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Losing Our Way

Like many people, I use Waze to help me get from point A to point B. I call the disembodied voice Gladys and, most of the time, she is very helpful.

Last week, I was headed to a parish I had not visited before. I could see it. I knew in my gut it was a left turn ahead and not a right turn. But Gladys kept telling me to turn right, so I did. My instincts, it turned out, were correct. Gladys was wrong.

As I pulled into a driveway and turned around, it made me wonder why I listen to the voice coming from my phone more than I listen to the voice inside my own head. I thought about all this again on Thursday as the young people from my class at Sacred Heart University circled the neighborhood looking for our house. I had invited them over to watch A Man for All Seasons as we ended the semester but I finally had to send two of the children outside to flag some of them down.

You see, when the neighborhood was built, the new homes were mostly for executives from General Electric and everyone got to choose their own house numbers. I am not kidding. We live at 301 but 305 is across the street. 87 is roughly seven houses away and is next door to 228. There are not “evens on this side and odds on that side.” Nope, it’s a big hot mess. I will admit, however, that it is fun to watch the substitute UPS driver try to figure it out. Apparently, the personal assistants the students were using could not figure it out either and so the children were sent to flag them down.

In this week’s Gospel reading, Jesus tells Thomas, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (Jn 14:6) And yet, we often give more authority to our smartphones (which are making us dumber, some would argue), or the television (real news vs. fake news), or the people around us (even if ill-informed). We live in a world where it will soon be possible to animate a real person and have that person appear to say things the person never actually said. Think about that. You could be watching television and think you are watching the Pope or the President or the leader of another country giving a speech when, in reality, the words are made up to incite others, not inform them. To echo Mark Twain, that false account will likely get around the world much faster than the truth.

Jesus is the way to God, the way to peace, the way to life eternal. No hacker or virus or false media report can make that less true. It is the Truth to which we must be converted so absolutely that it dominates our every thought, word, and deed.

This week, I will silence the voices around me – in my car, on my phone, and in my head – and listen to the Truth I learned long ago. Might I challenge you to do the same?

May your week be blessed.

-pjd

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Outcasts

For the Donovan family, Friday night is movie night. It has been that way since the oldest was a baby. The children (and parents) still miss the seating and the set-up from our family theater in Delaware, but like all first world problems, we muddle through with a large screen and comfortable seating.

Several months ago, we began to watch what we thought was the next movie in the Captain America series but within a few minutes realized we had no idea what was happening. With a little research, we discovered that you are not supposed to watch the Marvel movies in order of release. They tell a story and to understand it, you have to know which movie to watch and in what order to watch them. We are about fourteen weeks into this adventure and some of the movies are just fantastic. They speak of family and sacrifice, loyalty and redemption. They are worth the time and money it takes to rent them.

This weekend, however, we added another movie to the mix as we finally sat down to watch The Greatest Showman. It is a hybrid of Hollywood and reality and tells the story of P.T. Barnum, who lived and is buried just down the road. While it skips most of his time in Bridgeport (as mayor and legislator), it does tell the story of his relationship with those most vulnerable – and detested – in society.

I was a fan of the circus until the day it closed. We used to go every year near my birthday. In those early days, the title “circus’ was given to Barnum’s gathering of oddities as a term of derision. The people he gathered (and exploited) were among those that no one wanted to be around: the bearded lady, the tattooed man, the tall man, the short man, the fat man, and the hairy man, the conjoined and the dark-skinned. These are the people, the movie tells, that Barnum befriended with a smile and who helped him put on the greatest of shows.

In typical Hollywood fashion, he forgets his roots as the poor son of a tailor. He seeks fame and acceptance among the upper class. Only when tragedy strikes is he reminded what family really means, as he is encouraged to come home and rebuild. There is crucifixion and resurrection all wrapped up with songs you will be singing all week.

But the reason I loved the movie goes beyond the song and dance, though child number two couldn’t stop singing and child number four couldn’t stop dancing. There is a scene where Barnum’s youngest child meets the bearded lady and, while everyone else is laughing, she takes a cue from her father and looks past the lady’s shame and directly into her eyes. Barnum calls the bearded lady beautiful. His daughter smiles and maintains eye contact.

It made me wonder what cues my own children would take from me. Do they look upon those whom society ignores with love or do they change lanes to avoid eye contact? Do they treat others with respect or, like the crowds in the movie, yell, “You are not wanted here; go home?”

As my children grow, will they be among those outside the tent or among those who serve and are loyal to those singing and dancing?

Children watch. They don’t always listen. But children watch.

Sometimes it frightens me to be so powerful.

-pjd

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Converted

On Friday this week, we hear about the conversion of St. Paul.

I love that at the root of his faith is his experience.

His conversion experience is so powerful it becomes his whole life, his whole world. It defines his reality. The institutional church makes him a hero. In reality, he is a rebel. Paul doesn’t go along with the parameters; he sets the parameters.

He trusts his experience. It is not an “outer” authority with which he speaks, but an “inner” authority. So convinced is Paul of his conversion experience, he gives himself the title, apostle to the gentiles. Apostle: a title reserved in those early days for those who had experienced the risen Jesus.

Both Jesus and Paul trust their experience of God against the tradition. Over time, the institutional church takes the experience of both and domesticates it. There has to be a balance, I think, between trusting our “inner” authority and falling over into relativism.

There’s room for the “outer” authority, to be sure. But I don’t think we should be on bended knee before it either. I think we should behave as those who know something deep within – an experience of a God who won’t let go, no matter what.

In Galatians 2, Paul says quite clearly, “I have been crucified with Christ; yet I live, no longer I, but Christ lives in me…”

Powerful words. Such was Paul’s experience that he understood – before Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John ever told him – the death of Jesus was Paul’s own death to sin. One death for all.

So strong was the bond for Paul that it was not his words changing lives, but Christ’s. Not his actions, saving souls, but the resurrected Jesus’, now confessed as Christ.

For Paul, life became all about participation in the Body of Christ. We no longer live in the world and go to Church, rather we live as Church and go out to the world. It’s a basic change in position and it can only happen after we’ve been thrown to the ground and converted.

And what’s the opposite of participation?

Control.

Think about it. Do we participate or do we control?

I really do love St. Paul.

~pjd

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Twins

Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while knows that I have an affinity for good old Thomas. I get Thomas. I knew we would hear about him this week, just like we do every year around Easter. So I was prepared.

I even talked to a friend at work about Thomas on Friday afternoon. He’s a deacon and was preparing his Sunday homily. Lucky for me, we get to talk about such things at work and so Thomas came up in the conversation. As you know, Thomas was not present when Jesus first appears to the disciples. They were locked in the upper room for fear of the Jews. Thomas simply was not there.

Did you ever stop to think why? Where was he? Doing laundry? Catching up on some sleep (Easter can be exhausting)? Visiting his family?

The truth is, we do not know. What we do know is that in John 11:16, it is Thomas who says to the others, Let us also go, that we may die with him,” as Jesus works to convince his followers that they must return to Judea. He does not hesitate, this Thomas. If suffering is what Jesus has to endure, then let us go and endure it with him. They are, the story says, on their way back because Lazarus has died. So Thomas, presumably, knows what Jesus is capable of doing.

So where is he on that “evening of the first day of the week,” while the others were locked in a room, trembling with fear.

Could it be that he was not afraid?

Could it be that, even after all that he had seen and experienced, he trusted Jesus and knew the work must continue?

Assuming I am correct and Thomas was out and about telling the Jesus-story. Why does he doubt when the others tell him that Jesus had visited?

Perhaps the answer is in his name.

Thomas is called Didymus. It’s the Greek word for Twin. But whose twin?

Could it be – is it possible – that you and I are the twins of Thomas? Could it be that the name is given to those who struggle and wonder and doubt, even though the answer is right in front of them?

Could it be that, even after all the goodness and holiness and wonder and awe we experience, we still question if Jesus is present.

“My Lord and my God.” My everything. My master. My teacher. My witness. My ruler, leader, superior, monarch, sovereign, and king.

It is the cry of one who is – and was – faithful, but just forgets now and then to really see.

~pjd

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Sing Out, Earth and Skies

When you do Lent well, Easter means more.

This year, as a family, we did Lent well. We prayed together, we sacrificed, we talked about being better, and we talked about Lent. The poster created at work hung in the kitchen and, while it encouraged forty ways to live Lent well, we got to about half of them, which is pretty good, all things considered.

The kids were adamant that no one say the “A” word and chastised friends who did. We go through this every year.

The season – cold, snow, and all – seemed more real this year for some reason. Perhaps it was because we needed resurrection from a long, cold winter. Perhaps because for us, as a family, our Lent included power outages and hospitalizations, viruses and snow days. Perhaps it was last week’s funeral that tipped Lent more towards darkness than usual. Perhaps we gave up more, lived more intentionally, and waited, hoped, and prayed with greater fervor.

But come Sunday morning, the energy and enthusiasm was palpable and came not from chocolate but from the anticipation of getting the “A” word back. As we drove to church, the children, especially the youngest, wondered exactly when we could return to the singing of the “A word.”

When it was time to sing it within the context of Mass, no one missed a note.

Then, on the way home, we sang it some more.

Indeed, it is good to have the “A” word back.

We are an Easter people. A resurrection people. Alleluia. Alleluia.

Hope has transcended the bounds of death.

Death has been vanquished.

Even on the cross, overwhelmed by a prayer of abandonment by the God he has so earnestly and steadfastly served, Jesus refused to give over to resignation. He forgave.  He kept believing and hoping. He said, “yes” to God. Again and again, he said, “yes.”

Jesus has delivered himself entirely from himself in order to be completely God’s.

And so stones are rolled away. And God says, “yes” right back. God raises that which we crucify.

The tomb is empty. He has been raised. Now, go and tell the Good News.

We are an Easter people. And “Alleluia” is our song.

May your week be blessed.

~pjd

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Fr. John

Fr. John Baran, our pastor, and my dear friend died on Saturday. He was only 59.

As I mentioned back in December, when I asked for you to pray with me for Fr. John, this good priest was among the first of many I met here in the Diocese of Bridgeport. When I first moved to town, people asked where I would be going to Mass. Everyone who asked recommended St. Anthony of Padua. The pastor, they said, was the best homilist in the diocese. They were right. Like you, I have heard my fair share of good homilies and, like you, there have been many Sundays where I sat and wondered, “Where in the world is he going?” That was never the case with Fr. John. You looked forward to his preaching and it carried you all week long.

I asked once how he learned to connect the readings to the lives of the faithful so well and he laughed and told the story of his homiletics professor in seminary who encouraged the class with the instructions, “Never preach longer than you are interesting.” Then, after a long pause, added, “And remember, gentleman, you are not that interesting.”

When I first met Fr. John, he welcomed me with tea and cake in his rectory. We shared stories of favorite authors, prayers that moved us, and I learned then what a great gift he was to our Church. In time, I came to experience first-hand what a great gift Fr. John was to our family. My children can quote his stories and would go to Mass as much to see Fr. John as to worship. I can quote his homily following the shootings in Orlando last year – or at least retell it – and it marks the first time in my life that a homily was followed by spontaneous and sustained applause. But that was not the only time Fr. John got such a reaction (though it was never, ever what he sought).

It was Fr. John who sat with me to tell the children that Maureen’s father had died. It was Fr. John who gave Katie her First Communion (and second, and third…). It was Fr. John who would take Molly aside to talk about black holes and quantum physics and then mutter to her mother and me, “What in the world is she talking about?” It was Fr. John who prayed with us, laughed with us, invited Maureen and me over for drinks, and gave out more Halloween candy than anyone (275 pieces last year) – and not those cheap little pieces, but giant, full-sized candy bars. Many, including us, would drive across town to see Fr. John, wish him well, show off the costumes, and pick up some candy.

Diagnosed with Muscular Dystrophy some time ago, Fr. John occasionally struggled to manage the steps to the altar or the walk to the rectory, but I doubt anyone ever heard him complain. When the metastatic melanoma settled in and immunotherapy began, John never whined. Instead, he longed to come back to parish life and be with his people. He would join us on special occasions, twirling around in his scooter before Mass, though you could tell the real pain came from his lack of energy to celebrate the Eucharist with us.

Fr. John was the kind of priest that every parish wants, and every diocese needs by the dozens. He welcomed everyone not because it frustrated those who were unwelcoming, but because it was, like it or not, exactly what Jesus instructed. He did not judge. He did not gloat. He recognized that we are all sinners – himself included. Plain and simple, he preached the Gospel better than anyone I have ever met. But he not only preached it. He lived it.

In the end, I am told he was unafraid. I am not surprised. He kept his sense of humor about him, though he could barely move. He made those who visited him feel at home and smiled at the thought of using his long-stiff legs once more.

Perhaps our Katie put it best. As we gathered the children to tell them, pray the Rosary, and cry together, she seemed to echo what each of us was feeling. At age nine, she is often closer to the Truth than anyone. “I can just see it now,” she said, “Fr. John running into the arms of Jesus.”

That is how I want to remember my friend. Running. Dancing. Disease-free. Pain-free. Worry-free. Running into the arms of a Lord he served so well. And I know, if we had listened carefully Saturday morning just around 7:30, we could have heard the voice of Jesus praising John.

“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Rest. Be at home. Have a drink.”

May the choirs of angels, come to greet you, Fr. John. May they speed you to paradise. May the Lord enfold you in His mercy. May you find eternal life.

~pjd

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In The Quiet

Back in January when I visited the Holy Land, the Dominican guiding us on our journey suddenly turned to me and said, “Do you think the pilgrims would like a surprise?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking maybe we were going for ice cream. Ice cream is always a good surprise.

About a half hour later, the bus took a turn down a dirt road, off the paved highways and away from the familiar. Father Pawel told us that we were on the road that went from Jerusalem to Jericho, and reminded us what had happened on this road two millennia before. As Jesus had told the story, this path was not one to be traveled alone, lest a band of thugs leave you lying on the road, dying in the sun.

The bus stopped and we were invited to take a walk. There were some Bedouins selling their wares on the side of the road and Fr. Pawel joked, “Special deal, just for you,” as we headed up the hill. After a few hundred feet, we crested the hill and gasped.

We were in the Judean Desert. Nothing for miles around us but hillsides of sand and rocks. But before us, as if in a movie, was a monastery cut into the vast ravine that lie just ahead. To fall into the space between where we stood and this magnificent edifice would kill you so we stood in silence on our side of the valley taking it all it.

There was no noise. No airplanes or passing cars. No clicks of the cameras or tweets being sent. Nothing.

Then Fr. Pawel pointed out an aqueduct, built by the Romans and still carrying water today. It was cut into the hillside and brings water from the springs to Jerusalem. Once he mentioned the water, you could not un-hear it. The silence was now broken by the deafening sound of running water as it poured down the path it had followed for centuries, past one loan tree, the only sign of life in this barren land.

We spent about thirty minutes in prayer just taking it all in.

I think it might be the last time I experienced such quiet.

As we boarded the bus and headed back to the main road, I kept thinking about wonder and awe. Nobody seems amazed by anything anymore. We seem to have lost our sense of astonishment. Perhaps that is why the experience of the eclipse last summer was so memorable for my children; it was awesome in the truest sense of the word.

This week, find something remarkable. Be awed by something, not because you cannot believe how idiotic or mundane it is, but because it reminds you of the presence of a God who never lets go.

Let the waters of wonder and awe wash over you this week and stand still.

Stand. Still.

(Then, you should have some ice cream. Being amazed can make you hungry.)

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A Good Measure

In this morning’s Gospel reading, our instructions are pretty clear.

“Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.”

But what is mercy? Patience? Kindness? Forgiveness? Compassion? Can I be full of mercy and not really like somebody? Can I have patience, but not with everyone? About this kindness thing, just how kind are we talking?

“Stop judging and you will not be judged. Stop condemning and you will not be condemned.”

Okay, this is getting trickier. I am going to need to think more about this. I am an expert judge when it comes to other people. 

“Forgive and you will be forgiven.”

Not a problem. My wife is always saying that she is impressed with my capacity to forgive. I do not do a great job of forgetting, however, so I could work on that. A friend told me recently that real forgiveness is choosing to love. It is remembering that the reason you first loved someone is greater than your righteous anger.

“Give and gifts will be given to you; a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing, will be poured into your lap.”

This is good news. I like when the Gospels talk about gifts. I like getting gifts. I like giving gifts. I think I am a pretty generous person. It’s nice to know that some of that generosity might be coming back my way…though I guess that is not really the point, is it?

“For the measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you.”

If this means, “what goes around comes around,” I might be in serious trouble.

Perhaps this week I will try very hard not to judge, to stop condemning (even people who might deserve it….there I go again) and to give more generously, forgive more easily, and come to understand more completely what it means to be merciful.

(sigh)

Lent is hard.

~pjd

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Lessons

I remember the day that a little girl fell down a well and the world watched while she was rescued.

And the well got covered and the little girl grew up.

I remember when the Space Shuttle fell from the sky shortly after takeoff killing all the astronauts on board, including a school teacher who won a contest.

And the fleet was grounded for years while protocols were amended.

I remember when a group of miners was trapped underground and people all over the world held their collective breath until the very last one came to the surface.

And mining regulations changed.

I remember when evil hijacked the planes and the towers fell.

And we changed the way we check in and get screened at the airport, we went to war, and we hunted down the guilty party and made movies about the whole experience.

I remember when oil gushed beneath the Gulf of Mexico and people dove into the sea to escape the flames.

And the number of inspectors tripled, and audits of offshore oil rigs became more complicated.

I remember being in a classroom with junior high students watching on television as children in Littleton, CO ran from the building.

I remember Paducah, Tacoma, Knoxville, and the Amish children in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania.

I remember the night and weeks following Newtown and how we held each other and our children so much closer.

I remember people arguing about politics and guns and parenting and I remember politicians crying and celebrities offering thoughts and prayers.

But nothing changed.

So, now, seventeen more children and adults are dead, and the arguing has started all over again.

And parents everywhere wonder…

Will things be different this time?

~pjd

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Evil Around Us

In this morning’s Gospel reading (Mark 5:1-20), we see that great scene in which Jesus is confronted by a man “with an unclean spirit” and, after a brief conversation (“Legion is my name. There are many of us.”), Jesus commands the unclean spirit to enter the swineherd, which then run off the cliff and drown themselves.

I would imagine it was quite a dramatic scene, especially with all the dead pigs now in the water, but if we stop and think about it, there is – as always – more to the story.

What do we do with the evil around us? The gossip? The secrets we cannot seem to keep? The opportunities to talk badly about those around us? The countless chances to be mean or ignore a chance for mercy in favor of our own idea of justice?

Do we command the evil spirits to be gone or do we join in? Do we give the evil spirits a place to live or do we send them packing?

There is never a swineherd around when you need one, but maybe this week, we can make a conscious effort to send the evil away and choose to live the Jesus way.

Give me strength, O Lord.