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The Father Who Runs

At Mass on Sunday, most people heard the story of the Prodigal Son – the little brat who says, “Hey, Dad, can we pretend you’re dead so I can have my inheritance and go do whatever I want?”

You know the story. Dad says, “Sure” and the son goes off and soon finds himself destitute.

But put yourself in that first-century audience. The story is always told to Pharisees when Jesus is surrounded by tax collectors and sinners. Almost from the beginning of the story, we are in trouble. Not because the son asks the father for his inheritance – though we might find that absurd – the Jews would not have. Where the wheels fall off the wagon is that the son not only loses the money, he clearly loses his faith. After all, he becomes a swineherd. He takes care of pigs, which the Jews knew to be unclean. Not only does he care for them, he longs to eat from the food on which they feast. A swineherd, to the Jews listening, was beyond the pale of God’s forgiveness. There was no reconciliation available to such a person.

Then we have another problem. The inclination is to feel sorry for the son. But he  actually practices his apology before ever returning home. If we pay attention, we understand that while he might be sorry he is poor, but the contrition is contrived. It’s rehearsed. He knows just what to say.

But none of that matters. While the son is still a long way off, the father sees him and runs to him.

The father runs.

At this point, the Jews in the audience are really squirming. For a Jewish father to run in a long tunic, he would have to lift the tunic and bare his legs – in public. He would have to shame himself and this father is only too happy to do this to get to his son. Nothing is more important to the father than bringing the son home. He waited for him. He was moved with compassion. He runs to him. And he doesn’t let the rehearsed speech continue. He stops the son midstream and forgives.

Would we ever do as much for a family member, a friend, a coworker? Or would we let them squirm through their apology while we wait for them to finish, silently enjoying their pain?

The hits keep coming as we see the story turn from the forgiving father or the prodigal son towards the unbelievable mercy of God. Everything is exaggerated. The robe is a sign of importance. The ring is a sign of authority. The sandals are a sign of a free man. The fatted calf is a sign of a family meal. The Jews who are listening would not have missed these clues. They would have understood that the storyteller was putting two things – swineherd  and forgiven – in the same sentence. And they would have been embarrassed.

Then there is the older brother. Looking into the party from the outside and thinking, I would imagine, “What the heck is going on in there?” Again, the father goes to the son. The son says, “I’ve always kept the law” just like a Scribe or a Pharisee in the audience would say. The older son calls the prodigal, “your son” not “my brother.” He has already distanced himself like we distance ourselves so quickly from someone who offends. We are so quick to walk away from someone who needs mercy.

In the end, the older brother doesn’t look that great. But he doesn’t look as bad as the Pharisee who Jesus chastises for praying, “Thank God I am not like these people.”

It’s a parable – a story that is meant to invite us in and then turn us on our heads. Why? Because with Jesus, history has to stop being ibid, ibid, ibid. All things are new. You can only be a part of the reign of God if you are willing to have your life turned upside down, to be converted. You will never reform your life if you are not open to the possibilities that people who sin can be forgiven, that hate can be overcome by love, and that evil can be beaten by prayer and good works.

It is easy to stand outside the party and criticize. It is easy to stay inside and wait for someone to approach you and beg forgiveness.

Yet, we are called to forgive. We are called to lift our tunics – even at the risk of shaming ourselves – and run to those who need us most.

And yes, we are called to stop feeling sorry for ourselves and enter the party where all are welcome equally.

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Annunciation

As my attention turns to the final edits, pagination, and printing of my dissertation, I fill this space not with my thoughts, but the very appropriate words of Malcolm Guite, who offers this sonnet on this Feast of the Annunciation:

We see so little, stayed on surfaces,

We calculate the outsides of all things,

Preoccupied with our own purposes

We miss the shimmer of the angels’ wings,

They coruscate around us in their joy

A swirl of wheels and eyes and wings unfurled,

They guard the good we purpose to destroy,

A hidden blaze of glory in God’s world.

But on this day a young girl stopped to see

With open eyes and heart. She heard the voice;

The promise of His glory yet to be,

As time stood still for her to make a choice;

Gabriel knelt and not a feather stirred,

The Word himself was waiting on her word.

Gabriel knelt. The Word waiting. What powerful images. May your week be filled with opportunities to announce God’s Word, leading to hidden blazes of glory in God’s world.

Peace.

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St. Joseph, Pray For Us

Tomorrow, we celebrate the Solemnity of Saint Joseph, spouse of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He is the patron saint of fathers (Joseph is also the patron saint of the Universal Church, families, fathers, expectant mothers (pregnant women), travelers, immigrants, house sellers and buyers, craftsmen, engineers, and working people in general), so he and I share a bond. I don’t have any kids like Jesus, but they try.

When I was in the Holy Land last year, we stayed at a convent built over the site of where Joseph might have lived with Mary and Jesus. It is just down the street from the Basilica of the Annunciation and next door to Joseph’s workshop, so who knows?

Nothing is recorded in Scriptures about St. Joseph’s words to his family. He gets a message in a dream, but even the Blessed Mother gets to speak once in a while. And yet, he is a model for fathers everywhere. There’s a lesson in there, albeit an ironic one, about who gets to talk and who gets to listen.

Joseph always makes me think about my father, quiet as a bookend and just as strong. As I try to land my dissertation, I am finding more and more research that speaks to the importance of fathers when it comes to raising faith-filled children. Nothing, it seems, can make up for a distant father. As I think about Joseph, I realize that in the Jewish tradition, the children learn their faith from the parent most like them. Dads teach boys and moms teach girls. It stands to reason, then, that Jesus’ own foundation in faith came from Joseph. He was the one who taught Our Lord to read, to pray the Shema, to understand the great commandments, how to worship in the synagogue, and how to rest on the Sabbath. Joseph was Jesus’ first teacher in the ways of faith. He was the best of teachers. Sure, Jesus was human and divine, but do any of us really believe that, as a small child, he was fully aware of everything, fully conscious of what was ahead? How do you square that with humanity? How do you put that in the head of an eight-year-old? No, Joseph taught Jesus, I am sure of it.

Like Joseph, I must teach my children – by word and example – what an intimate relationship with God looks like. I must teach them to pray, how to love, how to forgive, and how to rest. This week, I will be like Joseph and listen more. I will speak less. I will work hard. And, like Joseph certainly did for Jesus, I will teach my children well.

St. Joseph, patron of fathers everywhere, pray for us.

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Have It All

One of the cool things about telling the Amazon Alexa in the kitchen to play music is that, every so often, she (yes, we think she’s a she) will play music that we have never heard before and we uncover a new artist or a new song. That was true last week.

The tubular device played Jason Mraz’s song, “Have It All” and we were hooked. We paused the song to ask Alexa what it was and then immediately grabbed the phone to download it. We store up credit on iTunes and share music as a family so everyone can enjoy it. It’s an earworm kind of song that gets stuck in your head, but, in this case, I am okay with that.

Apparently, the artist was visiting Myanmar some years ago, participating in a concert aimed at ending the exploitation and trafficking of young people. While traveling, Mraz noticed that Buddhist people commonly greet each other with the phrase “Tashi delek,” which translates to, “May you have auspiciousness and causes of success.”

And the song was born.

I have long thought that all music is directional – God to us, us to God, or us to each other. Most the music that I would label, “garbage” is from us to each other. Most of the music that praises God is us to God. This song, in my head, is clearly God to us. Here is how it opens:

May you have auspiciousness and causes of success
May you have the confidence to always do your best
May you take no effort in your being generous
Sharing what you can, nothing more nothing less
May you know the meaning of the word happiness
May you always lead from the beating in your chest
May you be treated like an esteemed guest
May you get to rest, may you catch your breath

And may the best of your todays be the worst of your tomorrows
And may the road less paved be the road that you follow

What a great invitation. What a challenge. We have a God who loves us unconditionally. A God who always wants the best for us. I do not believe that God wants us “to have it all” in the material sense. But I do believe God wants us to share in His love, His life, His Spirit. For me, that’s what the song says. That’s what went through my head as we danced around the kitchen, playing the song again and again.

Well here’s to the hearts that you’re gonna break
Here’s to the lives that you’re gonna change
Here’s to the infinite possible ways to love you
I want you to have it
Here’s to the good times we’re gonna have
You don’t need money, you got a free pass
Here’s to the fact that I’ll be sad without you
I want you to have it all

We are going to be hurt, but we have the power to change the world. Material things are not necessary. Just live Jesus and know that when we wander away from God, our presence is missed, though God never leaves us.

May you be as fascinating as a slap bracelet
May you keep the chaos and the clutter off your desk
May you have unquestionable health and less stress
Having no possessions though immeasurable wealth
May you get a gold star on your next test
May your educated guesses always be correct
And may you win prizes shining like diamonds
May you really own it each moment to the next

And may the best of your todays be the worst of your tomorrows
And may the road less paved be the road that you follow

So there is our challenge for the week. Love one another in a way that makes the love of God real in our lives. Be a window into the heart of Jesus. Greet others with “Tashi delek.” Wish others well by being the presence of God in their lives.

And don’t forget to sing.

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Confirmed

Ace Number One was Confirmed on Saturday. She still smells like Chrism.

Several months ago, I asked her what name she was considering. “St. Thecla,” she responded, without hesitation.

“Who in the world is that?” I asked.

“She was a recluse and a virgin,” came the response.

“Oh, sweetie,” I responded in typical dad fashion, “You don’t have to be a recluse.”

“Nice dad.”

This kid misses nothing.

When I asked a few weeks later if this was still her name of choice, she told me it was and when I asked why – on a day filled with anxiety and stress from school – she told me: “Thecla was a first century strong female saint who isn’t Our Lady…and she was anonymous.”

While I was proud of her for spending more time on researching her name than most kids her age, my heart broke a little as I realized the quest for anonymity was real. She is a young lady struggling to find her place in the world, who is overwhelmed by (in her words), “the vastness of God, the sinlessness of Jesus, and the need to go to Church.”

I have never been one to let my children choose whether they go to Mass or not. We go as a family and that is the end of the conversation. But as Molly got closer to Confirmation, she had more questions about the hypocrisy of the Church, the poor leadership of parishes, the awful liturgical celebrations she has experienced, and faith in general. To be fair, she probably thinks about this more than most 13-year-olds, but this journey of self-discovery was part of her preparation, so it was part of our conversation at home.

When one of the children asks, “Do we have to go to Mass?” my response is always the same. “No.” I tell them, “We do not have to go to Mass.”

“We get to go to Mass.”

We live in a country where we get to worship as we please. We get to believe, practice, pray, and celebrate our faith freely.

“And you get to get in the car now,” is how that conversation usually ends.

It isn’t that the children don’t enjoy Mass, it’s more that, since Fr. John died, the relationship has changed – not ended. They struggle to find a relationship that is consistent and a message they can remember. He really was one of a kind.

So Molly chose to be Confirmed. Not because she has all the answers – I assured her that her own father still struggles – but because she knows now that struggling with our faith is best done at Mass.

During the homily, Bishop Caggiano directed his message directly to the Confirmandi:

“You are on the road to sainthood,” he told them. “And it happens one choice at a time.”

One choice at a time.

One Mass at a time.

One day at a time.

One child at a time.

May your week be filled with the presence of the Holy Spirit and the sweet smell of Chrism.

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A Sturdy Shelter

On Friday this week, we will hear from the sixth chapter of Sirach. It is one of my favorite readings and, though we do not hear it often proclaimed at Mass, Maureen and I used it as the first reading at our wedding.

A kind mouth multiplies friends and appeases enemies,
and gracious lips prompt friendly greetings.

O Lord, this is hard. I know my mouth should be kind, but sometimes the words get from my brain to my mouth too quickly.

Let your acquaintances be many,
but one in a thousand your confidant.

Who do you trust? Who will be with you when the going gets rough? Thank God for Maureen.

When you gain a friend, first test him,
and be not too ready to trust him.

This is odd. I was taught that being the first to trust is better. Still, I suppose being cautious is relationships, especially new ones, is a good thing.

For one sort is a friend when it suits him,
but he will not be with you in time of distress.

Yes, I have met these people. They say they want to work with you, then they throw you under the bus when the work becomes too difficult.

Another is a friend who becomes an enemy,
and tells of the quarrel to your shame.

Pope Francis says that gossip is a form of terrorism.  Lord, save me from those who do not speak to my face when they are angry – and give me the courage to speak the truth.

Another is a friend, a boon companion,
who will not be with you when sorrow comes.
When things go well, he is your other self,
and lords it over your servants;
But if you are brought low, he turns against you
and avoids meeting you.

Yes, I know these people, too. They are right by your side until you are in need. Then, they are nowhere to be found. They have moved on to happier friends, those not currently in despair, those who require less of them. 

Keep away from your enemies;
be on your guard with your friends.

Makes sense to me.

A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter;
he who finds one finds a treasure.

I call her my wife.

A faithful friend is beyond price,
no sum can balance his worth.

Or her worth. Let’s be fair here.

A faithful friend is a life-saving remedy,
such as he who fears God finds;
For he who fears God behaves accordingly,
and his friend will be like himself.

A life-saving remedy indeed. They are your best editor and hear what you do not say. They save you from yourself and help you understand your needs before you are even able to identify them.

 May your week be filled with friends.

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Uncle Bill

We are in Philadelphia this weekend, helping Aunt Barbara with the final cleaning of Uncle Bill’s house. Bill died on the anniversary of my own father’s death back in July. He had fallen a few days before and suffered a stroke, or perhaps the other way around. In the end, Bill was 95 and a half years old and my children were disappointed that his death came the day we shipped out to Europe, meaning that we would miss his funeral. Adding to the disappointment was knowing how many aunts and uncles on my side would gather in Philly for Bill’s funeral.

As it turned out, his burial was in Ireland a day before we touched down there, so we missed that too. Still, we lit candles for Bill across Europe and kept him close as we traveled. Bill and Barbara were together for more than fifty years. He proposed marriage once, she declined, and so they lived separate lives and yet were together always. Every memory I have of weddings, funerals, and trips to see Barbara always included Bill. Even when Aunt Barbara, dad’s only sister, would visit Tennessee with my grandmother, stories and greeting from Bill followed. When Barbara and I drove a half dozen times or so to be with dad during his sickness, I was privileged to hear the whole story – from how they met to her regret that he never asked for her hand more than once.

He was the youngest of ten children, born outside Belfast. Even the story of his birth was fascinating. His mother had delivered twins (children 7 and 8) so when the doctor came to deliver child number nine, he could not imagine there would be two babies. He delivered Hugh, Bill’s brother, and then departed, sure his work was finished. The hemorrhaging continued for two days until the doctor returned and, much to the surprise of everyone, delivered Bill – a twin born two days later. The bleeding had been too much, and Bill’s mother died in the process. Bill would often joke that he must have been an ugly baby, because, “my mother took one look at me at died.” Nothing was off limits when it came to Bill’s sense of humor. In today’s world, there would be lawsuits and endless news about the doctor, but this was a small village in Ireland in 1923.

He left Ireland in his 20s and joined the Army. Later in life, he owned a successful landscaping business and drove a truck for Sun Oil, Co. We know all this not just from stories from Aunt Barbara, but because we found all the receipts from the business and the jacket that still fit Bill from 1947 among all his belongings. With every piece of paper, picture, and receipt, there is a story. Bill’s house, an old Victorian home converted to apartments, was where he lived since 1979, renting rooms to those in need and hardly ever raising the rent or getting paid on time. It was as much a mission as it was a business. All the apartments are empty now and as we finish taking bags and boxes to St. Vincent de Paul, the finality of Bill’s absence is settling in.

There was never a time when my children didn’t get handed a few dollars from Bill. There was never a baptism, birthday or a holiday when Bill was either present of the children got a call or a card. His refrigerator has his few favorite memories, according to Barbara – notes from his family in Ireland and two photos – one of Bill and my Katie and another of my children and Aunt B and Bill at the Philadelphia Zoo. He loved my children and they loved him, perhaps more so since their own grandfathers had passed.

I expected complaints as we planned to spend a few days working, but I now understand that the children see this work as a way to honor Bill – and a way to serve the woman he loved. As we bag and box up the rest of Bill’s life today before we head north, we will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for a kind and generous man whose life of generosity and humor will always be a part of us.

 

Photo – Uncle Bill and my father, at a party following Katie’s Baptism in 2009.

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Becoming my Father

Today would be my father’s 85thbirthday. It feels like a lifetime has passed since we lost him in 2011. There is so much that has happened in my life, the lives of my family, and in the world, since he’s been gone.

I think death is like that sometimes – a great divide where suddenly you begin recalling things that happened “with dad” and other things that happen “after dad.” The older I get, the more I realize how much I am like him – his mannerisms, his jokes, even, Maureen says, the way I sometimes shuffle around.

But I struggle to be like him when it comes to his faith.

Dad prayed the Rosary every day. He only spoke when he knew he could improve upon silence or break the tension in a room with a comment that made everyone laugh. When he said he was going to pray for something, you knew he meant it. Then, weeks later, he would casually bring it up in a conversation to check up on you. He was a man of great patience, filled with the gift of wonder and awe for the people around him. All was gift. He recognized that. He lived in that understanding.

This week’s first readings are all about the creation story and my own creation story is rooted in dad. I often think about how he and mom sacrificed to send many of their eleven children to Catholic school, how going to Mass on Sunday was part of who were as a family, and how my own parent’s involvement in the church led to a lifetime of my own working for the institution.

On Saturday, my office sponsored an event and, since I am a team of one, Maureen and the children came to help out. One of the kids handled registration. Another manned the bookstore. Another helped set up breakfast and lunch. Though tired from her own work, Maureen was overwhelmed by the mess of my office and helped put things together, hoping it might lighten the stress that has crept in.

As the people were leaving, someone remarked about how they loved seeing the kids as part of the day. “You remind me of my dad,” this woman said. “Church is a family thing and your children will always remember that.”

It occurred to me as she walked away that I learned that from my father. He and mom were the epitome of involved when I was a child and I am glad my own children are having the same experience.

Happy birthday, Dad. Thank you for the valuable lessons you left behind.

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Surprised

I attended a conference in Indianapolis last week. It was only for a few days and flying in and through Chicago gave me an appreciation for hats, coats, and gloves. The conference was about theological exploration and, though I didn’t really want to take the time away from home and work, I am glad I did.

I forgot that I could still be surprised by the stories of others.

Like the woman in my small group who shyly told of being on the FBI “list” back in the day when she and her friends sat in at a lunch counter and shut Dillard’s department store down “because they would not hire blacks.” Now she is an ordained minister in the AME church in Arkansas – the first woman to hold that distinction.

Or the man who worked as both a priest and psychologist with first responders after 9/11.

Or the young lady struggling to teach college students and raise her own two young children.

Or any of the other stories of faith I encountered – one surprise after another.

And I forgot that I could be overwhelmed by prayer.

For two mornings, our prayer was led by a group out of Richmond, VA called Urban Doxology. While many in the room danced, waved their arms, and shouted: “Amen,” I was more of the “chosen and frozen” kind of pray-er, rocking back and forth like I was putting a baby to sleep, but still moved to tears at the songs of praise and powerful witness.

After Friday morning prayer, when I was psychologically done with the conference and emotionally ready to go home, I found myself seeking out one of the worship leaders. She had given a powerful testimony about her struggle with anxiety and sang a song that saved her once and continues to save her today.

As we started to talk, I told her about my own child who, at age 13, struggles with anxiety. I found myself choking up and I simply said, “You give me hope,” to this young woman with such a gift for music and such a witness to the 100 or so gathered.

“Can we pray?” she asked. Sheepishly, I agreed.

She began, “Heavenly Father, we pray for Patrick’s baby girl….” And I lost it.

But as she prayed, I was overcome with a sense of relief. My oldest will always be my baby girl. She will always be my Ace Number One. And I knew at this moment she would be okay. In all my distractions, I remembered that there is a God who loves her more than I can ever comprehend, even if the child wonders if that’s always true.

“Amen,” the prayer concluded, and I thanked her.

I forgot that I could be overwhelmed by prayer.

~pjd

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Distracted

Today is the feast of St. Thomas Aquinas. I have studied his work and read his questions and answers many times. I am challenged each day by the three paths to God of which he writes: truth, beauty, and goodness. 

But I find that I am distracted. 

Distracted with worry about the child whose fever is high and whose congestion convinces her she cannot breath. 

Distracted by the unedited chapters of my dissertation that await my approach when I find the time. 

Distracted by the news I fear may come in the next few days or weeks.

Distracted about the trip I take this week, missing work and family and having to navigate airports and luggage and parking.

Distracted about the unfinished lists in my head and on my desk.

Distracted by the people in front of me at Mass that show up late, chatter throughout, and then leave after Communion. 

Distracted that I cannot seem to focus in prayer. 

Distracted by bills that did not get paid this month.

Distracted.

So, in desperation, I turned to the good St. Thomas: “Faith has to do with things that are not seen and hope with things that are not at hand.”

And it makes me wonder: is it a lack of faith that distracts me? If I understand that “faith is God’s work within us,” could I be so bold as to give my distractions over to God? Will any worry today fix any of these things tomorrow? Will the hope of change be enough or must there be a commitment to change, to act, to do something. 

If there really is nothing to be accomplished by worrying, why worry? 

Easier said than done. 

Perhaps, for now, I can simply ask St. Thomas to guide me, intervene for me, console me.

“Grant me, O Lord my God, a mind to know you, a heart to seek you, wisdom to find you, conduct pleasing to you, faithful perseverance in waiting for you, and a hope of finally embracing you. Amen.”

St Thomas Aquinas, pray for us.