is to blame, but I couldn't believe that after I had said all that, the first prayer was for "our bishops, priests, and deacons." And it only got worse. There was not a single mention of women, never mind injustice against women. I wanted to scream! Instead, I did the more genteel thing, and added my own prayer at the end for women who are victims of sexual abuse and violence. I wonder if I should have said something more, but I always want to be careful not to distract people from the liturgy of the Eucharist (and I'd already said quite a bit). And, hey, I'm saying something more now.

But I was distracted, and I wondered if people noticed that I was angered by how the prayers had indeed managed to ignore the elephant in the room. I couldn't help but wonder if that was a deliberate omission, and whether the people who wrote the prayers had considered how out of sync that first prayer was likely to be with many a homily today. Sometimes at mass I'm taken by how well the prayers, usually written independently of me, fit with the subject of my homily. And sometimes when they don't, I wonder if I missed something. But today was the first time that I felt the prayers didn't seem to get it at all; that it wasn't me who missed something. I'm certainly going to mention this to the pastor. Maybe it's time to get a new prayer book.

But it was a strange experience to be praying the prayers while I was angry. And though we had a long first reading, in which case I would sometimes pray the shorter Eucharistic Prayer II, I deliberately avoided that Eucharistic prayer today, because it is less inclusive, and most strikingly only prays for the Pope, Bishop and all the clergy when that time comes. There aren't the prayers for all who have been called to Christ's friendship and the family gathered, as there are in other Eucharistic prayers. I also found myself becoming much more conscious of the gender language in the prayers than I usually am. That doesn't mean you're going to find me praying to God the Mother, or anything like that, but I did feel compelled to pay more attention.

One person came and thanked me after Mass. I wonder what the others thought. Perhaps for some it was a bit too much for a Monday morning, but it's certainly got me thinking, as you can tell. Hopefully, they are thinking about it too.

And, you too.

Confirmation

Before I became a Jesuit I worked in a parish where one of my duties was to coordinate the Confirmation program. I think we did a pretty good job. I tried to emphasize to the students that Confirmation was something they should do if they wanted to, not just because everyone else, or because that's what their parents wanted. That usually didn't make much difference, but at least I said it. Still, I had the consolation of knowing that the students had learned something. I also had a sense that most of them and their families came to church on a fairly regular basis. There weren't so many, though indeed a few, whom after confirmation I never saw again.

This year I had my first experience of concelebrating a Confirmation mass as a priest. We had dinner before hand with the Bishop. Someone asked what percentage of those to be confirmed came to church on a regular basis. The shocking answer was "15, maybe 20 percent"! I wish the question had never been asked, because I couldn't put it out of my mind. I looked out at all the young people--and there were quite a few--out there with there sponsors and families, dressed in their nice robes, and I thought: What are we doing? Is this all just playacting? Why are we going through all the motions if most of the people here really aren't serious about what's going on; If they have no intention of taking their place as adult members of the Church? Can't we do better than this?

Many people would probably tell you that no, we can't. But we have to.

I think we are on the verge of a real vocation crisis, a vocation crisis that has nothing to do with people choosing to be priests or religious. It is much more fundamental than that. It has do with people choosing a vocation to a life of faith, a life in the Church. I'm not a pessimistic person, but it just seems like going through the motions and hoping for the best, just isn't going to cut it. We have to find a way to show young people why they should want to choose a life for Christ. Being a confirmed Catholic out to be something they aspire to, something they get excited about, something that is just the beginning, not the welcome end to tedious CCD classes or parental pressure.

Yeah, we should hope for the best. But how do we help those hopes be realized?

Searching for Some Good Films?

Check out this interesting Catholic Top 100 film list!
It's not all saccharine, sappy films--The Godfather and Groundhog Day are up there among the best!

First Confessions

I wasn't too serious--or mean. I tried my best to put them at ease. "God is happy that you are here," I told them. Nevertheless, they were nervous. The girls, especially, couldn't sit still. So, I didn't keep them long. Some of them seemed unsure what to confess. So, I helped them along, hoping to get at least one sin out of them, so I could give them absolution and let them go!

It was a good experience. And, hopefully, they found it a nice enough experience that they might come back soon, and not wait until Confirmation!

Sorry for the long absence. I'm hoping not to be gone so long again.

Another First

Tomorrow I'm helping with First Confessions for the first time.

I've been duly advised -- Don't Laugh!


So, I'll be putting my serious face on.

Contribute to a Legacy, and Get Something for Yourself and a Friend

Michael Dubruiel, Catholic author and husband of well-known Catholic blogger/author Amy Welborn, died suddenly this week. Please pray for Amy and her family.

Amy and Michael have contributed a lot to our Church community, so many are wondering how to give back. Amy has suggested that people purchase Michael's books, especially The How-To Book of the Mass, the proceeds from which are designated for the children's college fund.




As a new priest, I know that we can all use a little help from time to time to deepen our understanding and experience of our participation in the Mass, and other sacraments like confession. Michael's work was dedicated to helping us do just that.

So, today I bought two copies each of Michael's How-To Book of the Mass, and his A Pocket Guide to Confession. I'll keep one copy of each in my library, and give the other two away.

It seems to me this is a great way to enrich your faith life, that of a friend, and help out a family in need at the same time. If you're able, I encourage you to do the same.

But, most importantly, keep Amy and her family in your prayers.

Story, Authority and Hard-Heartedness

My homily from this past Sunday:

If you are familiar with the stories of fantasy epics like The Lord of the Rings, or the Chronicles of Narnia, or even the Matrix, you already know something about the background of today’s readings. The stories open in a dark time, a time when the glories of the past are a distant memory, and the future is uncertain. Some believe that there is someone who will come to make everything right again. Others believe that such beliefs are nothing but false hope. Those who exercise authority all seem flawed. It’s hard to know who to trust. The best thing to do might be just to look out for yourself and make the most of the time you’ve been given. But some look to the prophecies and promises of the past, and see a new hope unfolding.

Our readings today inspire similar sentiments. And this is not just any story. It’s our story. God speaks to us first through the person of Moses, who tells God’s chosen people, “A prophet like me will the Lord, your God, raise up for you among your own kin; to him you shall listen.” This is just the beginning of the epic story of our ancestors in the faith told to us in the Old Testament. In each generation after Moses, a prophet like him is called forward to be the “new Moses,” and it is by means of that prophet that God continues to speak to his people. Two weeks ago we heard the story of the calling of Samuel, one of the many prophets who would act as Moses’ successor among the Jewish people. Yet, it was also around the time of Samuel that the people asked for more. They looked at the other nations around them and told God that they wanted a king, like them. God warned them that this was not a good idea, but they insisted and God gave them a king. Among the many problems this new situation posed was that of conflicting authority. Though the prophet was often called upon to advise the king, there was often a difference of opinion as to who had the greater authority. Those who know the story of King David and Bathsheba know that when the king abused his authority in having Bathsheba’s husband killed, Samuel’s successor the prophet Nathan was sent by God to tell him so. Eventually such tensions tore the kingdom into two, and the prophets and the kings stopped coming.

So, just as Gondor suffered a period without a king, and Narnia suffers numerous times from the absence of the hero Aslan, so the Jewish people endured a dark time during which the promised prophets were called no longer. This is where we find ourselves at the beginning of Mark’s gospel today. We get the sense that there are those who have been long on the lookout for something new, searching for that new voice of authority that they don’t hear in their church leadership. And suddenly Jesus appears and there is something different about him. He not only inspires one to listen, but even evil spirits obey his authority. As the citizens of Middle Earth suspect that in Aragorn they are witnessing the return of the king, so the Jewish people suspect that this new teaching with authority in Jesus marks the return of the new Moses among them. But as is true of all such stories, those in authority will resist allowing an unknown to take their place, even if they suspect themselves that he may be genuine. In the Lord of the Rings, for example, Denethor, who has long served as protector of Gondor in the absence of the king, seems to recognize Aragorn’s legitimacy as king but in his pride, and desperation over the death of his son, will not allow his authority to be taken from him. I imagine it is true also that many of the Scribes and Pharisees sensed Jesus’ true authority, but could not accept the loss of their own. Because of this they became deaf both to the voice of the first Moses, and to the new Moses.

But what about now? After the life, death and resurrection of Jesus where do we find ourselves in the continuing drama of our relationship with God? Today’s second reading from the letter of St. Paul doesn’t seem to be of much help, and it shouldn’t be. St. Paul didn’t expect things were going to get too complicated after Jesus, because he thought Jesus would return in his lifetime. This is why he tells the Corinthians not to worry about complicating their lives too much. Well, here we are 2000 years later, and things can get pretty complicated whether you are married or not! And many of us are asking once again: where do we find those teachings with authority, that speak to us the way Jesus spoke to the people of his time?

Well, we first ought to admit to ourselves that as 21st century Americans we have a somewhat complicated relationship with authority. We are brought up in a culture that values individualism and self-determination, and thus tends to be suspicious—if not contemptuous—of authority. So, as a result, we tend to go to extremes. Either we decide that authority is authority, and if some person or institution has it, then we ought to obey whatever they say. Or we take an attitude that authority is only worth listening to if it fits with what I believe or tells me to do something that I want to do. Both these approaches, I believe amount to what today’s Psalm calls a “hardening of heart.” There is no true attention to the voice of authority, because one’s response is already pre-determined. There can also be a worse hardening when those in authority disappoint us; it may be that we decide that they are not worth listening to at all. But this is not faithful to our story, a story in which through the centuries we have recognized that God has indeed spoken through fallible human beings, people that have both made mistakes and spoken in prophetic ways on behalf of God. This is why both blind obedience to and blind contempt of authority miss the mark. Like the people of Jesus’ time we are called to be on the lookout for those “new teachings, with authority,” that is, the voice of Jesus speaking through both those who have institutional authority and those who have authority merely by the example of their holy lives. We must listen for the voice of Jesus in our midst, and heed the command of the psalm: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.”

Farewell to an American Icon

John Updike, 1932-2009

"He captured the sensations at our eyelashes and fingertips, and the internal lightning of plans and arguments we make behind our faces, with a vividness that borders on religion. He once said he felt free to write as honestly as he did, because he believed 'God already knows everything anyway and cannot be shocked. And only truth can be built upon.'"

read more

76 years of life, 60 books

May he rest in peace.

Gotta stop being THAT guy

My apologies for the long absence. My homily for today will give you some sense of why. Also had a death in the family, beginning of school, etc. Posts will be less frequent until I get a couple of things finished. Hope you are having a blessed new year!

I have two major projects that I’m working on these days, both of which I promised to finish, both of which are almost done, and both of which are now seriously overdue. I have become identified in my mind, and in the mind of some others, as the guy who hasn’t finished. And it really doesn’t make sense that these things have been so hard to finish. And I know that my life would be a lot more stress-free if they were done. Yet I realized recently that one of the problems is that now I’m so used to being the guy who hasn’t finished those things, it’s becoming harder for me to imagine myself as the guy who has. Yet, if I really want to move on in my life, I know that at some point—some time soon—I have to stop being that guy.

Today we celebrate the feast of the conversion of St. Paul. And what I have just described is a dynamic in life which many of us experience. The difficulty of leaving behind the person who we are now in order to become the person that we want to be. In a word, conversion. It might not be so apparent in Paul’s case that this is what he wanted to be. He was persecuting Christians, so how can we say that he wanted to become one. It wasn’t as if he had a secret desire to be like the people he was persecuting. It was rather that he was someone who desired to serve God with great zeal. This is why God chose him. But in order to serve God as he was chosen to, he first needed to meet Christ, as Scripture tells us he did on the road to Damascus. He realized in that encounter that he could no longer be the person he was, that God was calling him to be somebody new, a change symbolized by the changing of his name from Saul to Paul. When we encounter Christ, as we do in our worship today, we should expect that we’ll have a similar experience.

But how do we discover what God wants us to be? And how do we find the strength to become somebody new, barring a mystical experience at the road side? It can be so much easier to stay who we are, even if we know it’s not who we want to be. However, if we look at today’s readings we see people willing to change radically, to upend their lives, and become somebody new. But what does it take to get them to change? For the Ninevhites, it takes a prophet screaming in their streets promises of death and destruction from God. This, we know from Scripture, is a pretty effective way to bring about transformation. It didn’t take long for the Ninevhites to repent. But, for most of us these days, threats of divine destruction are difficult to be motivated by, and the hope of heaven tends to be more persuasive than the threat of Hell, even though a healthy fear of the loss of heaven might not be such a bad thing to have. For Simon, Andrew, James and John, the motivation seems to come easy, just meeting Jesus seems to be motivation enough to leave everything behind and to follow him. But we seem a bit lacking in credible prophets of heavenly doom these days. And Jesus isn’t walking the streets and inviting us to come along. So, where do we find the inspiration to shed that person we have been for too long, and to become the person God wants us to be?

Saint Paul is a pretty good guide for such things. It’s worth taking the time to sit down with your Bible and read his letters. He’s writing to real people in real life situations, like us. In his writings we find down to earth assessments of the challenges of being human—“Why don’t I do the things I want to, and do the things I don’t want,” he asks, for example. And, unlike the other Apostles, who had the benefit of knowing Christ during his lifetime, his is a post-resurrection perspective like ours. He invites us to be made strong in weakness by not trying to do everything by our own power, but instead seeking the help of God’s grace, and the grace of the Holy Spirit. And in today’s reading from his letter to the Corinthians, he speaks with urgency, and advises things which might strike us as rather odd. How and why would those with spouses act as if they didn’t have them? He isn’t telling those who are married to embrace the single life again. What he’s saying, rather, is what he discovered on the road to Damascus, that having come to know Christ and the truth about how Christ saved us, one can never again primarily identify him or herself as somebody’s wife or husband, child or friend. One no longer be the person who is always sad, or always happy. Instead, Christ calls us to give these things second place to the new identities we must embrace. The change that is required is seeing ourselves primarily as the person who is saved by and follows Christ and who, putting aside the comfortable and familiar, risks the unknown demands of our new lives.

So, as we continue our prayer today, I invite you to ask yourselves. Have you, like me, become too comfortable with being that person, the person hasn’t finished things, the person I’ve been for thirty years, the person everybody else expects me to be. If so, let us together pray for the help of the Holy Spirit to put those behind us, put Christ first in our lives, and be what we are called to be—disciples like Simon, Andrew, James, John and Paul.

Blessings for Christmas

May God bless you and your families this Christmas, and in the new year!

Just Because . . .

Fourth Sunday of Advent

Here's the question from today's readings:

Are you going to build the temple (even if that's not what God wants?)?

or

Are you going to be the temple?

Remembering Avery Cardinal Dulles

Fr. James Martin reminisces and offers a fine tribute to our recently deceased brother, Cardinal Avery Dulles:

Given his lightheartedness, it seemed appropriate that, in 2001, during the Vatican ceremony when he was made a cardinal, Pope John Paul II placed the customary red biretta on Avery's head, and it toppled into the pope's lap. No one enjoyed telling that story more than the new cardinal. And he enjoyed recounting a tale from his Navy days, when as officer of the watch, he ordered his ship to fire on a German U-Boat in the Caribbean. When dawn came, Ensign Dulles realized that had bombarded a coral reef.

read the whole thing here.

I ran into Avery Dulles shortly after he was made a cardinal. There had been a piece on him in the New York Times magazine earlier that week. I told him I enjoyed the piece. He laughed, as he often did, and then became a bit indignant. "That last part about the subway token. It never happened," he said. "The reporter just made it up." As usual, he had found a way not to be too impressed with himself.

Not Iggy Pop

I knew I liked Cate Blanchett for some reason besides the fact that she's one of the most talented actresses in film today. She also has three children, the youngest of whom is named, "Ignatius." Why? She explains:

Cate also denied she and Andrew chose the name Ignatius for their baby as a tribute to outrageous rocker Iggy Pop, insisting it is in honor of Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus.

She explained to Interview magazine: "Of course one thinks of Iggy Pop. But it's Ignatius Loyola."

I'm not so sure about, "Of course one thinks of Iggy Pop." But, then again, I belong to the Society of Jesus!

Death and New Life

It's been a draining few days on the priesthood front, but also days filled with consolation. On Thursday I flew to Tampa to say goodbye to my good friend Joe. It wasn't exactly how I'd envisioned our next meeting. But it was good to celebrate his life with so many others whose lives he had touched over the years. Over 600 people turned out for the funeral. What an honor, too, to be able to concelebrate his funeral mass. It was beautiful, and finished with a moving procession outside the chapel and down the drive of the high school, where people lined either side holding candles. It was exactly the kind of thing Joe would have done for somebody else (though it might not have been as well organized!). On Thursday night, I sat with a group of Jesuits and reminisced about our times with Joe. It was exactly what I needed. I got a good night's sleep, and then headed back home.

Today, I had the joy of beginning marriage preparation with a couple whose wedding I will witness next Fall. What an honor too to be with them as we discuss preparations for their new life together. I look forward to the coming months, getting to know them better, and helping them to get to know each other better, and what marriage will mean for them.

These are the privileged moments, both sad and happy, that are among the blessings of being a priest. Then there is also the mixed blessing of having the 8:00 am mass tomorrow morning. Time to go finish my homily . . . (I wonder if they'll have any rose vestments)

Road Signs

Most of my life as a Jesuit has involved living quite close to where I've worked and or studied. So, the recent move of our school to Brighton, while remain living here in Cambridge, has forced upon us the new reality of being commuters. This means I'm spending more time driving than I normally do. And, that I'm doing so in Boston. Normally, I don't mind driving. But a single trip in this city is rarely without its tense moments, near misses or near-death experiences. The one exception is Sunday morning, when things are magically quiet and sedate on the roads. I notice that the stress of driving here means that it is the time when I'm most easily annoyed, and it's not hard to find things to be annoyed about. The other day I thought it might be nice to have a set of placards to hold up for other drivers at such moments. They would say things like:

SHUT UP AND DRIVE
(or the more polite version I saw recently: Hang up and drive)

GOT TURN SIGNALS?

APPLY BRAKES AT STOP SIGNS

NOPE, WAY BEYOND YELLOW

PICK A LANE

and for bikers:

THE RULES APPLY TO YOU TOO

HELP ME OUT, I'D RATHER NOT BE THE INSTRUMENT OF YOUR DEATH TODAY

(yeah, I realize that one's kinda long)

But mostly, SHUT UP AND DRIVE would probably take care of most of it.

I'd probably still be stressed, and this would probably prompt some creative gestures, still I think it would help me feel a little better.

Or maybe I'll just get one of these:

Liturgical Pet Peeves: The Mouth-Wipe

Spoiler alert: Once you become conscious of this, it might drive you crazy. So continue to read at your own peril.

Recently after breaking up a fight about liturgical colors on my Facebook page, I was chastised by one of my Facebook friends for not using the moment to speak out against "liturgical abuses." Putting aside the fact that I really hadn't researched whether or not dark blue was approved in the U.S. for Advent or not, and that I'd never seen anyone even wear a dark blue vestment during Advent, I really didn't see it as my duty to serve as the liturgical abuse policeman at that moment. Besides, people treating each other with Christian charity is of far greater concern to me than what color Fr. Joe the Plumber chooses to wear at mass on the Second Sunday of Advent. I have limited tolerance for such conversations, and I'm also concerned that for some looking out for "liturgical abuses" can become an unhealthy obsession. It can cause one to forget the reason they might have become concerned about such things in the first place--the importance of the Eucharist.

That said, there is something, not quite an abuse, but more of a bad habit, that I might be willing to mount a campaign against. It involves the misuse of the purificator. Living in a community of priests, or concelebrating mass, one often finds oneself faced with this. The presiding priest drinks the wine, and before handing the purificator and wine off to be shared, wipes his mouth with the purificator! Now, that same purificator which he just slathered his germs all over, will be used to wipe the cup after each person has received the wine, making the practice seem somewhat pointless. Little wonder than that so many people choose to forego the cup. I know that I consider the possibility after witnessing this, but I usually don't have much of a choice.

However, this is all just another reminder of what I realize even more clearly now as a priest. Those searching for that perfect liturgical experience are headed for a life filled with despair. Despite my best efforts, my masses are rarely as perfect as I would like them to be. Already I know that I have inadvertently worn the wrong color, left out a prayer or two, used vessels that are illicit according to the GIRM, etc. Part of this is the reality of being a religious priest and not having control over the norms of the particular parish where you are saying mass. Unless the local variants are particularly egregious, I really don't have much say about how the externals of the mass go (my job is not to go into somebody else's parish and tell them how they should be doing things). Most of this, on the other hand, is just a matter of being human. We all make mistakes, and we do interpret what is permitted and what is desirable a little bit differently. Sometimes the norms are not so clear, and even seem to contradict each other (the GIRM and one of the major documents on the liturgy, for example, seem to say different things about what kind of bread should be used at mass). Though there are some priests out there who clearly just do their own thing, most of us are trying our best.

Though, admittedly, I wish some would try a little harder not to use the purificator to wipe their mouth! Nevertheless I do take care to try not to let that distract me from what is really important at that moment--the Eucharist.

What I Did During Summer Vacation

Back in August, I helped with a great young adult retreat at our retreat house in Atlanta. One of the people on the retreat wrote an article about the retreat house, and even quoted me (though it's not the most interesting thing I've ever said)!

Ignatius House Offers Spiritual Getaway Close to Home
by Amy Wenk

November 28, 2008

Everyday life features so many distractions — gridlocked traffic, unending e-mail, the blaring television, chatty co-workers — that little time remains for personal reflection.

A nearby place offers a timeout — a spot to slow down, contemplate in silence and improve your spiritual well-being.

The Ignatius House Jesuit Retreat Center is far from the noise of daily life yet close to home in Sandy Springs. The center is on 20 acres off Riverside Drive, perched on a bluff overlooking the Chattahoochee River.
"The Ignatius House provides such a unique atmosphere, it is hard to ignore the beauty and tranquility that you find here," said Atlanta resident Christine Smith, who first took a respite at the center in August 2007. "Every time I leave, I am blessed with a new sense of perspective and optimism about myself, my life and my relationship with God and others . . .


Read the rest here.

Joe's Next Assignment

I lived and worked with Joe for a year. During that time we became very close. Then and since we have talked about many things. He once very earnestly said to me, "Mark, promise me you'll never let them name anything after me." I said that I'd do my best. But I expect it will be difficult. He was the president of Jesuit High School in Tampa for more than a decade, despite the fact that he wasn't really the school president "type." It took a lot out of him. Yet, he didn't let the job define him. He made it his own. He spent less time at fundraisers and with benefactors than most presidents, and in many ways acted as more of a spiritual leader (when he wasn't butting heads with people). He called himself "head of maintenance." And this wasn't as false a humility as some surely thought. Joe was forceful in his convictions, but always aware that he might need to ask forgiveness for being found to be wrong. And though he knew himself not to be the president type, he left a considerable legacy nonetheless, especially in his transformation of the school's physical plant and facilities. Maybe "head of maintenance" wasn't so far off the mark.

Joe and I sometimes spoke of our respective futures. I'm not sure Joe was always sure I would cut it as a priest. He thought, as others have, that I would also be a good husband and parent (I would remind him that the two were not necessarily mutually exclusive). And, as close as we were, my year of working with him was not without its tensions, and failures on my part. Yet, I could always be honest and frank with him in ways I couldn't be with others, and he never held my failures against me. As for Joe's future, he hoped the end of his tenure as president would come soon (it took another five years). And even then, in the ministry he was doing off campus, he was noticing the great consolation he received from accompanying several friends in their final days. He thought for his next assignment he might like to do something like that, working as a hospice chaplain or something along those lines. I looked forward to seeing him do that. I knew he would be great at it.

But then came the stroke toward the end of his tenure as president just 8 months ago, from which he'd been recovering ever since. When I last saw him he was complaining that he'd probably have to continue his rehabilitation through November, which he did. Then, just weeks ago he got away to make a return visit to Tampa. There he fell ill once again, and enjoyed the consolation of brother Jesuits being there for him in his final days, before moving on to his next assignment. Already, I am sure, he is praying for us all.

Thanks to Joe

In an October 2004 America magazine article, Robert Maloney writes:

I entered St. Peter’s Basilica yesterday just after the gates swung open at seven in the morning and found myself drawn to the altar of Blessed John XXIII. Each day a priest preaches there who does everything wrong and everything right. He didn’t disappoint me. Having once taught homiletics, I’m terribly critical of him. In yesterday’s brief homily he mentioned Michelangelo, the Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno, Moses, Aaron, Jesus, of course, and Catherine of Siena. Unity, the lesson I used to drill into my students, is surely not his strength.

But I go to St. Peter’s to listen to him again and again, because, apart from all the rules he breaks, he does everything right. Today I noticed how he prayed before he preached, his head bowed reverently. His love for God’s word radiated as soon as he launched into the homily. As he spoke, I saw that he had prepared well, meditating on the Scriptures. In spite of all his digressions, some of which were intriguing, his main point hit me forcefully.



I remember smiling when I read it. I knew that priest. No, not that priest precisely. But another who fit the description. I forwarded the article to my friend Fr. Joe Doyle, S.J., noting "when I read this I thought of you." Joe's masses were like a circus. His homilies would be all over the place, he would randomly call people up to the altar ("everyone over 65 come on up"), he would single people out and talk to them, reminisce about experiences when he taught their parents, while some of the more liturgically astute would cringe at his rather loose sense of the rubrics. Yet, his masses never failed to inspire, even if as an aspiring priest you knew you would never say mass that way. Often people would say they were the best masses they'd ever been to. And, on a personal level, Joe would never fail to remind you that he loved you. At the same time, he was no teddy bear. He could be as stubborn as hell. But it was always in the service of what he thought to be the right thing, even if it meant sometimes people thought him unreasonable (and sometimes they were right). Yet no one was as aware of his limitations as Joe was, he prayed always that God would help him to be better. Though as a priest there are many ways I don't resemble Joe (my masses are a bit more sedate and generally stick to the rubrics), I hope in those important ways, the ways in which he did "everything right," I one day will.

I received news of Joe's passing this afternoon. I regret we didn't have the opportunity to have that one last conversation. But I'm glad he was able to be there with me on the day of my ordination and a couple of days later, when I last saw him. We talked for a few minutes and he insisted on a few pious gestures from the new priest, both awkward and special. Now it's my turn to ask him: Joe, pray for me.

Jesuits on the Frontiers

My latest article, a reflection on the work of the Jesuits' recent General Congregation in light of "postmodern" challenges, has finally been published! (I wrote it almost five months ago) It's a bit "Jesuity," as it is addressed to Jesuits, but I think it also offers some insights for a wider audience. It appears in the 100th issue of the Jesuit journal, Promotio Iustitiae, along with several other articles written in a similar vein. I chose to focus on a concept of "frontiers," a concept which showed up both in the congregation documents, and in the Pope's address to the congregation. Here's a little bit of what I had to say about one of the frontiers closest to my heart:

. . .There is a deeper “vocation” crisis than simply the decrease in those answering the call to priesthood and religious life. An increasing number of young people are not even realizing their vocation to a life of faith in Christ and participation in the Church. None of us can afford to ignore the call to this frontier.
There are many borderlines along this frontier where we can engage young people, inviting them to share our life with Christ. Some have become adept at speaking to young people in a language many recognize—the language of popular culture. This can be precarious, as popular culture sometimes promotes thing contrary to what we believe. But when we use popular music, television, film and the internet as a means of communicating Christ, young people themselves begin to realize the tension between what Christ preached and what popular culture frequently does. Other Jesuits are exploring the possibilities of that less than two decade old frontier of the worldwide web which, though not exclusive to youth, is a part of their lives they have come to take for granted in a way most do not. The Irish and British Jesuits have successful established the on-line prayer ministries “Sacred Space” and “Pray-as-you-go.” Jesuits of all ages are exploring the potentialities of this medium for evangelization. In such a venue, one’s age, attractiveness or experience becomes less important than whether or not one has something interesting or compelling to say.
This is not true just on the internet. Jesuits of all ages can aid and inspire young people by offering liturgy for them, by directing them on retreats or by accompanying them on mission trips working amongst the poor. Though each of us has a different “literacy” when it comes to youth culture, each of has the capability to invite them to faith in Christ because passion, though sometimes misdirected, is so much a part of their life, and we have made our passion our life—Jesus Christ. By our love and example, we can give young people license to take the passion which they bring to so many other things to their lives with Christ and participation in the Church. The recent World Youth Days have offered hope in this regard. With our worldwide network of educational institutions, we have a privileged place at this frontier which others do not.

What are the other "frontiers"? Read the whole article (or the whole issue) here. My article begins on page 47.

Welcome to Advent--The Priest in the Jungle

On Sunday night I had the 5:00 mass. I knew it was the First Sunday of Advent, but it honestly didn't occur to me until I arrived at the church that there would be a few different things to do. Thankfully, the parishioners quickly got me up to speed. We lit the first Advent candle, as soon as someone was able to help us find the taper to light it with. It was hidden in plain sight (it wasn't very big). Then there was the light show. They accidentally turned out all the lights just before the Gospel (at first I thought it was deliberate, but I couldn't imagine why!). Then, when it came time for the Eucharistic prayer, BAM!, two spotlights shining right in my eyes! It looked as if the congregation was sitting in a fog! Thankfully, they were turned off before communion, so that I could see again. All that said, I enjoyed the opportunity to celebrate my first first Sunday of Advent! (and, bonus!, it meant I wasn't watching the Patriots get rolled over) Anyway, the whole experience kind of fit in with my homily. So, I'll share it here:

Today we begin the season of Advent. I always approach Advent with a bit of trepidation. Because I feel as if it is a time during which something wonderful should be allowed to happen; that if were to fully take advantage of the spirit of watching and expectation that I might find myself spiritually renewed and invigorated for a new year. Yet, Advent has been almost inevitably, for as long as I can remember, one of the busiest times of year for me. The expectation that I feel is not for the coming of the Lord, but rather all those things expected of me, all those things I have to accomplish in addition to my usual busyness in the coming weeks. My own expectations for having fully appreciated the graces of Advent, are usually disappointed as Christmas arrives and I wonder where those 4 weeks have gone. I expect that I’m not the only one here that has had this experience.

So, with that in mind, I was thinking about the final invocation of today’s Gospel: Watch! And it reminded me that my feelings were not so far removed from that of the characters in one of my favorite stories, Henry James’ The Beast in the Jungle. It’s a story that’s all about watchfulness, and which warns us not to be confounded by our own expectations—or our own egos.

The story begins as the two main characters, John Marcher and May Bartram meet at a party. Though John does not remember, May reminds him that they had met some years before. The certainty that they had met comes when May reminds him that he had shared with her one of his deepest convictions. John is astonished because he realizes that she knows something of him which he had shared with no one before or since. She describes to him what she still remembered so well:
“You said you had had from your earliest time, as the deepest thing within you, the sense of being kept for something rare and strange, possibly prodigious and terrible, that was sooner or later to happen to you, that you had in your bones the foreboding and the conviction of, and that would perhaps overwhelm you."
Marcher explains that even in the intervening years, he has not achieved any greater sense of what this rare and strange thing might be, but that he is certain he would know it when he sees it. A deep friendship is forged by this intimacy, and May agrees to watch with John for its coming.

Remembering this story helped me to recall something else about the importance of this season. It’s not just that we watch for Jesus’ coming in the Incarnation, but that we watch together. Our lives, however busy, do not necessarily dictate what we do or do not get out of Advent, if we can together, like the Israelites in today’s first reading, recognize our need for God. And, just as importantly, how Jesus is incarnated in each one of us.

Back to the story. John and May become almost exclusive friends as they watch together. John even expresses his concern that May might be putting off her life for his sake, and the sake of what is to come. But May seems untroubled by this, and they continue this way for years. However, there comes a time when May, haven fallen ill, starts to become impatient. She even, it seems to John, appears to know what it is they have been waiting for, and seems even to believe it has already come. During their conversation she gathers the little energy she has, rises up from her chair and stands uncertainly before him, challenging him to see it. But he doesn’t understand her sudden impatience after all this time, and even regrets having burdened her so. Eventually, May succumbing to her illness, tries once more to help him realize the truth before she dies, but he cannot see it. A year later, John sets out to visit May’s grave and, on the way, he sees the pained face of a man who had so obviously lost the one he deeply loved. In that face he recognized what he should have been feeling, had he but realized that which he had been watching for had been there all along, and he flings himself face down onto May’s tomb.

John and May’s story reminds us certainly of the message in today’s Gospel to watch and prepare ourselves for Christ’s anticipated and unexpected arrival. But it also reminds us that Advent is a time not to be so distracted by the jungle of our lives—or even our hopeful expectations for Advent—that we miss the many ways in which we catch a glimpse of that final coming in the ways in which Christ becomes incarnate to us in the events and in the people—especially those who watch with us—of our daily lives.

If you're interested, you can read Henry James' full story here.

Thanks to You!

Here's wishing all you DRP followers and lurkers many blessings this Thanksgiving!

NOT AGAIN!!

There are a lot of quality programs on TV these days that I like. Unfortunately, some of my favorites are complex, include their share of violence and undesirable characters. I enjoy, then, having a show or two that I can watch that simply inspire me. A few years ago, Joan of Arcadia, canceled after 2 seasons, was just such a show. I'm not sure it was given a chance. And, recently, there has been another--Eli Stone. Well acted, and well-scripted, it tells the story of a lawyer who receives visions which help him to know which cases he is to take, whom he is to help. Compared to the many other cynical legal shows, it has been a breath of fresh air. Eli Stone is a character that you feel like you want to get behind, and be like! And the fact that he is working for God--or however you want to explain it--is quite appealing to me.

So, I am truly disappointed at news coming from ABC that the show is likely to be canceled, if it hasn't been already. I wonder if anybody considered that this is the kind of show that would probably be more appealing in an earlier time slot. If anybody from ABC is reading, please reconsider! There has to be a place for just good, inspiring programming whose future isn't determined simply based on ratings. And, if you haven't seen it, catch it while you can!

Enduring Mysteries: Arch Nemesis

Every once and a while I like to get a McDonald's burger. And each time I continued to be amazed at their seeming inability to make a Quarter Pounder without cheese. Advancements in technology have not seemed to be able to put a dent in this virus within the golden arches' system.

By now, I know always to check my order before leaving. Good thing, because today my "Quarter Pounder, no (emphatic no) cheese" turned into "Quarter Pounder, Cheese only."

Hmmm . . .

O, Jerusalem . . .

My little homily for today's readings (sorry, nothing about the 7 heads and 7 eyes):

The great hypothetical we like to ask ourselves every once and while--and I think it's good that we do--is: If Jesus were to visit us right now, would we recognize him? If the Gospel is any guide, I'm guessing that those who would quickly answer "of course I would," would probably be those least likely to do so. The Scribes and the Pharisees were pretty sure they would recognize the Messiah when he came and most of them, it seems, were quick to decide that Jesus didn't fit their profile. Indeed, in today's Gospel reading we get the sense of Jesus' deep sadness that so many of those he came to save could not recognize him.

And I have to say that I'm not so certain I would do any better, because I know how often I've failed to see Jesus at work in my own life. This is probably true of all of us. Yet, I don't find in this a reason for despair, but for hope. Because this realization actually helps our chances at recognizing Jesus' presence in our lives. Knowing that we could miss out, reminds us that we need help. Even the greatest spiritual director is only great to the extent that he or she recognizes his or her own need for a spiritual director. For the greatest spiritual wisdom comes not in an unwavering confidence that we will recognize Jesus when he comes into our lives, but rather in a humble desire to seek out all the help we need to make sure we don't miss him when he comes.

Giving Thanks

With Thanksgiving approaching, it seems appropriate to share this excerpt from the reflection I wrote just prior to my ordination. Indeed, in a way, it all started on Thanksgiving, twelve years ago:

It’s appropriate that my decision to pursue the life of a Jesuit and a priest began at Thanksgiving. Because, as I reflect on the nearly twelve years between that Thanksgiving and now, this is my prevailing sentiment—thankfulness. I give thanks for the elderly and dying woman who invited me to rub her feet, offering me one of my first lessons in priesthood. I give thanks for spontaneous prayers asked for by a struggling mother in the entrance of the church after mass or looking into the eyes of a homeless man in a White Castle parking lot in the Bronx. I give thanks for students who let the fact that I was a Jesuit make a difference in the classroom, and in their lives, sharing with me their fears about everything from academic success, to their drinking habits, war in Iraq, or a parent suffering from addiction. I give thanks for my many colleagues in ministry these years in parish ministry, hospital ministry, campus ministry, youth and young adult ministry, all of whom have taught me something about what it means to be a priest, and who let me share my experience and gifts, sometimes in challenging ways. Without all these lessons I would not have the strength to find the words, the gestures or the silence for days like the one last summer which began praying with a family reeling from the sudden stroke of husband and father, found me later in a room praying with and for a man who had just died and his family, waiting with another family for the priest who had been called to anoint their dying father, and finally standing with the parents of a man who had attempted suicide as the doctor told them he wasn’t likely to make it, and it was probably better he didn’t. At the end of the night I did my best, at the Father’s request, to be sure that his son would be anointed at the other hospital to which he was medevaced. Few days have made me as conscious as this one did of my gratitude for the many things people had taught me along the way (otherwise how could I have done it?), and the ability to pick up a phone at the end of that night and talk it all through with Abby, one of my lay ministry colleagues, before making the drive home.

Read the entire reflection here.

Incognito

Last week I had an early morning daily mass, one which I take weekly. After the mass, I went home, changed my shirt, and met up with a friend, P., for breakfast. She brought her infant son along.

As we arrived at the cafe, we ran into a couple of women who had been at the mass just forty minutes before. They also know P. As we greeted them, one of them said, "Oh, are you P.'s husband?" I wasn't immediately sure how to respond. But, before I precisely knew what I was saying, I blurted out, "No. I'm the priest. We just had mass together."
"Oh," she said, as it started to sink in, "I knew you looked familiar!"

Fr. Mossia?

A friend alerted me today to the fact that "CathNewsUSA" has featured "Diary of a Rookie Priest in its latest edition.
The story appears just above one about a "Father Cutie."
And, while they have managed to avoid the common mistake of giving me the name of my friend Fr. Massa, they have renamed me Fr. Mossia!
Oh well, it's a privilege just to have been nominated, right?

The direct link to the article: here

Update: In a quick response to my e-mail, the first mention of my name has been corrected. Yet, in the second instance, I still remain Fr. Mossia. Oh well!

Halloween & All Saints

with Father James Martin, S.J.



courtesy of Bustedhalo.com

Note to Saint Joseph: He was only kidding!

Fourth & Walnut

Last week's readings reminded me of Thomas Merton's experience on the corner of Fourth and Walnut in Louisvile, 50 years ago. So, I incorporated it into my homily. While looking for the quote, I found his original diary entry, which differs a bit from the version that was eventually published. Both are worth reflecting on. Here's the diary excerpt:

Yesterday, in Louisville, at the corner of 4th and Walnut, suddenly realized that I loved all the people and that none of them were, or, could be totally alien to me. As if waking from a dream—the dream of separateness, of the “special” vocation to be different. My vocation does not really make me different from the rest of men or put me is a special category except artificially, juridically. I am still a member of the human race—and what more glorious destiny is there for man, since the Word was made flesh and became, too, a member of the Human Race!
Thank God! Thank God! I am only another member of the human race, like all the rest of them. I have the immense joy of being a man! As if the sorrows of our condition could really matter, once we begin to realize who and what we are—as if we could ever begin to realize it on earth.

The next part, a reflection on chastity, was new to me:

It is not a question of proving to myself that I either dislike or like the women one sees on the street. The fact of having a vow of chastity does not oblige one to argument on this point—no special question arises. I am keenly conscious, not of their beauty (I hardly think I saw anyone really beautiful by special standards) but of their humanity, their woman-ness. But what incomprehensible beauty is there, what secret beauty that would perhaps be inaccessible to me if I were not dedicated to a different way of life. It as though by chastity I had come to be married to what is most pure in all the women of the world and to taste and sense the secret beauty of their girl’s hearts as they walked in the sunlight—each one secret and good and lovely in the sight of God—never touched by anyone, nor by me, nor by anyone, as good as and even more beautiful than the light itself. For the woman-ness that is in each of them is a once original and inexhaustibly fruitful bringing the image of God into the world. In this each one is Wisdom and Sophia and Our Lady—(my delights are to be with the children of men!).

Can a Priest Speak Publicly As a Private Citizen?

Can a priest speak publicly as a private citizen? My inclination is to say "no." As a priest, you speak as a representative of the Church whether you like it or not, right? At least that's what I thought. Now, sincerely, I'm not so sure. Archbishop Chaput in a highly publicized statement (even if it was addressed to a small group) seems to have muddied the waters a bit.

In a previous post, I reflected a bit on my responsibility as a priest as regards my political views. I did this in light of Archbishop Chaput's instruction to his priests and deacons that they should not publicly endorse or affiliate themselves with any political candidate. I have found it incumbent upon myself, in a similar vein of thinking, to be somewhat circumspect in sharing with others who I might or intend to vote for. I tend instead to share with others the range of issues that I am concerned with. For example, having noticed the almost complete absence of any mention of the poor in the current presidential campaign, I have come to the conclusion that advocacy on behalf of the poor is something we have to be especially concerned with in the coming years, no matter who wins the election. I also share with people my concern for the full range of life issues. In the spirit of Cardinal Bernardin, I am a "seamless garment" pro-life advocate. These issues, too, will continue to be of concern no matter who wins the election.

All that said, Archbishop Chaput this week left me a little confused as to the stance he encouraged, and which I have been taking. After make very specific statements in public about a political candidate, he made the distinction that he was speaking as a private citizen and not as a representative of the Archdiocese of Denver. But my question is: Was he speaking as a priest, or not?

I ask this not because I necessarily agree or disagree with what he said (and I will not say, in the spirit of what I've just been saying). I ask it because it has implications for the question of whether or not priests can responsibly make public statements in favor of, or in opposition to, specific candidates. Speaking from my perspective as a priest, I doubt that it would be enough for my superiors or my local bishop for me to simply say, after making public statements in favor of a particular candidate, that I was doing so as a private citizen. But this is what some might take Archbishop Chaput's statement to suggest.

Just this past year, Archbishop Burke of St. Louis suggested that it was irresponsible on the part of the basketball coach at St. Louis University to take part in a rally for Hilary Clinton, because he was a representative of a Catholic University. Archbishop Burke didn't seem to think it was enough for him to say that he was doing so as a private citizen.

This all leaves me, and I think many others, confused as to how we as priests are to engage political questions. It will be interesting to see in the coming weeks if we get some further clarification on this matter.

Preaching to Children

I consider myself a pretty good preacher, at least when it comes to preaching to adults. And, anyone over 13 or so for that matter. I also feel that I'm pretty good with grade schoolers in CCD class or in just casual interaction. But, for some reason, when it comes to preaching to the little ones, I feel hopeless. I've never had an instance of doing it after which I felt it went well. As long as I'm asking questions, I have their attention, but the minute I start trying to simply tell them something, I lose them. Their attention starts to wander, and I want to send them back to their seats and say, "OK, I'm going to talk to the adults now" (come to think of it, that may not be such a bad idea. Hmmm . . .) And it's hard for me to refocus on the mass when I'm thinking about what a disaster that was.

And so it went last Sunday when I had the family mass at a local parish. Yet, surprisingly, after mass a number of people told me that I had done a good job preaching to the kids. I think they were just trying to be nice. But, still, there may be a chance that I'm not as hopeless at it as I think. Time will tell.

Wild Grapes

This past Sunday was my first opportunity to celebrate mass at the parish where I served as a deacon. It also had, as I mentioned in the last post, somewhat challenging readings. I got a request to post my homily, so here it is:

I’ve spent a lot of time here in the last few years, teaching the children, helping with RCIA, and serving last year as a deacon. So, it is with great joy that I have the opportunity to come and celebrate mass with you today. This is a special moment for me, returning this fall as a newly ordained priest to the city and the people with whom I’ve lived and worshipped for the last three years. So, I would have hoped that the readings for today would have been a little more, well, celebratory. Really, as I set to preparing myself for this homily, taking into account the occasion, I couldn’t help but think: Now I’ve only been a priest for three and a half months, so I might be missing something: But are these really the readings for “Respect Life Sunday”? How exactly might I approach this? Point to the wicked tenants in today’s Gospel and say, “Hey, look at them. Don’t do that.” We’ve got vineyards being torn down because the grapes have gone wild, and we’ve got people driven by greed, beating, stoning and killing others. It would seem that the only way to go at the life theme is by way of a negative example.

But then I thought about “Sideways,” the surprise hit movie of a few years ago about the misadventures of a group of wine enthusiasts. It too, wasn’t the most uplifting story, but what intrigued people about it was its passionate, even beautiful dialogue about wine. At one point, for example, the pathetic and depressed Merlot-hating main character is asked about his passion for Pinot wines. He says in response, “I don't know. It's a hard grape to grow. It's thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It's not a survivor like Cabernet, which can just grow anywhere and uh, thrive even when it's neglected. No, Pinot needs constant care and attention. You know? And in fact it can only grow in these really specific, little, tucked away corners of the world. And, and only the most patient and nurturing of growers can do it, really. Only somebody who really takes the time to understand Pinot's potential can then coax it into its fullest expression. Then, I mean, oh its flavors, they're just the most haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle and... ancient on the planet.”

The Pinot grape which Miles describes is a far cry from the wild grapes of today’s first reading. Yet the vinegrower he describes sounds a lot like the vinegrower whom Isaiah speaks equally passionately about in the first reading. “Let me now sing of my friend,” Isaiah begins, telling us of a vineyard owner, who places his vineyard on a fertile hillside, clears away the stones, plants the choicest vines, and builds a watchtower, treating his grapes with the utmost of care. This care promises a rich harvest. So, why, we are left to wonder, does he get “wild grapes” instead of rich grapes with the flavorful potential of a Pinot? Why is it that all that hard work and great care is not reflected in the final product?

You might say to me, well, Father, isn’t it obvious? He’s not really talking about grapes! The vinegrower is God and the grapes, well, they refer to God’s people. That’s why they’ve gone wild! Because they have a will of their own. And if you said that to me, I’m pretty sure you’d be right. But if you’re right, then we ought to be concerned about the fact that faced with us wild grapes, the vineyard owner decides to tear the vineyard down!

Today, in the pictures of both vineyard owners we can take away the image of a harsh God, one who tears down the unfruitful vineyard, and another who’s likely to kill the greedy and unfaithful tenants who have killed his son. These stories are meant to strike us this way, because they are meant to serve as a warning to us not to live lives unpleasing to God. Some are positively motivated by the idea that they better shape up or God will punish them. But I’m pretty sure this isn’t the view that will motivate us long-term. And I think to focus too quickly on this would be to miss the more positive point that like the passionate vinegrower, God is passionate about caring for us. And that, truthfully, we cannot do without that care. The speaker of today’s psalm realizes that, crying out to God: “Once again, O Lord of hosts, look down from heaven and see; take care of this vine, and protect what your right hand has planted . . . restore us; if your face shine upon us, then we shall be saved.”

Positively, this means that as people cared for by God we are called to reflect the work and care of our Creator and sustainer in our lives. In essence, when people see us, they should also see the God who cares for us, the God who sends his Son, even in the face of danger, to save us. Respecting life begins with accepting the care of God for us, of cooperating with God’s determination, as Miles puts it, to “coax [us] into our fullest expression” rather than growing wild, as if we were on our own. That is how we become, as Saint Paul encourages us to be in the second reading, people devoted to whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, gracious and excellent, keeping our minds and hearts focused on the things of God. If we do that, then we can’t help but have an appreciation for life, because we recognize that every person is loved and cared for by God. Their life and ours comes from God, and cannot be without God.

This is the message of today’s readings. And this is what marks the difference in our respect for life from those that do not see the rights and dignity that come as a result of that reflection of God’s care in every person. We are called to cooperate with God in loving, caring and advocating for the preservation of the dignity of the lives of others whether that life be that of an unborn baby, the homeless beggar in Harvard Square, the “enemy,” the death row prisoner, or the person nearing the natural end of life. We are challenged to see these and indeed all lives as objects of God’s love and care, especially because we know we cannot do without God’s love and care for us.


The mass and the homily were received well, and I got one especially interesting reaction. A couple approached me after mass and said, "Father, we have to tell you that your homily had a very particular importance for us." My heart swelled a bit. How wonderful, I thought, something I said really touched these people. "Oh father, yes," they went on, "you see we spent about four hours yesterday trying to remember the name of that movie."

A Little Help, Here . . .

Regarding the choice of readings in the lectionary and/or special Sundays:

To whom it may concern:

Must we have a Gospel parable which speaks of beating, stoning and killing on Respect Life Sunday?!

I'm just sayin' . . .