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The Seventy-Two

The reading from Sunday has been on my brain today. I know we read the story  of Jesus sending the 72 from a few different Gospels, but the story itself has been on my mind and since I have not been faithful in my weekly posts, I thought I would share.

There are a few elements to consider. The instruction is to pray first. Pray for each other. Pray for the mission. Pray for the people. For Jesus, prayer precedes the mission because we soon find that prayer pervades the mission too. So whatever it is you are about today, begin with prayer. 

Go in pairs. Another common theme. We need each other. I suppose Mother  Theresa may have been correct when she diagnosed the worlds problems this way: “We have forgotten that we belong to each other.” There is a lot of noise out there. Blue. Red, Right. Left. Trad, Rad Trad, and Neo Trad. Too much noise.

Jesus was clear: we need each other. Not because it’s helpful to have company (one prays while one heals), it’s because we are built for community, for relationship.

Urgency. Jesus tells the disciples to go on your way. Go now. No dilly-dallying. The harvest is plentiful and the laborers are few. There is no time to waste. And take nothing – because no thing is more important than the mission and so there is no time to waste getting ready.

Peace. The greeting of peace is a Jewish greeting and a farewell. We must be people of peace, but peace requires a relationship. It requires harmony. Remember how I said we need each other – well, there you go. And if you don’t find harmony – if you are not invited into relationship – and there are many places this won’t happen – leave. Shake the dust. Go on your way. The mission is too important to waste with people who are not interested.

That is a striking instruction and counter intuitive to our ears. It’s also a story for another time.

Finally, proclaim the kingdom. Notice that this comes after the greeting of peace and care of the needy. It is essential to the mission but needs context. The context is living love. Do that first. Build relationships first. Because if you don’t, no one will listen. 

Just a few thoughts. May your week be filled with prayer, people whom you love and are in harmony with, peace, and most importantly, a sense of the mission that drives you always forward.

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Lessons From Saints

This week, we celebrate two great saints: St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More.

John Fisher was a bishop who refused to recognize the king of England, Henry VIII, as the supreme head of the church in England. He was executed on orders of the king, who could not stand being embarrassed by those whose reputations as a theologian and scholar were greater than his own reputation as ruler.

We celebrate Bishop Fisher that same day we celebrate my favorite saint, Thomas More. Also executed for his refusal to recognize the king over the pope as head of the church, More was the Lord Chancellor of England, whose final days are recounted in Robert Bolt’s play, A Man For All Seasons. I read that play every summer and taught it when I was a junior high teacher and, again, more recently, in a class I taught at a local university. At the end of the play, More stands on the dais, about the lose his head for following his conscience and says, (at least in the play), “I have been commanded by the king to be brief, so brief I will be. I die here the king’s good servant, but God’s first.”

More and Fisher served the king well. When the king didn’t get what he wanted, he changes the rules. People still do that, don’t they?

The world doesn’t have enough people willing to be “God’s first” – not Republicans first, not Democrats first, not liberals or conservatives, or ultra-anything, not watchers of news from one side or the other, but true, honest to goodness folks, willing to stand up and be “God’s first.”

Because if we are judged on how we treat the one another, some of us might be in real trouble. Yes, me included.

This week, let us work hard to be “God’s first.”

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Rest

In Wayne Muller’s book Sabbath, the author reminds us that rest is not optional; it is a command. In the Ten Commandments, we are commanded to keep holy the Sabbath, and for a faithful Jew, that meant resting from work. The busyness of our lives can become like a violence in our midst, forcing us to work day and night, respond to emails at all hours, and work tirelessly to “get the job done.”

When we live without listening to the timing of things, when we live and work in twenty-four-hour shifts without rest – we are on war time, mobilized for battle. Yes, we are strong and capable people, we can work without stopping, faster and faster, electric lights making artificial day so the whole machine can labor without ceasing. But remember: No living thing lives like this. There are greater rhythms, seasons and hormonal cycles and sunsets and moonrises and great movements of seas and stars. We are part of the creation story, subject to all its laws and rhythms.

This week, let us make a conscious effort to rest. It’s been a crazy year and a half and our bodies and minds will function much more effectively if we take time this summer to unplug, recharge, step back, and rest.

Now if only I could follow that advice…

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The Visitation

My wife is amazing. Anyone who knows her knows this. I married up in every sense of the word (except height). When she was pregnant with each of our children, I saw her do things that would have us mere men falter: manage the safe release of more than twenty thousand high school students from an arena, facilitate meetings with adults who behave like children, work full time, cook, clean, and wrangle our own children all by herself while I am an ocean away.

Yes, she is amazing. Pregnant or not. Women are amazing. We men should know that, respect that, honor that, and always remember that.

Even with all of this amazing-ness, all of it pales in comparison to what we read about in today’s Gospel. In Luke, chapter one, Mary sets out in haste. Having just learned she will be the mother of her Lord, an unwed mother at that, she thinks not of herself, but of her cousin whom she has learned is now with child. She must go help. There is no choice. She must head out in haste.

Having been to the Holy Land and having made the journey Mary made (in an afternoon, in a van), I am drawn into that story. We celebrate the Annunciation in March, the Visitation in May, and the birth of Christ at Christmas. It fits nicely with our modern-day calendar, but let’s imagine for a moment that it actually lines up with history. Mary receives a visit from the angel, to which she gives hers fiat, her “yes” to God. Then, hearing that Elizabeth, a cousin presumably, is with child, she forgets her own needs and heads out – in haste! For the next sixty or so days, she hikes her way up and down hills, through the valley of villages, across very dry land, traversing rocks, heat, and discomfort as she goes – all so she can be of service to someone else. The short van ride we made in air conditioning took her two months – though my hunch is that she probably would have stopped to help anyone else she saw in need. Still, I haven’t done anything “in haste” in some time and that line reminds us of Mary’s single-mindedness. Elizabeth is first. May is second. It’s clear she was teaching Jesus from the get-go.

Once again, we turn to Ruth Mary Fox and her wonderful poem about this event. Let each of us commit to going “in haste” to someone in need this week. Let us bring Christ to others so they, too, may leap for joy.

Into the hillside country Mary went
Carrying Christ.
And all along the road the Christ she carried
Generously bestowed his grace on those she met.
But she had not meant to tell she carried Christ
She was content to hide his love for her.
But about her glowed such joy that into stony hearts
Love flowed
And even to the unborn John, Christ’s love was sent.

Christ, in the sacrament of love each day, dwells in my soul
A little space.
And then as I walk life’s crowded highways
Jostling men who seldom think of God
To these, I pray, that I may carry Christ
For it may be
Some may not know of him
Except through me.

Have a wonderful week.

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Thinking of Brian

Every once in a while, I scan the obituaries in the Knoxville paper. I lived there from the time I was three or four until I was nearly thirty, so the people listed in those pages are often teachers, family friends, and neighbors. Every so often, I am stopped in my tracks at one of the names I read, recalling with great fondness the memories of spending time with that person, living nearby that person, or worshiping alongside that person.

Sadly, once in a while I stumble across the name of a young person who sat before me in a classroom or took part in the ministry I led. That’s exactly what happened last week.

When I saw Brian’s name and picture, I just sat there. Stunned. Was he sick? Was there an accident? How did I not know this?

To be fair, I hadn’t seen Brian in years. I hadn’t talked to his mom in nearly a decade, despite her constant support and her family’s generosity. It’s been a few years since I was back in Knoxville, pandemic notwithstanding, and every time I visit the numbers of those I see gets smaller. There are plenty of excuses, but our lives change as we grow up and start having children of our own.

But his photo brought back a rush of memories to part of my life long before Maureen and the kids.

In my thirty years of teaching and ministry, I have probably encountered hundreds, maybe thousands of young people. Most of them, to be honest, fade from my mind. Unless they say or do something that I remember – for good or for ill – most are nondescript mental notations tucked away in the far recesses of my mind.

Then there are kids like Brian.

Even in junior high, he was wise beyond his years – and not just because he had this infectious laugh and this great smile that lit up when he got a joke I told that no one else had understood. He had a great sense of humor and I could tell that he was thinking about things that were funny or witty or sarcastic or maybe even a little mean. His whole face would light up and he would just sit there and smile.

He was a great student, did all his work, and got frustrated when others didn’t pull their own weight. As I read the notice in the paper, I remembered how he would challenge those who would not or could not behave, prodding them to be better, encouraging them to buckle down and get to work. Ironic, I thought, that some of them would be carrying him at his funeral. He made them better just by being himself.

At recess, Brian would play with the new kid, making sure everyone was welcomed. He adored his little brother, and I can still remember the look on Corey’s face when he would have to stay in the car while Brian was off on another adventure with the older kids.

After I left Knoxville, Brian and his mom were among the very first I welcomed into my new home six hundred miles away. While the kids swam in the pool out back, his mom and I sat in the kitchen and talked about old times. The picture of Brian and I in front of my office still hangs on the wall. When I asked my own children to pray for his family, one of them immediately remarked that they knew him – or at least his name. It turns out Brian’s name is on several of our Christmas ornaments – gifts he gave his teacher long, long ago.

He was one of those kids that could have done anything he wanted. Like most kids in his mid-thirties, he struggled with anxiety and joblessness and an overwhelming desire to change the world. Brian always looked at the way things could be, the way people ought to be, and the way he wanted to be. Though his death was an accident, I am saddened that he died alone after meaning so much to so many.

As a parent, I can only imagine the grief enveloping the family. They are, of course, devastated. His little brother is lost and his friends in shock.

I pray that they find hope in those words of the preface to the Eucharist Prayer that will be prayed at Brian’s funeral this week: Life is changed, not ended. 

This week, check in on one another, pray for those who have made our lives better, and, if you would, pray for Brian’s family. For a mother and father who loved and supported him no matter what, and for a little brother who struggles with the loss of his best friend.

Pray, too, for my friend Brian. May the angels come to greet him. May they speed him to paradise. May their arms enfold him. And may he find eternal life.

For me, you will always be that smiling kid in religion class, longing for the chance to put the Gospel into practice, asking the tough questions, and working hard to understand what God has planned for those who love Him.

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Back to Work

Just when we have this whole Zoom thing figured out and our home office is neat and clean, it’s time to return to the office.

At least for me. Maureen’s never left her office.

How, I keep asking, with so many things cancelled, can I still be so busy? I am caught between being so grateful that we both have jobs and the strong desire to blow it all off and go for a walk in the middle of the day.

The office will reopen officially in a few weeks and the working from home will slowly subside. I will have to move the papers and files and books from the attic office and dump them back on my “real” desk.

I will take a look at the folders and papers around the office and wonder to myself, “If I haven’t touched them in 15 months, can I just throw them out?”

I will see colleagues I haven’t seen in ages, which is mostly good.

I will take a break from my weekly filming of Mass and return with the family to attend on a regular basis.

Most of all, I will have to find pants that fit.

You see, one thing we all figured out working from home is that you can wear the same sweatpants for a week and just change the top – or not – while you are Zooming across the hemisphere. There are clothes in my closet I have not worn in more than a year, even if I have been going in to the office, on average, once a week.

I have seriously considered wearing a uniform like that rich kid from the Facebook or the guy from Apple, but my ego won’t let me wear the same things over and over. To be fair, I am not sure that’s what they do exactly, but you get the point.

The children are mostly back in school (one in quarantine because a classmate’s parents let their kid go to a party) – and just as they will be released for the summer, I will head back to work.

It will be a nice change of pace, but I know that it will not be the same when I cannot turn off the camera, go grab a snack, and wear clothes that don’t match.

Have a good week – at home, at work – or wherever you are.

 

 

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Easter Readings

The Scripture readings around the Easter season are filled with great challenges. Yes, Scripture is always filled with challenges, but I really like the ones we find in the readings around Easter.

We have the women running to the tomb. We have Peter reconciling with Jesus. We have the apostles walking to nowhere and meeting Jesus on the way. We have Thomas the doubter – who we must remember is recognized as a saint (that always give me hope).

Eventually, we have the apostles looking at the sky, waiting for what’s next.

But the people who have been on my mind of late are the disciples in the upper room. We hear that they were in the upper room and the doors were locked. Jesus arrives. Thomas isn’t there. You remember the story.

Then, a week later, Jesus arrives again and shows Thomas his hands and feet.

The doors were still locked.

Think about that for a minute. We focus on Thomas because he doubts and his name means twin and we, doubters and sinners, are his twin. We think about Thomas because we get Thomas. We struggle and wonder and question and doubt.

But don’t let the other ten off the hook. They experienced the Risen Christ. They welcomed him. They interacted with him. This guy with whom they had interacted and lived and shared their lives with had been brutally put to death. They buried him. Now, he had been raised and was standing, breathing and talking in their midst.

But after he left, they locked the door.

I am not sure what the lesson is for you, but for me it raises the question about my own openness to the resurrection experience. When I experience Christ in the flesh all around me do I welcome it and share it or does the fear overwhelm me?

Do I lock the doors to feel safe or to avoid responsibility?

Maybe that’s why we celebrate Easter for so long. The dead are raised. What has happened for one is suddenly possible for all. After a lifetime of saying, “yes” to God – even unto death – God validates his life choices and says, “yes” right back to Jesus.

God resurrects that which we crucify. Isn’t that nice?

Why then, if we believe, are so many doors still locked?

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An Easter People

It is good to have the Gloria back.

It is good to have our Alleluia back.

It good to be free of Lent.

It is good to have journeyed well, to have sacrificed much, to have fasted intently, and to have prayed often.

It is good to be loved so much that His sacrifice is enough. Once. For all.

It is good that Springtime is finally here.

It is good to have Easter baskets filled with candy and yes, even a new mask or two.

It is good that vaccines are in progress, the number of our sick friends is going down, and restrictions are being lifted.

It is good that we celebrate good health.

It is good to be blessed with work.

It is good to have our churches open, even if only partially.

It is good to be with family, even if some can still only join virtually.

It is good that we live and work and pray in a country where we fear little when it comes to where we worship and how we worship. And though there is violence, it pales in comparison to the violence elsewhere.

It is good to hold your children close.

It is good to be forgiven. Redeemed. Saved. Blessed.

It is good.

It is very very good.

We are, after all, the people of Easter.

And “Alleluia” is our song.

~pjd

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Voices

On Thursday this week, we celebrate the Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord, when Mary received the invitation to be the Mother of God in the flesh.

It makes me think about all the times I have said, “Yes,” to an invitation by God. More importantly, it reminds me of all those times I have ignored the voice in my head.

The voice that says, “be nice.”

The voice that says, “be quiet.”

The voice that says, “tell him he did a good job.”

The voice that says, “tell her how pretty she is.”

The voice that says, “forgive willingly.”

The voice that says, “let me help you.”

The voice that says, “let me lead the way.”

The voice that says, “spend time with me.”

This week, I will pay more attention to the voice of God, the invitations He sends, and the opportunities to serve.

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10:34 am

Thirty four minutes past ten in the morning.

That was the time written on the folder that Nikki gave me after giving me my first dose of the COVID19 vaccine on Thursday.

It was exactly 15 minutes past the time I got the shot and, like the hundreds of other people in the room, I was instructed to wait to make sure I did not have a reaction other than joy.

When I was first invited to make the appointment – earlier than Maureen because I am an adjunct at a local college, I struggled with whether to wait for her so we could go together. Then I heard her voice in my head, “This isn’t a date, take the earliest spot you can find.” So I did.

When I arrived, the police directed me to the proper parking lot. I parked and followed safely behind all the other masked folks heading into the building.

What I found there was nothing short of festive.

Some tunes from the 1950s played and a few nurses were dancing in the aisle, though not with each other. The first person greeted me with a huge smile (at least that’s what it looked like in his eyes) and asked me to fill out some paperwork he knew I had already done online. “Hey, it’s government, what can I tell you?” he joked.

I went from that line to the kiosk where they checked ID and confirmed I was a teacher and then from that kiosk to another line where you were invited into either line 1, 2, 3… all the way to 12 to take your place six feet behind the person already in the chair getting their shot.

When it got to be my turned, I exposed my shoulder, confirmed my ID again, and asked the nurse her name. I told her I wanted to pray in thanksgiving for her and the work she and her colleagues were doing. She got a surprised look on her face, smiled, thanked me, and administered the shot. We were both overcome by the experience of all of it that nothing else was spoken.

The National Guardsmen were there wiping down chairs and giving direction. It occurred to me that other than attending a ceremony welcoming a group home from the war, I have had very little interaction with men and women in the Guard. I’ve never been evacuated, never had to be rescued, never been in a military conflict, and never been that up close with those who sign up to serve so selflessly.

People of all races and all ages were all around – smiling, waving at old friends, following directions without complaint. I kept thinking that this was the best of us.  Between the music and the atmosphere and the knowledge that an end might be in sight, it was a nice respite from the year we have had of keeping our distance and seeing family only through Zoom.

As I sat looking at the clock, another person came over to make the follow up appointment for shot number two. She could tell a birthday would happen between now and then and wished me well.

Then, time was up. My fifteen minutes of people watching ended and I headed towards the door. The young lady seated there joked that it was her job to catch people who couldn’t tell time. Like everyone else, she was happy, even excited to do a mundane task because, I suppose, of the implications of this very place.

So many lives have been lost. So many people with whom we have become disconnected. So many parties and dinners and birthdays and picnics cancelled. Life looks so much different than it did before. It should look different. We are different.

Still, bright spots emerge. Brought to us by a group of people we have never met but who bring out the best in all of us.

God bless you Nikki and Charlie and Keisha and Mike – and all your coworkers in the vineyard of keeping us safe.