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St. Patrick’s Prayer

According to tradition, St. Patrick wrote this prayer in 433 A.D. for divine protection before successfully converting the Irish King Leoghaire and his subjects from paganism to Christianity.

St. Patrick’s Breastplate, also known as The Lorica of Saint Patrick, was popular enough to inspire a hymn based on this text. Often the 15 lines found towards the end of the prayer are used on their own. Today, I thought we could use the whole thing.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ’s birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of cherubim,
In the obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In the predictions of prophets,
In the preaching of apostles,
In the faith of confessors,
In the innocence of holy virgins,
In the deeds of righteous men.

I arise today, through
The strength of heaven,
The light of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendor of fire,
The speed of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of the sea,
The stability of the earth,
The firmness of rock.

I arise today, through
God’s strength to pilot me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptation of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and near.

I summon today
All these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel and merciless power
that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man’s body and soul;
Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me an abundance of reward.

Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.

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Words

We heard in Sunday’s readings about planks and beams, good fruit and rotten trees. We heard from Sirach the advice not to judge anyone until we hear them speak. That’s usually what gets me into trouble – judging first. To be fair, speaking gets me into trouble too.

The verses from Sirach illustrate dramatically the power of our words. Our words and actions betray an inner spirit and clearly reveal our intention. What we say and do are windows for others to our soul. A good reflection as we begin Lent.

Paul concludes his discussion of resurrection in the second reading. When the bodies of the chosen become immortal, then the last enemy — death — is defeated. Scripture is fulfilled when sin is conquered by Christ’s Resurrection.

The serpent has no more sting; those who live in Christ can no longer be harmed. The commitment required of believers is worth every effort because the Christian is forever in the Lord and assured of triumph.

The passage from Luke teaches the dangers of judging others. The “speck and log” illustration exaggerates. Nevertheless, this powerful image remains with all who read the verses and reminds us again that self-improvement is a higher priority than observing and criticizing our neighbors’ weaknesses and failings.

The kids in my row were pointing at each other as the reader proclaimed the Gospel, which, if you can get over the obvious irony, is still pretty funny.

Sirach and Luke both remind us of the great power, either for good or for ill, contained in our words and actions. What we say in response to personal experiences or in judgment about the behavior of others may reflect more on us than on the object of our attention. Let our words and actions be signs of Christ’s redeeming presence all around.

Lent is coming. What will our words and actions reveal about our readiness?

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Presidents Day

Officially, today is Washington’s Birthday. Contrary to popular belief, there actually is no Federal holiday called “Presidents Day.” Don’t tell that to the marketing department at any number of the big box retailers, mattress companies, or car dealerships.

Still, it is a good reminder that we live in a country that celebrates its leaders, remembers its past, and looks forward to a future built on a dream where all are welcome, all are equal, and all can share in the promises new beginnings bring. As a nation of immigrants, we remember that most come from somewhere else. Many of us were one-time strangers in this new land, and whether we had a choice in our being brought to America or not, we have an obligation to remember our common struggles, our history, and what we owe to each other.

You can like the people in government or not. You can agree with policies or not. You can protest and write articles in favor of the government or against it. But what we must never do is fear the government. Local officials can seldom fix the problems that are broken in our communities. The people who fix the power lines do not regulate what runs through it. When disaster hits, it takes the government – usually on a big scale – to find the solution, fund it, and fix whatever is broken.

The government is not supposed to make money – it’s supposed to make life better for its citizens – protect them, solve issues that cannot be solved on a small scale, and educate its people as they work for a life better than the one they inherited.  We all pay for it. It works for all of us.

Or it should.

When it’s broken, we fix it. Like any competent surgeon, we use a scalpel, not an axe. We don’t arbitrarily cut off limbs; we tweak what needs tweaking and prune carefully so those who serve are served, not dismissed and destroyed.

Perhaps it would help if we paused this day and prayed. Not just for ourselves and our leaders – but for the storytellers who came before us, contributed to the government in many ways, and gave their lives in faithful service to their fellow citizens.

God our Father,
You guide everything in wisdom and love.
Accept the prayers we offer for our nation.
In your goodness,
watch over those in authority
so that people everywhere
may enjoy freedom, security and peace.
We ask this through Christ our Lord.
Amen.

—Catholic Household Blessings and Prayers, 371

May we all work together to build a more perfect union.

-pjd

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Good Dirt

This week, we hear a great reading from St. Mark’s Gospel about the farmer who spread seeds. You know the story: some seeds fall on rocky ground, some on thorns, some on the path, and some in good dirt. This is the version where Jesus explains what he meant later. The story always makes me smile because I imagine Jesus telling the story – about farming to a group of people who make their living off the land – and I cannot help but wonder if they aren’t all giving Jesus the side-eye as he talks about this farmer dude who is just scattering seeds anywhere.

“What an imbecile,” they must be thinking. “What kind of farmer wastes seeds like that?”

Of course, we know the rest of the story. We know that the point is that God’s Word is open to all, God is for all, God is with all, and God loves all. His mercy is everlasting, and it, too, is open to everyone. You can get in trouble for suggesting that these days.

We also know thorny people. They poke us, prod us, and press our buttons—and sometimes not in good ways or in ways that are enjoyable. And we know rocky ground, too. We know trouble and strife, and we all experience moments that are not smooth. The pathway has a place here, too: sometimes, we walk over people or let people walk over us.

And then there is the good dirt—those people around us who take God seriously when he says, “Love one another,” and those people who are kind, generous, helpful, and lovely. We need more of those people. We need to surround ourselves with those people if we are to grow.

This week, make an effort to cut out the thorns from your life. Avoid rocky ground if you can, and be careful where you walk.

Most of all, be open to the Word when it gets chucked in your direction.

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New Year. New Loss.

Aunt Barbara died Thursday night.

She had a stroke shortly after midnight and was taken to St. Vincent Hospital in Bridgeport. Maureen and I were able to communicate with her, hold her hand, and make sure she knew she was loved and not alone.

As I have been talking to her friends, I am reminded that our lives seem to happen in chapters. Childhood. School. Professional career.  Retirement. Old age.  Fun.

Barbara had a myriad of chapters in her 85 years and some of those chapters overlapped. She went to an all-girls school for elementary after her dad died when she was only nine years old. There were five girls in her friend group and now, only Mary is left. Imagine that, friendships since third grade that last well into your eighties.

Then there are those people she traveled with – Judy especially shows up in photos all over the world. The two of them hit dozens of countries when school was not in session – they were both teachers. Together they rode camels in Egypt, visited the graves in Normandy, and watched the Passion Play in Oberammergau.

Another chapter is her participation in the Philadelphia Ski Club – a membership that included a fee she was adamant I keep paying even after she moved to Connecticut. She hadn’t skied in years, but those friendships endured.

Then there is the chapter we’ll call Irish Dancing. We have photos of her dancing her way down Broad Street in the Philly parades, smiling and having a wonderful time. In the end, she was on a walker, but at her best, she was dancing down the green-painted streets of her beloved city of brotherly love.

Every month for years, she had lunch with other ladies who graduated with her in 1957 from Little Flower. Every month they got together to, as she put it, “eat salad and talk about others.”

Her friend groups could fill a book. Rosemary called and sent cards nearly every month and that friendship goes back 60 years. Barbara was in her wedding, hosted the shower when Rosemary had a baby, and traveled together to Ireland at least once in the sixties. When Barbara made a friend, she did so for life.

Later chapters included her time at the Jersey Shore and her beloved Baby Condo – a little one bedroom place on the beach that she adored. There are photos of the many parties she hosted for those who played cards and wanted to visit the casinos. I don’t know how everyone fit into that place, bought on the advice of her brother, my dad, shortly after she retired from teaching, but speaking to her friends over the weekend, those parties are now part of the Brigantine lore.

After Barbara moved to her retirement home, friends continued to call and write. She hated talking on the phone without a cigarette in her hand, so she ignored the calls. Sometimes, if someone was with her, we would answer and she would speak for a bit – but not if someone was visiting. The person in front of her was always more important.

I could write about one whole chapter and call it “sweets” given Barbara’s penchant for chocolate. She could devour a donut like nobody else and we still laugh about her telling my sister that she likes cream donuts better than jelly – never complaining when I brought her a jelly donut every few days for a year.

The chapters revealed themselves in the countless photo albums we’ve been through, the piles and piles of pictures, and the many letters that never ever got thrown away. Every postcard she sent her mom, every card and letter she and my dad sent their parents. Every letter sent by my mom or dad updating Barbara and her mom, who lived with her until her death in 1987, about the family and school and broken bones – all of it captured on yellow legal paper or typed out when my mom discovered the electric typewriter. Barbara came by it naturally, as her mother saved every letter written to her by my grandfather, dating back to the 1920s. It will be nice when we’ve scanned everything and the family can take time to read through the correspondence.

We will gather later in January to bury Barbara and celebrate her faith and entrance into Paradise, where I imagine my father awaits, her long time companion, Bill, has been saving the seat beside him, and some angel with crooked wings stands to the side with a cigarette and matches from some casino, ready to welcome her home.

Rest in peace, Aunt Barbara. Your story is complete.

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Giving Thanks in a Small World

I went to a funeral last week in Philadelphia. Sr. Mary had battled cancer for 18 years – throughout the entire time I knew her. We met while studying for our doctorate at La Salle and of all the people I met, she was the one who had been the most compassionate, the most supportive, the most kind, and the most generous with her time and words.

She was a friend you could email or text and, even though she was carrying an immense burden herself, her words would lift your spirits, quicken your step, and make you smile.

When Aunt Barbara lived in Philly, she happened to meet Mary one night in the parking lot of the university. They shared Little Flower in common, Mary having taught there and Barbara having attended high school there. Soon, they were singing the school song. That happened every year I was there and when I defended my dissertation, Mary had a party for us and Barbara attended. Turns out Mary had a cousin who was Barbara’s pastor, so Barbara wrote letters to Mary, sent some money to her religious order, and kept in touch until she moved to Connecticut. To this day, Barbara asks about Mary and the priest-cousin-pastor.

It was no wonder Mary’s funeral was packed. Students she had taught, cousins from far and wide, women religious in her Franciscan community – all gathered to send her off, plead for the angels to bring her to paradise, and to celebrate her faith.

After we left Mary at her grave, we made our way back to the cafeteria for the luncheon. A young priest sat with us and we started chatting. Soon another cousin of Mary’s sat down and I heard her mention the parish of Christ the King, so I leaned over and asked, “Which Christ the King?” (Given our feast day yesterday, it seems a odd phrasing of the question.)

“In Haddonfield (NJ), do you know it?”

“I was baptized there and my godparents were active there for years – and my godmother still is.”

“Who?”

I tell her the name and she nearly comes over the table.

“I KNOW HER….. she’s my mother’s BEST FRIEND.”

Naturally, I went in search of the mom and made the connection. Turns out the mom is Mary’s first cousin and the “new” best friend of my godmother.

When I explained why she was the “new” best friend – the previous one having been my mother who died in December 2021 – the mom couldn’t believe it.

We chatted briefly about family, Mary, my connection to the lot, and mostly about my godmother, with whom she meets with every month for a prayer group from the parish.

What a small world.

One connection led to another and I spent nearly an hour catching up the following day with said godmother. It was like talking to my own mother when she was less forgetful, less ill, and less aged by the years and maladies she bore. In short, it was like going home to place I had forgotten I missed so much.

So Mary continues to take care of me. She continues to shower me with blessings even if her earthly battle is over. What a gift.

We will need these connections in the coming weeks as Aunt Barbara begins the next chapter, having had her own cancer diagnoses confirmed last week. We will need the support of those we love. We will need reminders of conversations and photos and stories from a happier time, and we will need the intercession of Sr. Mary, my new patron of chance encounters.

Rest in peace, my friend. As we sit at the table this week, surrounded by those we love, know that I will give thanks for your life, your presence, and your selfless example of joy.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Maintaining Perspective

On Saturday I had to drive child number three to an audition. The micromanagers in charge said he could not drive because he might be nervous. The trip there took more than an hour.

“Are you nervous?”

“Of course not.”

Ugh.

Since he had been concussed, he had missed the deadline to register and now had to fit in whenever they could take him. While sitting in the parking lot, some kid gets out of the Porsche parked next to me and whacks my car.

Really, kid?

After I scolded that kid, I dropped my own kid off and went to the grocery store to get food for the upcoming football game, which is always great family time.

The phone rings as I am getting out of the car. It’s the child I just dropped off.

“I forgot the money.”

“Can I bring it when I come back?”

“Do you have a checkbook? They need a check.”

“Fine.”

I go into the Acme – the kind of store where they take 12,000 square feet of merchandise and shove it into a 7,000 square foot store. It is crowded, cramped, and I have chosen the time of day when they are restocking the shelves, so carts are everywhere. So are people.

Ugh.

At checkout, the phone rings again.

“They cannot take me until two.”

“It’s not even one!”

“Sorry….”

Ugh.

When I return to the site of the audition, I write the check out. Then I texted the kid and confirm how much, which somehow went up in the time I’d been gone, and write another check.

I take it inside and ask who gets it.

“Oh, you have to give that to the school.”

Ugh.

“By the way, who is the micromanager that set the rule that my kids cannot drive himself?”

“That’s our rule. It’s for insurance.”

“That makes no sense. My insurance covers my kid from home to here. Your insurance covers him here. You cannot mandate how my kid gets here and now I am stuck here all afternoon.”

“That’s our rule.”

Ugh.

While I am sitting in the car, eating some of the groceries to ease my hangriness, I look up this dumb rule. While I am looking it up, I count five – FIVE – kids get in their own cars and drive away. One almost hits my car. He must have been nervous. One drives over the curb. One speeds out of the lot.

Now I am really irritated. Not only do these turkeys have a dumb rule, they are not enforcing it. They have no way to, which, frankly, makes them negligent. It’s not a policy if you have no way of enforcing said policy.

Ugh.

Child number three gets in the car, complaining about how long it took and wondering why there are crumbs all over his seat. That’s when I remind him that this is all his fault. If he had paid attention, he could have gotten all the paperwork in on time. If he had done that, the fee would be half as much as it is today. If only he had his crap together, his grades would be higher. If he put his phone down at night he would sleep better. If he paid more attention…

Somewhere in the silence of the rest of the drive home, I realized what an ass I had been.

Instead of cherishing the time alone with my son, I saw it as a chore.

Instead of enjoying time I got to spend alone, I was irked at the messy, crowded store.

Instead of thanking the volunteers at the audition, I challenged a rule they made out of concern for young people and not in an attempt to irritate parents.

Instead of praying for the safety of the kids in the parking lot, I judged their driving and secretly hoped they got caught.

Sitting in the silence, I thought to myself, “Let’s call this day, ‘Great Weather. Missed Opportunities.'”

The good news is kids are forgiving. My kids know that I yell because I care. I fuss at them to challenge them. I love them even when I want to throttle them (metaphorically speaking).

Still, everything that irked me was more about me than anything else.

We got home safely and in time for the game. As I got ready for a friend to come over to watch, I ducked into the bathroom off the kitchen.

That’s when I realized my zipper had been down most of the day.

Really, kid?

Ugh.

Our Lady of Humility, pray for us.

 

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Wanting to See

In Sunday’s Gospel, we hear the story of the man born blind. He finds Jesus and is healed. Seems easy enough.

It would be easy to think of this man in light of all those we know who are also blind: those who only see color when they look at others, those who only see religious practices that differ from their own, those who fail to see others in need, in pain, in darkness.

When our oldest was about two years old, we were driving along the road and came to a stop light. As we approached the light, I caught sight of a homeless man at the corner with a sign asking for money.

I am embarrassed to say that what came next was something that shames me to this day. In a moment, I taught my child to ignore the needs of others.

I switched lanes.

“Are you serious?” came the voice from the back seat. “You have nothing to give him?”

Caught.

She saw me ignore the needs of someone else and called me out on it. Even at a young age, she was smarter than me.

Sunday’s Gospel reminded me of that moment and made me think of all the things I still do not see. Though these things are ever present, I am blind. Though there are those around me who are light, I still somehow remain in darkness.

This week, I will wash my eyes and pray for sight.

To see the child whose needs are greater than my own.

To see and hear the coworker who just wants to talk.

To see the friend who has advice to share.

To see the spouse who is tired.

To see the person in need at the corner.

To see the woman at the home who wants a visitor.

To see the reflection of Christ in the mirror.

To see the leader who knows more than I do.

To see the opportunities for new life around me.

Master, I want to see.

O God of Light, wash away the darkness.

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Change of Plans

So as I look at the week ahead and review my to do lists, what we will cook for dinner, what still needs to be done around the house, what appointments do I really not what to do, and what will occupy my time at work and at home, I look to this morning’s Gospel for direction.

And, as usual, Luke interrupts my thoughts with a challenge. We have all been the man in the story from this morning’s Gospel reading. He has a wonderful harvest and makes plans to build bigger barns. After all, he has more than he needs. But then something comes along and ruins those plans – or in his case, his own death gets in the way of the new barns he wanted to build.

In the story, the man is chastised not because he plans but because his plans do not include God. “Here is what I will do…I shall tear down…I shall build… I shall store…then I shall say to myself…” The I gets in the way of the WE.

He keeps his wealth instead of sharing it. He plans to take care of himself and forgets those in need around him. He looks out for number one and avoids eye contact with the man or woman standing next to him, those standing on the corner, those sitting across from him or suffering across the world. While the man or woman in need stands on a corner with a sign, this man changes lanes.

It’s a story to which we can all relate.

But, as the poet reminds us, “No man is an island…”

Put another way, Mother Teresa diagnosed the ills of the world correctly when she said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”

So I go back over my schedule for the week. When is time for prayer? When will I make sure I am present to others? When will I go out of my way to share the harvest, limited though it may be at times, with others?

Planning is good.

Plans that include God are better.

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Beyond the Election

If you are like me, you are looking forward to November. Thanksgiving? Sure. The seasons of Advent and Christmas? Maybe.

What I am really looking forward to, however, is the end of election season.

I do not know how the campaigns get my email or phone numbers, but as I reply STOP to all the requests for money – locally and nationally – or the emails slamming one side or the other, as we are barraged by the endless news stories about who wants microphones on or off during a debate, and as the constant publishing of polls fails to share any news that is actual news, I find myself longing for the first Wednesday in November.

Of course, my hunch is that nobody will be happy. Unless it is a victory with a margin so vast that no one can dispute it, one side will be elated and the other will quickly move to file motions in court.

I cannot remember when the election season got to be years instead of months, nor do I recall when the money became so great that our poorest neighborhoods could be lifted out of so many issues with one weekend’s haul of donations.

Yet this is country we love, this is the freedom that we share and for which so many have given their lives. This is the reality we have created – a reality as frustrating as it is free.

I just can’t help thinking of all that gets lost in the noise. Distracted by politics, we spend more time talking about the failures of others and not enough time solving problems. Congress seems more interested in investigating their so-called enemies than actually solving any of society’s issues.

Listening to sophomores in college the other day in class, many of them just want the government officials to govern, to stop yelling at and about each other and do their jobs. They want politicians who have ideas, not politicians whose default position is name calling, demeaning, and threatening their opponent. They want people who understand that life issues include abortion, yes, but also a clear understanding that racism, the unhoused, immigration, poverty, healthcare, affordable insurance, and child care are all life issues too. They want a government that cares what happens after the child is born.

These are the youngest voters and I am careful not to stray too much into the weeds. I cannot ask for whom they intend to vote and it would be inappropriate to try to convince them of anything other than following their own conscious. It is clear, however, that they see the failure to speak kindly or to tell the truth as a negative, not an advantage. This is an age that can spot inauthenticity a mile away. They can tell when you are faking it, when you haven’t a clue, or when you care more about me than we.

But, like all adults, they are tired of the noise. They want a government that makes them feel safe, at school and on the road. They want officials who care about public service more than self. They want to be able to find a job, afford a house, and raise their families. And they are tired of the bluster, the corruption, the distractions, and the nonsense. They long to trust their elected officials and keep wondering aloud if this is the best we can do.

Like many of us, these young people, many of whom will vote for the first time, just keep wondering if anyone is listening.

I hope so.