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Open House

Schools host open houses around this time of year and, for many, it is simply a chance to boost enrollment. For the one we visited yesterday, it was much more.

We spent Sunday afternoon at the first of what I imagine will be many visits to high schools. The oldest is in seventh grade and we are thinking about life beyond middle school. The other schools we might visit have a high bar to reach after yesterday’s outing. I use the word, “might” because halfway through the tour, Ace Number One exclaims, “I will die if I don’t go here.”

Well, if it is a matter of life and death, the choice seems clear.

The young people giving the tour were kind and gentle, struggling somewhere between being high school freshmen and seniors and still trying to stick to the script. What struck me about the young women is that they were not giving tours of their school as much as they were showing us around their home. This is where they spend forty-plus hours a week. This is where they discover who they are. This is where they are fed – academically and spiritually. The only time our student guide faltered was in her explanation of the chapel. I shuddered as she struggled with her explanation of the liturgy, going to Mass, and the language around all that happens in this holy place until I reminded myself that she had no idea whether the audience was Catholic or not. This room, too, was a part of her home, but she did not want to assume everyone else had a room just like it in their middle schools. Still, her enthusiasm for getting to go to Mass, spending time with our Lord in Eucharistic Adoration, and having the opportunity to spend time in prayer was clearly meaningful to her. I wondered if my own explanation to a group of strangers would be any better.

Every classroom was filled with teachers, outlining the curriculum and reminding us that we could ask anything. I felt bad that I was unprepared to pepper the teachers with questions, though I imagine that might get old as the hundreds of parents pour through the halls. I discovered that I had traveled to Italy with one teacher 17 years ago and that another one I knew from a party across the street from our house. Small state. Small town.

Walking around with my two oldest, I was fascinated by the things that made them anxious (the gym) and what made them excited (the art room, the science room), and even what made them giddy (the menu of clubs). The showcase of work of the students betrayed the depth and breadth of the studies happening in the rooms we visited. From the science experiments happening all around us to the incredible artwork of Biblical Illumination, you would expect to see in a museum. As a dad who has not quite grasped that his eldest will be in high school in a few short years – or how we will pay for it – I was glad to see the variety of opportunities that await.

We wrapped up the tour in the cafeteria, where we found the rest of the family and homemade goodies covered the tables. Nothing calms the nerves like fresh chocolate chip cookies and punch.

As we walked to the car there was no need to ask what anyone thought. It was a gorgeous day on a gorgeous campus with faith-filled people and a spirit that echoed excellence and holiness. There was no question that this was a special place where young women are taught to advocate for themselves. As we crossed the yard through the falling leaves and tried to find the car, I wondered what people would think if my family hosted an open house. Would they encounter the person of Christ or a busy host? Would they feel welcomed or rushed? Would they see Jesus as the center of who we are or would we miss the mark?

This week, I will use the example of Sunday’s visit to welcome people to my own journey of faith. I will tell stories of encounter and work hard to be the face of Christ to others. I will bake chocolate chip cookies with the children and share them with others (the cookies, not the children).

May your week be blessed.

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Just Arrogant Enough

Take a look at this morning’s Gospel reading and read between the lines.

To understand the metaphor, understand the Samaritans: bastard Jews – religiously and biologically. In 581, Babylonians moved into Samaria and intermarry with Jews there. You cannot do this if you want to keep the religion and the culture pure. By marrying their captors, the Samaritans “gentiled themselves,” at least in the eyes of a “good Jew.” In 535, at the end of the exilic period, the Jews come back to Judea and seek to build a Temple. The Samaritans offer to help. Jews say, “No thanks” (not after you married your captors)…so Samaritans build there own.

Now look at this morning’s reading: the Scribe who asks the question ‘who is my neighbor’ should know the answer but asks anyway (there’s one in every class). Jesus got the Scribe to put two things together that a good Jew cannot – Samaritan and neighbor. To the Scribe, the Samaritan is beyond the pale of God’s forgiveness. For Jesus, that just isn’t possible.

To the Jews listening to Jesus tell the story, the next expected category (after priest and deacon (Levite)), would be a Jewish layperson but Jesus gives this coveted spot to a Samaritan, who is moved with compassion.

The hearer of the story discovers that God’s love is limitless. To the Jew of Jesus’ time, love is limited – not everyone is my neighbor. If God’s love is limitless, so must yours be, Jesus tells the hearer. So must ours.

No one listening is surprised that the Priest and Levite do not touch the guy in the ditch. If either had stopped to help, they would become unclean and would need to go through all sorts of rituals for getting ‘unsuspended’ – they kept the law. For those listening, the point is not to help the one in the ditch, but in keeping the law.

But in keeping man’s law, they broke God’s law, which raises the question: is the law made for us, or are we made for the law?

A priest could not raise this question. Neither could a deacon. It was up to a previously rejected; ostracized, humiliated, last resort of a character to make this clear for those struggling to believe.

God takes the weak and makes them strong.

So where is the arrogance the title suggests? It’s mine. I am just arrogant enough, I said to a friend the other day, that I edit Luke’s Gospel when I read chapter ten. You see, I think the Samaritan said something to the man in the ditch. I think he bent down and whispered something that Luke forgot to write down.

It is the same whispering that compelled people into action last week when the shooting started. It was the same message that made strangers carry strangers, cover each other, and hold a lifeless body until help arrived.

“I do not wish to be saved without you.”

That is what the Samaritan says in my head as he bends down to care for the sick, dress the wounds, and lug him to safety.

“I do not wish to be saved without you.”

You matter to God, so you matter to me. No matter what you look like, what your DNA says about you, or how you identify yourself as a child of God. You matter. You are His and therefore you matter to me.

I do not wish to be saved without you.

That. Changes. Everything.

~pjd

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Angel of God

When the children were little, their prayer time at night always included the song to the guardian angels, whose memorial feast we celebrate today.

Angel of God
My Guardian Dear
To whom God’s love entrusts me here
Ever this day, be at my side
To light, to guard, to rule, and guide.

Katie held on to that song the longest, I think. I suppose the youngest child always holds on to certain traditions far longer than others. Perhaps it is rooted in the parents’ subconscious desire to hold on to those days of innocence.

Now, there are days when we just want the kids to go to sleep. There are nights, I am not proud to admit, that my prayer is something along the lines of: “Sweet Jesus. Will you please go to bed?!”

We still tuck them in, visit their rooms, kiss them, and bless their foreheads, but the song has been replaced with conversations about homework, uniforms, and which day is a gym day. They have perfected the delay tactics.: bathroom visits, just one more thing to draw, looking for socks, and my favorite: “I think I left something in the basement.” Bedtime comes too late sometimes and mornings almost always come too early.

This week, with mom in Indianapolis and dad at home, perhaps we will resurrect the old tune and sing again.

Lord knows we need the angels watching over us.

~pjd

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Ode to Joe

The family took a trip down Interstate 95 a few weeks ago to celebrate a former colleague.

After 28 years coordinating the youth sports program for the Diocese of Wilmington, Joe McNesby hung up his whistle.

More than 8,000 young people play sports each year in the diocesan programs and for more than a generation, Joe lovingly guided their coaches through practices, games, and tournaments. More importantly, he guided their parents through the same. He coordinated the coordinators for individual sports, supported officials, and calmed the parents of the latest Michael Jordan or Peyton Manning when some coach thought he knew better.

During the party for Joe, hosted by his family, many people told stories of his generosity, his work ethic, and his love of family. But it was his youngest daughter’s words that stuck with me.

On a drive to the beach, his daughter said to him, “Dad, you go to Mass every day. You never miss it. So since we are alone,  I wanted to ask, ‘What did you do?'”

It was a funny question and, given Joe’s sense of humor, the answer could have been just about anything. But after a few minutes of silence (silence that let the youngest think she might get an answer that would give her dirt on dear old dad), Joe spoke.

“Look around. Look at the beach. Look at our family. Four kids. Great marriage. Several grandchildren.” Joe paused.

“I don’t go to Mass because of what I have done. I go because of what I’ve received.”

Even in retirement, the man still coaches.

Thank you, Joe, for influencing the lives of so many. Including mine.

~pjd

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Amid the Chaos, Hope

An anniversary passes today that will likely be lost in the news of hurricanes and presidential tweets. With the start of school, open houses, meetings with teachers, and homework, today might just go unnoticed.

Since that Tuesday morning sixteen years ago the world has changed in so many ways. We are more alert, more aware, more afraid, and, with every passing day, more likely to forget how that day played out. We are different people than we were back then. We are older, wiser. We are fathers and mothers now, seeking ways to protect our children. The babies born that year are now well into into  high school. Millions of people born since that day have no memory of the Twin Towers or that remote field in Pennsylvania or the moment the Pentagon walls came down. Like so many sayings that come and go, “Let’s roll!” means very little to this my children’s generation.

But it’s important to remember. It is important to tell the story.

A few weeks after that terrible day, two of my sisters came to visit and we went to visit Ground Zero. The fires were still smoldering. Bodies were still being recovered. Guards were posted ever few yards and facing outward towards the throngs of people who came to pray, or just to watch. There was a silence, a stillness, 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 in the streets.

As I stood there, I caught the eye of an officer with the NYPD. Without thinking, I said the first thing that popped into my head. It’s a bad habit of mine.

“How unbelievably hard it must be for you to stand there, when so many of your brothers are still buried.”

I was almost immediately sorry I said it because I saw the pained look on his face. I had hit a nerve so raw, so near the surface, that I was sure he wanted to either cry or hit me. But as I saw his eyes go to the youth ministry logo on my jacket, the pained expression gave way to peace. He even smiled.

His answer haunts me still. He looked me in the eye and spoke without hesitation, almost has if he had planned his response: “I’m Catholic too – and there is a lot death, a lot of evil here, so much…” he paused, “crucifixion.” Then he cocked his head in the direction of the graveyard behind him and added, “But there is resurrection too. So I’m standing by the tomb and I’m waiting.”

I remember the voice, the thick New York accent. I remember his eyes. I remember everything about that night.

The world is filled with evil, darkness, chaos, murder, violence, and war.

The world is also filled with light.

May you find light this week. May any cross you face bring you to a tomb.

Because the tomb, the floods, the fires, the worry and the anxiety – all lead to emptiness. And, in the end, it is an emptiness that brings us face to face with life.

~pjd

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Eclipse

The family just returned from a seven-state, 2400 mile vacation. We visited with friends and family and had a front row seat for the solar eclipse that captivated the nation.

I have been searching for the right word to describe the experience. We went to the Nashville Zoo with about 7,000 others who sat in the field amidst the animal enclosures to both watch the sky and see how the animals reacted. I was more interested in how my children would react.

In the hour or so leading up to the eclipse, we sat in the field and sweated. I had forgotten about the humidity and, as the temperatures neared 100 degrees, the children started to complain. To be honest, so did I.

Then, it started. We donned our glasses and stared at the sky. It’s exciting, exhilerating, and, well, let’s face it, you just can’t stare at the sky for that long in heat like that. So it was a little bit of staring, a little waiting in line for food, a little  wandering around to see the animals, and a rush back to the field for the final countdown.

As we neared totality, the family lay on the ground together. At some point, as the sky overhead darkened, it became important for the children to be touching each other – and their parents. Holding hands, we lay on our backs in the field and waited.

It got darker. The sliver of the sun peaking out behind the moon became smaller and smaller. The field sizzled with anticipation. People grew silent.

Then it happened. The sun was gone, leaving only a ring of fire peaking out.

And the place went nuts.

Cheering. Yelling. Crying. Jumping up and down. As if we had somehow made it happen, willed it to happen, wished it to happen.

The more I think back to the sight of the children’s enthusiasm and excitment, the more I struggle for the right word.

I think it was joy.

I think it was that feeling where you forget everything else – the email, the phone calls, the chores, the back to school shopping, the bills, the mess you left at home – everything – and you just are. You just enjoy the love of the people you are with and you are overwhelmed with how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things.

It is an amazing moment as a parent when you realize the center of your life is outside yourself.

Joy. We tasted divinity for a minute and a half and then the glasses went back on and the crowds started to disperse. It felt almost disrespectful because the sun and the moon hadn’t finished their dance. But there were animals to see and shadows to investigate.

But the joy carried us through the day and night and into the next day…and I pray we can continue to capture what we experienced in that field on that very hot August afternoon.

~pjd

 

P.S. Liam shot this photo!

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Loving Others

Throughout the Bible, we are told the God loves everyone. I could quote you chapter and verse, but I know you believe me.

So if God loves everyone, then everyone is lovable. Right?

Think about that for a bit. Everyone?

Everyone.

The racist, the bigot, the idiot, the moron, the Democrat, the Republican, the guy on Fox and the guy on CNN, the criminal, the person who cuts you off in traffic, the guy – or girl – who dented your car and did not leave a note, the mean lady at the grocery store, and the person down the hall at work that everyone struggles to like.

Everyone is lovable.

God will sort out the forgiveness and God will judge the remorse.

It is our job to love others. Period.

That includes everyone.

This week, maybe I will just pick one or two from my list and start there.

~pjd

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Except Through Me

When we think of Charlottesville or Orlando or Charleston, may we pay attention to the command to love one another.

When we think of Syria or the Gaza Strip or South Sudan, may we gain some perspective and complain less.

When we hear of immigrants dying in tractor trailers or deportations that defy understanding, may we welcome the strangers in our midst.

When we think of Sandy Hook or Columbine or Paducah or any number of the places where people with guns shoot children, may we hold our little ones close and remind them that we are called to be people of peace.

And when we gather this week for Mass on the Feast of the Assumption, may we be reminded of the words of the late Ruth Mary Fox and the great challenge her words offer to each of us.

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.

As we watch the news and see the violence, bigotry, and unbridled enthusiasm for ignorance and hatred, we are challenged to ask ourselves this important question:

“How will I carry Christ this week?”

~pjd

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The Rest of the Story

Originally posted four years ago, but I really like this morning’s reading, so I decided to rerun it, albeit edited to reflect my new reality.

The great radio commentator Paul Harvey has been dead since 2009 and if I had not grown up with the parents I had or with the older siblings I had (and still have) and if one of those siblings had not been in radio himself, I might not have known who Paul Harvey was. But I did and if you did too, then the title of this entry already makes sense.

I thought about those old “The Rest of the Story” radio segments and their little known or forgotten facts as I read this morning’s first reading from Numbers 11.

It is one of my favorite passages of the Old Testament and is one I invoke often. Look it up. Read it. And smile along with me.

There are times, in ministry and in life, when we are, quite frankly, overwhelmed by the ignorance around us. On the road (who taught Connecticut drivers to make a left turn in front of others when the light turns green?), in the supermarket (how hard is it to put the cart back?), perhaps even in the office (though not much anymore), we are surrounded by foolishness, incompetence, and just plain…well…you know what I mean. Like Moses in this morning’s reading, we hear the cries of those we are called to serve and, though we know the tasks we have been given, we are at our wits end, ready to surrender. Every time I read Numbers 11, I laugh because I recognize the Moses in me. “Please, Lord, if this is how you are to treat your servant, just do me the favor of killing me now.”

I don’t really mean it. I am sure Moses, a family man himself, didn’t really want to die either.

But there does come a time in our lives when we look around and wonder if we are the only ones who can accomplish a particular task, or if we are the only one with a sense of what’s possible. It’s not arrogance. Really, it isn’t. It is just frustration that those around us simply don’t move as quickly or in the same direction as we think they ought.

So, like Moses, we take it to prayer and we ask to be let off the hook.

But you have to read the rest of the story.

Since it’s not in this morning’s first reading, let me summarize. Moses says, “Kill me now, God, so I do not have to bear the burden of these people.”

And God says, “I have a better idea.”

“Go find people smarter than you and bring them with you to the meeting tent (ahh, the first parish committee). Then I will take some of my Spirit that is within you, Moses, and I will place it on them, so you do not have to do my work all by yourself.”

So, in other words: “Quit your whining and surround yourself with smart people, if you can admit they exist, which is another issue entirely. Find those who share your passion and vision and remember: the work you do is God’s, not yours.”

It isn’t your ministry. It’s God’s.

They aren’t your young people. They are God’s.

It isn’t about you. It’s about you making God present to others.

And just because an idea wasn’t yours, doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Just because you didn’t think of it, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t support it, comments don’t always equal criticism…but I digress.

God could have let Moses off the hook. He could have struck him dead.

But disciples hardly ever get off that easily.

Look around this week. Who are the smart people you should gather together so that God can share God’s Spirit with God’s people so that, together, you can do God’s work?

I love Numbers 11. But you have to read the rest of the story.

I think Paul Harvey would be pleased.

~pjd

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Nothing Else Matters

Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me,
and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me;
and whoever does not take up his cross
and follow after me is not worthy of me.
Whoever finds his life will lose it,
and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

These lines, from Matthew 10:37-39, set up what the Biblical scholars call “the conditions for discipleship.” I have to imagine that if you were having a first person experience of Jesus, you would have come to expect such instructions. And I can’t imagine if you were hanging out with a guy who changed water to wine, resurrected the official’s servant, healed Peter’s mother-in-law, and calmed the sea, you would be bothered by putting Jesus first.

But looking at the lines with twenty first century eyes is another story. Lots of things can get in the way of putting Jesus first. Sometimes I love chocolate more than I should. Sometimes I love other foods, too, but chocolate always comes to mind. I love my children more than myself and want them to love God more than they love me, but sometimes it is hard to imagine loving anything more than I love them. A long car ride with all of us barreling down the highway in an enclosed place usually is enough to remind me that I really do love God more.

This week, I will live like nothing matters more than God. I will teach my children to do the same. Perhaps if we consciously work to put God first, speaking nicely to others will come naturally, helping around the house will come naturally, serving others in love will come naturally.

But first it requires acting as though loving God more than anything else also comes naturally. My children, like all children, I suppose, learn better by watching. How I live makes much more of a difference than what I say.

Unless I tell them I have chocolate to share. They always seem to hear that.