Who Am I?

“Who am I?” The question of identity touches the most profound depths of our personhood. The pursuit of personal needs and goals can have a suffocating effect. As we prepare in Advent for the Second Coming of the Lord, we are reminded in the liturgy that we must meet the Lord as a community, not as a collection of isolated individuals.

The prophet we call Third Isaiah cared for the hurting community in Jerusalem around 500 B.C. As God’s specially anointed spokesperson, he identifies with the brokenhearted. As a sign of hope he describes the joy of a renewed marriage between Yahweh and Jerusalem. The drab clothing of the past will be replaced with a robe of salvation and a mantle of justice. Yahweh will bring forth justice and praise in the presence of the Gentiles.

In the responsorial, Luke presents Mary’s response to Elizabeth who has recognized Jesus in Mary’s womb. Mary sings of her God and God’s community. She finds the basis of her joy not within herself but within God. Placing herself within the framework of Israel’s history, Mary unequivocally replies to the question: “Who am I? I am yours.”

The two opening verses of Sunday’s gospel describe John as witness to the light and Jesus himself as the light. The Baptist seeks his own identity in relation to the Lord. John explains that he is not one of the traditional figures of the end of the world (the Messiah, Elijah, or the prophet). He is, however, the herald spoken of in Isaiah 40:3. John’s baptism of water envisions the coming one, the Messiah.

Identity begins with family, then we look to community. We must support positive programs for the good of all our neighbors. Allegiance to Church and our brothers and sisters in faith is essential. In all these and similar situations we are encouraged to respond: “Who am I? I am yours.”

Have a blessed week.

The Generosity of God

At times, the hurried pace of our lives may at times obscure even the most dramatic reality — for example, the gift-giving presence of our God. Sunday’s readings speak of God’s nearness in our daily lives. The Scriptures capture moments when people were challenged to react to God’s presence. First, however, they had to become aware of God’s gifts, then they had to respond.
Around 540 B.C., Second Isaiah, the anonymous prophet of the exile, spoke to his despairing community. His opening words of comfort and tenderness reveal a God who, forgetting the past, offers the grace of the present moment. There had to be a march through the desert to the land of Israel; this trek would manifest God’s presence, to the utter amazement of the people. Even then, the people had to become aware of the moment!
In Psalm 85, the community asks for God’s presence. Putting aside all hesitation the psalmist announces that God proclaims peace to the people. To enjoy God’s gift of peace, however, the community must keep its covenant with Yahweh. It is just such a response, culminating in kindness, truth, and justice, that ushers in the blessing of the harvest.
Mark begins his gospel with the image of the desert. He quotes Second Isaiah to tell us that John the Baptist announces God’s unexpected gift of salvation in the desert. Like the ninth-century prophet Elijah, John wears a garment of camel’s hair and a leather belt (see 2 Kings 1:8). God’s presence in the Baptist demands a response of radical conversion and of repentance.
God’s gifts appear not only in extraordinary events such as a return from exile or the coming of Jesus but also in ordinary day-to-day occurrences. The grace of friendship, the devotion of a spouse, the comfort of co-workers — all of these manifest God’s gifts. Our awareness of giftedness moves us to a personal response where love, support, and consolation are given as well as received.
Where will we find the generosity of God this week?

The Season of Hope

This week we celebrate hope. We light the prophecy candle on our Advent Wreath and focus on the hope of the coming of the child that will save us all.

St. Paul tells us that there are three lasting things: faith, hope, and love. I find it hard to separate hope and faith. When I see one, I see the other. But hope has a character of its own. Hope is not simply an emotion or virtue, it is a way of life.

I had a professor once who told me that hope is an unsatisfactory view of the present, a satisfactory view of the future, and a commitment to change. Absent the commitment, it’s not hope.

It’s whining.

We whine well. We have perfected complaining. We blame. We rationalize. We pout.

But do we hope? Are we committed to making a change in our hearts, our homes, our lives? Do we desire that which we do not have and are we committed to letting God work through us to achieve it? Are we willing to place our trust in Christ’s promises and relying not on our own strength, but on the help of the grace of the Holy Spirit?

Are we willing to allow hope to stand beside us like a friend, no matter how desperate we might feel, knowing that with the help of the Spirit, life can be better?

Or are we okay with whining?

Have a good week.

Thanksgiving Week

One thought.

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, that would be enough.

Meister Eckhart got it right. Not much more to say.

Happy Thanksgiving.

– pjd

 

 

Psalm 34

This is a big week in our household. Mom is away so it’s dinner out every night and a suspension of all the rules.

I am kidding, of course. Really, it’s four against one. Child number three turns 16 this week and Thursday is the anniversary of my brother’s death. Child number two goes to NCYC on Thursday and another one has a concert this weekend, an event that comes with last minute shopping for a black tie and dress rehearsals at dinner time. The dogs and I will spend quality time together and I assume they will engage in a cage match only while I am on Zoom.

I drove nearly 500 miles over the weekend and never left Fairfield County. Between practices, rehearsals, college tours, and a trip to JFK, I spent quality time behind the wheel. It gave me a chance to catch up with individual children and Maureen and I braved the traffic last night so she could arrive in Indianapolis long before the conference participants.

As I do most Sundays, I got the chance to go through the next week’s readings. I like looking ahead. I hate surprises. Tomorrow, the psalm is a favorite – number 34. Do you know it without looking it up?

I will bless the Lord at all times. 

At. All. Times.

In traffic. In crowds. When the idiot in front of me turns left as soon as the light turns green. In the supermarket when the people in front of me clearly had no training on self checkout. When the child waits until the last minute to announce a need for some obscure item that Amazon will not deliver on time. When another child announces they’ve been waiting for you to get home to decide what to eat for dinner. When no one has fed the dogs or emptied the dishwasher or taken out the trash.

At. All. Times.

It’s a Psalm worth remembering, even if you have to mutter it to yourselves as you fly down I-95.

Have a good week.

We Remember

Like everyone else who was awake that day, I remember what I was doing and where I was on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

When my sisters visited for Thanksgiving that year, we drove to New York from my home in Delaware.  The fires were still smoldering. Bodies were still being recovered. Guards were posted ever few feet, facing the crowds, standing stoically, both protecting what was behind them and guarding those who faced them.  There was a silence, a pall over the crowd. Enough time had passed that the flyers announcing the missing were weathered. But not enough time had passed to stop people from openly weeping as they held on to the fence that had been erected.

I thought about that visit on Sunday when the bishop honored local heroes and first responders. Specifically, I remembered an encounter with a man that still gives me chills.  He was a policeman, standing guard at the fence where we stood praying.  I asked him how he did it. I wondered out loud how in the world he stood guard over a graveyard that held his brothers and fathers. I asked him what kept him coming back, day after day, to stand guard over such an awful place.

His answer stopped me cold. He looked me squarely in the eye and spoke without hesitation: “I’m a Christian. I’m a Catholic. There is so much crucifixion here, so much death, so much evil. But there is resurrection too. So I’m standing by the tomb and I’m waiting.”

There is evil in the world.  But look closer, my friends, because there is resurrection too. I pray that as you pause to reflect and remembers twenty-two years later, you listen to the man I encountered on that smoky night at Ground Zero. The promise of our faith is simple. The cross leads to the tomb. And the tomb, in its emptiness, brings us face to face with life.

That is where I find hope. And I pray you will as well.

Peter’s Confession

The reading from Matthew’s Gospel we shared yesterday is one of my favorites.

Remember: Jesus asks the apostles that great, defining question, “Who do people say that I am?” It’s the 2,000-year-old version of, “Hey, what are you hearing about me out there?” except that it doesn’t sound paranoid or conceited coming from Jesus.

Some apostles give answers and then Peter jumps in and shuts down the conversation. “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” Boom. There it is. The naked truth. The confession.

I use the word confession on purpose. Peter believed it to be true. It was – and is – a statement setting out essential religious doctrine. It was not and could not be a profession of some religious truth because that truth was not yet fully established. For this group of itinerant preachers, getting to the reality that Jesus was the Messiah was a process. Peter, who I imagine as very impatient, sought to make the truth known now.

And therein lies the challenge for us. Do we let others define who Jesus is for ourselves, our families, our coworkers, and partners in ministry or are we, like Peter, willing to make the statement others only say in the silence of their hearts?

To make Peter’s confession our own, we have to remember that it’s all faith. Peter’s statement is important because he did not know it to be true. He believed it to be true. Ultimately, we go to the grave believing, not knowing.

But we read the Bible, listen to the Gospels, and think about Jesus as people who have read the end of the book and seen the end of the movie. We know that if Jesus is not the Christ, our sins are not forgiven and Jesus did not rise, so, as St. Paul says, “Pack your bags” because we are all a bunch of fools.

But Peter did not know the end of the story. He only knew Jesus. He knew his own lived experiences and his lived experiences were the Jesus experiences. He knew the Jesus of history. We know the Christ of faith. We know that only if you walk with Jesus can you get to know Jesus and really come to see him. Peter didn’t know that – but he was figuring it out. (Which is, by the way, the reason Jesus tells the boys not to tell anyone – it’s a process for everyone.)

This is why I love this passage, whether it’s in Matthew 16 or Mark 8. It reveals the truth and joy that comes from understanding that only those who walk with Jesus and repent can sit down with Jesus (though the repenting may come later for some).

We too must walk the Jesus way so that we can break bread together and see Jesus for who and what he really is: the Lord. If we walk the Jesus way, then we too can sit with everyone – saints and sinners alike – and break bread together. But not without doubt and skepticism – it is a process, a journey.

It always reminds me of the end of Godspell. Jesus is dead and they take him off the cross. But in a really great production – where the audience is really into the play – they don’t just take Jesus down, they carry him around and sing those haunting words, “Long live God…long live God.” They cannot accept that this ends with death. God is victorious even in this death. Even the audience, who sings right along, cannot accept that this is the end. In time, they realize that it isn’t the end, but they don’t know that as they are singing. That’s why its so powerful.

That is why I love this passage. It reminds me to walk with Jesus, as did the first followers. It reminds me to experience Jesus. It tells me that if I do, I too will see precisely who and what this man is: God’s definitive act, word, salvation, and presence in history.

Then I too can say with Peter: “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” But now it will no longer be Peter’s confession, but my own.

Lent?

I feel like we sort of stumbled through Lent. Family life has been messy, but love always is. The house is only now being put back together after painters, electricians, and masons were all gainfully employed by the Donovans for a bit.

We have not made it to evenings of Taize prayer or soup and supper at the parish like we had hoped. Between play practice, cello lessons, piano lessons, and therapy appointments, the weekends really have become about rest – after you do everything else you ignored during the week.

Parenting a teenager is hard. Parenting four at a time is, shall we say, not for the faint of heart.

So as we settle into this last full week of Lent, I am reminded of the words of my late friend and fellow pilgrim, Macrina.

The acting out of love to the extent of dying on a cross is a mystery I have never been fully able to understand. My limited ability to love stands embarrassed at such extravagance. My daily attempt falls short of my dreams. I carry my crosses carefully, trying to make sure they don’t take too much out of me.

I always leave a little pink around the edges of my crosses. I can not bear unpleasant things. I honestly don’t know how Jesus did it! I can hardly accept WHY he did it. The why he did it always makes me feel guilty about the pink around the edges.

During Lent, at least, I’d like to let the pink go. I’d like to be content for forty days with a cross that is not pretty. But I am so young in my faith. It is hard not to cheat a little and search for soft, easy, pretty crosses.

O God of Lent, remember me. Help me to take all the clutter that I try to decorate my crosses with, all the ways I try to camouflage your death and dying because my faith has not grown enough and to look at death as it really is: an emptiness that brings me face to face with LIFE.

And yet, within my fragile, questioning heart I know that if I would ever dare get close enough to dying, to death, it would fall over into life.

O God of Lent, Your love has opened my eyes. It is my own pink-edged crosses that have broken my heart.

But your cross has saved me.

from Seasons of Your Heart
Macrina Wiederkehr

Happy Heart Day

Nothing is more practical than
finding God, than
falling in Love
in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination, will affect everything.
It will decide
what will get you out of bed in the morning,
what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, whom you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.
Fall in Love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.


Often attributed to Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ (1907-1991), but actually written by Fr. Joseph Whelan, SJ. From “Finding God in All Things: A Marquette Prayer Book, 2009 Marquette University.

Do Over

When they hand you the baby in the hospital, take off the little LoJack, and tell you to go home, they forget to tell you a bunch of stuff.

Sure, they give you a ton of those blue and white blankets, mostly so the kid fits in the car seat and her little head doesn’t bop from side to side as you do thirty miles an hour down the interstate, confident you will break the child if you go too fast.

But I digress.

They do not tell you what to do next. They do not tell you what to do when the kid is a teenager and is caught in a web of bad decisions. They don’t tell you siblings will keep secrets from you. They don’t tell you that the worrying only gets worse.

Most of all, they do not tell you that the world in which you grew up doesn’t exist any more and that it’s no use trying to do what your parents did because those days are gone and you have to figure it all out by yourself.

If I had to do it over again, I would have chosen a different school when we moved here. I would have delayed technology, maybe forever. I would have protected them from television and movies and other people. I would have interviewed their friends first and asked their parents a hundred questions. I would have, if I could, protected them more from themselves.

The reality is that infants turn into toddlers and toddlers turn into children and children turn into teenagers and it just gets harder with each phase. The world seems to get scarier and less Christian at the same time; the culture is shifting away from the holy and that just makes things harder. The kids have access to excess in their pockets and everything is overly sexualized.

In short, the world is a mess. It’s no wonder that kids suffer from more anxiety and depression and loneliness than any generation in history. How do we keep our children from being dumb when the stare our mothers gave us apparently skipped a generation or at least somehow, this generation seems immune to it.  You remember it, don’t you. Your mother could look at you and you could feel the stare go through you like a lightsaber. Either I don’t have the look, or my children just don’t care.

People keep telling us that it will get better, kids will outgrow this, and all will be well because our kids are good kids and every kid goes through this phase.

They better be right. I have all my eggs in this novena-shaped basket and my hopes are high that prayer and positive thinking (with a measured dose of discipline and counseling) will get us through these teenage years so my children become well-informed, well-adjusted, smarter-than-the-average-bear adults.

Because, right now, the internal button marked, “dumb,” seems to be stuck in the on position.

St. Jude, pray for us.