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.

 

The Poor In Spirit

St. Matthew gave us all the Beatitudes on Sunday morning, but the Bishop focused on only one at Mass: the first one. He called it the doorway to all the others, the requirement for the rest. Live the first one, the others become easier to understand and emulate.

It reminded me of my friend, Macrina Wiederkehr, a Benedictine nun who died in 2020 of a brain tumor. She has a reflection on all the Beatitudes, but this one danced around in my head as the Bishop spoke.

I turned to the empty ones,
What does it mean to be poor in spirit? I asked
Is there anything good about being that poor?
 
The poor in spirit replied:
Can God fill anyone who is full?
And how sad if you should suddenly discover
That you are full of illusions
Instead of filled with truth.
 
Being poor in spirit means
Having nothing to call your own
Except your poverty
It is a joyful awareness of your emptiness
It is the soil of opportunity
For God has space to work
In emptiness that is owned.
 
Being poor in spirit means
Knowing that you are so small
And dependent
Needy and powerless
That you live with open hands
And an open heart
Waiting to be blessed.
For only then can you be blessed
If you know
That you need blessing.
 
Being poor in spirit
Means that you have time
You are not oppressed by deadlines
There is always time for waiting
For the one who is poor.
Being poor in this way
Frees you from the prison
Of having to have everything
planned and structured
As though there were no tomorrow.
 
And finally, being poor in spirit
Means being able to say
Without embarrassment
Humbly, and yet with passion:
“I need you.”

This week, may we have the courage to be empty, to be poor, to seek the assistance of others as we journey together.

Amazing Song. Amazing Grace.

The song, Amazing Grace, turned 250 on New Year’s Day.

I know that because I saw it on the news, read it in the paper, and heard it on the radio – all sources of information that, growing up, we took as gospel. Today, many of us listen and watch with suspicious eyes and ears, confident that the announcer has an agenda, a sponsor, and puppet strings he or she cannot even see.

I miss a world without the constant barrage of news. But that is another story.

When I was a child, my mother would have CBS Sunday Morning on in the kitchen. From the time I was nine years old, Charles Kuralt told stories, interviewed guests, and took us places we would never go on our own. After spending nearly a quarter century on the road, Kuralt joined Sunday Morning and had a way to tell a story that drew the viewer into learning something new  – something they never would have bothered with – were it not for his southern gentility and distinct, deep voice. He was convinced that people were generally good, that our country was an idea worthy of the messiness, and that everyone had a story to tell.

On a particular Sunday morning decades ago, I was in the kitchen with my mom and Kuralt was telling the story of Amazing Grace. Not its history, but how it had inspired people through the years. I don’t remember much of it, except that the singing was mesmerizing. We stood transfixed, my mother and I, staring at this tiny television we occasionally had to smack to get to work, listening to the words, the music, the lyrics. I wish I could remember who was singing. It was towards the end of the show and when the music faded, Kuralt came on with his signature, “I’ll see you again…next Sunday morning,”

Today, I enjoy CBS Sunday Morning via YouTube. Jane Pauley replaced Charles Osgood, who replaced Kuralt back in 1994. Mom is gone, so is Charles Kuralt. We do not have a television in the kitchen and we no longer are tied to cable or a schedule. Progress, I suppose.

So a few weeks ago, I saw the YouTube entry about Amazing Grace and quickly clicked it. Jane Pauley introduced a story about Amazing Grace and its big birthday. As reporter Ramy Inocencio told it:

Sung an estimated 10 million times each year, “Amazing Grace” marks its 250th anniversary this New Year’s Day. It was born not of American Black spirituals as some believe, but across the Atlantic, in the tiny English market town of Olney, some 60 miles north of London, with lyrics older than the Declaration of Independence.  

I suppose the song has always held a special place in my heart because of that Sunday morning so long ago. But its simple lyrics are ones that everyone can understand and appreciate. I was lost and now am found, blind and now I see. We can all relate. It can give us all hope.

Just after Charles Kuralt left Sunday Morning back in 1994, country singer Kenny Chesney sang the song at the funeral of my big brother, Jim. Years later, I got to hear the Irish Tenors sing it live. The same with Mary Chapin Carpenter and Josh Groban. Every time I hear it, it takes me back to that Sunday morning in the kitchen, fills my eyes with tears, and warms the depths of my heart, filling an emptiness I forget is there.

Yes, it has been recorded hundreds of times by hundreds of people. But for my money, no recording tops Judy Collins.

This week, find a quiet spot. Click the link below and close your eyes. Let the words written by a slave-trader turned abolitionist and the music added decades later by a Baptist minister, fill the room and warm your heart and soul.

Though many dangers, toils and snares... let the echos of the grace that is all around you each day, carry you away.

Let that grace fill you with hope and lead you home.

Ready?

Let us pray.

Click here.

 

Skipping Nothing

Some theologians tell us that Easter is the most important feast of the Church year. In some ways that is true. However, people, believers and nonbelievers alike, celebrate Christmas far more widely and with far greater joy.

Is this simply because Christmas is about motherhood, the birth of a child, innocence, and love? After all, these are at the heart of human life. Yet most of us would find it hard to identify with rising from the darkness of the tomb. Maybe that is the difference. But perhaps there is more, a lot more. Perhaps we are more deeply in touch with an abstract idea we call the Incarnation than we realize. It could be that something deep inside us knows what “the Word made Flesh” really means.

From the moment God breathed God’s life-giving spirit over the darkness of the void and brought creation to life, God spoke to people. Through giants like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Deborah, Jeremiah, Isaiah, the psalmists, God gave us the words of life.

But, on Christmas day, the living Word of God came into the world. Mary gave birth to the Son of God. In this Jesus, God communicated most eloquently with God’s people. In this Jesus, God held children. God met with skeptics and dined with outcasts. In Jesus, God talked, listened. God wept over the dead Lazarus. God touched the leper. God put mud and spittle on the blind man’s eyes and healed him. Through Jesus, God entered the cycle of human life and unswervingly walked its path to the end.

Perhaps Christmas is so touching because God skipped nothing, not the frantic eruption of birth nor the numbing moment of death. God came to be one of us.

Perhaps the gift-giving of Christmas, the outpouring of love we lavish on one another, echoes the final message this God-Made-Man spoke through human flesh: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12).

Maybe this feast opens the door to some inner cell of our hearts where we imprison the Word that tells us that now we must be the arms of God surrounding the little ones; that we must be God’s voice to speak and God’s ears to listen; that we must weep God’s tears; that we must be God’s healing hands; that we must be Jesus in our times and in our culture. the power of this truth escapes and, at least for a few moments, warms up the coldness of our world.

It is indeed up to the twenty-first-century Christians to give birth to Jesus in their own time, their own culture, their own families. This is the heart of faith and life. And deep within us, we know it.

We feel it and so we celebrate.

Waiting

Amid the chaos, God is there.

When we realize the length of our lists and the clutter in our mind and souls, God is there.

When we miss those who are not here and hold the hands of those who are, God is there.

When we laugh and cry and improve and grow, God is there.

When we feel empty and lonely and wonder if anyone else feels the same, God is there.

When we hurt for our children and our families and care for one another, God is there.

When we look at the world and shake our heads in despair, God is there…

Waiting for us to be people of peace.

On Your Side

One of our priests gave a presentation the other day at an all-employee meeting. I didn’t pay attention to most of it, to be honest. My mind was on the list of things I had to do and the many things I had failed to do. But at some point, I must have paid attention, because I heard him say that, as a priest, he spends a great deal of time telling couples that he is on their side.

“As a shepherd, a guide, a companion… I am on your side. That is why I became a priest.” It struck me that there are some priests and deacons who have forgotten that, some faith formation leaders who have forgotten that, and many, many others who may never have thought of it.

As a parent, it shook me. I wanted to leave that place and run home to my children to let them know that I was on their side. Always.

When I fuss at you for leaving an assignment to to the last minutes.

When I yell because you have a pile of dishes in your room and we are out of forks in the kitchen.

When I tell you to turn off the lights and go to bed.

When I wake you up to go to Church, even though I know you babysat until after midnight.

When I tell you, “no.”

When I ask for your help and it is a rhetorical question.

I am on your side.

When I question whether something you think is the end of the world is actually that big of a deal.

When I look at your social media posts on your phone and ask you to edit or delete them.

When I challenge you, encourage you, comfort you, and conspire with you,

When I ask about grades or missing assignments, or how your day was,

I am on your side.

Being a teenager is hard enough. Being a teenager in this culture, with your access to excess in the palm of your hand, can be overwhelming. Life is hard. Love is messy. And telling you that it will all be okay sounds like a myth when you feel the world closing in around you.

But through it all – in the darkness and the light – I am on your side.

That’s my job. That’s my blessing. That’s my reality. It happened the moment we discovered you were on the way and the center of my life suddenly existed outside myself. It’s a basic change in position, St. Paul would say. A shift in focus. From inside to outside to your side.

Always.