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Judge Not

This morning’s Gospel reading is a tough one.

“Stop judging and you will not be judged.”

Ouch.

But it gets worse.

“For as you judge, so will you be judged…”

Double ouch.

The Gospel writer goes on to quote Jesus about boards and splinters and eyes and beams. We’ve heard it before.

These days it is hard to not to judge. The media seems to encourage it. Politicians welcome it. Families suffer from it. Relationship are destroyed by it.

Judge not… what a concept.

It is appropriate, then, that today we also 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.

The other guy we commemorate is my favorite (beside Patrick, of course). Thomas More was 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 to 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 simply made himself the head of the church, granted himself the divorce, and thus was free to marry the woman who would become one of many in a succession of wives. It was a declaration (think: executive order) that he wrote with his advisors that made him able to do these things and it turns out it was a declaration that went against his own coronation oath.

When I was teaching junior high, I gave a review that was more than thirty pages long. Students could use books, parents, other teachers, even each other to find the correct answers. After all, it was only a review, not the final exam.

The final exam, it turns out, was only one question. After all their study of the “facts of the faith,” their final to get out of middle school religion was simple:

“How are you God’s first?”

Perhaps if all of us – including me – asked that question more often, there would be a lot less judging going on.

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The Art of Distraction

I am distracted of late.

Distracted by not being at the office and confusing working from home with vacation, with a list of chores that never seems to get finished.

Distracted by children who have not been anywhere and want to go somewhere. One who is out of school (today is her first day of no school) and who announced her boredom to the world this morning. I offered to share the list of chores, but that was a nonstarter.

Distracted by the sheer volume of work on my plate. I love my job but sometimes I can feel the walls closing in on me. So much to do, so much we don’t know, so many people wanting answers.

Distracted by the unknown, the intensity of wanting to be finished with the pandemic, the virus, the masks that make me hot, and the lack of human interaction outside this domestic church.

Distracted by the cacophony of sounds in my head and around the house – the arguing, the laughing, the Alexa, the fan, the door chimes, the sounds of computers and television and keyboards and timers and endless emails and Zoom calls.

Distracted by the news of more protests and trying to see through lenses I can never wear. Trying to marry compassion and understanding with justice and order and wondering how to support a cause that is foreign to me as a white, middle class man who has never suffered because of his race and yet fully comprehending the privilege this brings.

So I turn to today’s readings. Matthew offers Jesus’ take on the constitution of our faith, the foundational principles of who we are as followers of Christ and who we ought to be with each other.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the land.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you
and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.
Rejoice and be glad,
for your reward will be great in heaven.
Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

I am not sure these words bring me the complete comfort I seek, but they help. They promise solace for the suffering – but with the assumption that someone hears their cry and addresses their pain. They promise mercy and compassion and justice and fairness and happiness and more. But these are not obtuse promises; these promises are rooted in a relationship that begins with everyone being part of one body.

Therein lies the problem, I think. One body. Do we grasp that? Do we honor that? Do we accept that? Do we live by that?

Do we really understand that no race is better, no color more superior, no person is more deserving of love than any other? Do we accept that there can be space in our togetherness, that we need not agree on politics or religion or which channel gives the best coverage? Can we first simply accept that we are all part of one body in this crazy upside down planet we call home?

Perhaps when we truly grasp that we are one body, we will understand how our lives can be a blessing to the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who long to be called children of God.

Perhaps when black lives matter, all life will matter.

Or are we too distracted by the noise that surrounds us?

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On Praying the Rosary

I miss my dad every night around 7:30 pm.

That’s when we stop everything and pray the Rosary. We started back in March when we hosted Nine Days of Prayer in the diocese. That led to a few nights of Evening Prayer during Holy Week, which lead to the Divine Mercy Novena between Easter and Divine Mercy Sunday. Then, I suggested we do another novena at the beginning of May but the Bishop had a better idea: why not the Rosary every single night in May.

And so here we are.

I log in around 7:15, just after the alarm on my phone goes off, ending whatever yard work or Zoom meeting, or dinner preparation that has been started. I finally got smart for the nightly Rosary and invited anyone who wished to lead to do so. I don’t mind leading, but it’s nice to have others give their voice to the prayers too.

It is a holy interruption in our household and it always makes me miss my father. You see, it was my father who introduced me to Mary.

Dad taught me how to pray and a big part of those prayers was the recitation of the Rosary. We prayed every day on the way to school. We prayed in the living room when my aunt and cousin were killed in house fire. We prayed around the bedside of my brother, Jim, as he lay dying of cancer.  We prayed for peace in times of trouble. We prayed in thanksgiving for good health. We prayed for each other. For others. For ourselves. We prayed. Together. Alone. We prayed.

Dad was introduced to the Rosary by his mother, who made them by hand. She gave dad his first beads – for his First Communion – and then made and gave each of the grandchildren one for that same celebration in each of their lives. I still have mine and am proud to say the beads are nicely worn.

As dad got older and spent his time working in the yard or cleaning the pool, he prayed the Rosary every day, just like he had every day of his life. But he found that the mysteries of the Rosary you and I know did not quite cut it anymore. So he made up his own. He contemplated five miracles. Five saints. Five parables. A few summers before he died, he asked me for new ideas I suggested he think of five priests who had influenced his life and, since so many relatives were women religious, five sisters. He liked that idea.

When dad was dying, we took turns sitting with him, praying the Rosary, asking for peace for him, freedom from pain, and a quick journey home to the Mother he had called “Holy” so many times in prayer.

When he was gone and mom was putting together an outfit for dad, she knew where to find his Rosary: in the pocket of the last pair of pants he had worn. We buried him with one set of beads. I have another, found in his office after the funeral.

So last night as I was sitting in my attic office, looking at my wife across the room, I thought of dad and I prayed. I thought of those drives in the early mornings to school and those times sitting around the living room. Eventually, my thoughts turned to the hours sitting by dad as his life slowed. I prayed and I missed my dad.

We gather each night during May – nearly 200 faithful souls – and we pray for each other, our parents, our children, graduates, those who have died, those who are sick, the unemployed, the underemployed, our leaders, our heroes, our families, ourselves. It is an holy interruption from the anxiety that surrounds us.

Perhaps this week you might dig out your Rosary and pray. Perhaps its in your pocket or purse or backpack. Perhaps it’s been a while since you let the beads slide through your fingers. If so, start slowly. One decade per day, starting today. It will make a difference in your week, I promise.

Think of those who taught you to pray and thank God for their example.

Then close your eyes and open your heart and join me.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son….”

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Springtime. Finally.

We turned a corner here in Connecticut this weekend. No, we are still quarantined and still going to school virtually. That will likely continue for some time. We stay safe by staying at home. Trips to the store are kept to a minimum and since online food delivery is backed up, we make a list, keep to it, and get in and out quickly. No more browsing for us.

The corner we turned is weather-related. Divine Mercy Sunday was gorgeous. The sun shone, the birds sang, and the tree house drew nearer to completion. The chill returned in the evening but it was still nice enough to grill outside. After a long, long Lent, lots of rain and chilly weather, it seems spring has finally arrived.

It was hard to celebrate Easter without springtime. It’s even harder to celebrate Sunday without Mass. Going to Mass via television is just not the same, but it has given the children (and parents) a better understanding of those older folks around us who are unable to go as often as the rest of us – at least when public Masses are not suspended.

In the readings during the Easter season, we read of Thomas, who doubted, Peter, who was reconciled, and the early followers who experienced the resurrected Jesus on the shore, in the upper room, and as they cared for one another.

I get Thomas. During these days of staying indoors, it is easy to doubt the reality of the world around us. It is easy to feel fine, see the sun shining, and wonder to ourselves why we can’t just go about our lives doing whatever it is we want. Then we see the numbers and realize how contagious this virus is and how staying away from friends and family can actually save lives. Yes, it’s boring, but I find hope in this fact: the Church canonized Thomas. He’s a saint, which means that after the doubting, there was belief. His confession of faith speaks to the hope we can all find when this pandemic is over and we breathe a sigh of relief and hug our neighbors. He doubted, but his experience of Jesus brought him through the darkness.

Then there is Peter, who saved his backside by denying he even knew Jesus. We’ll see in Sunday’s Gospel that he gets his chance to reconcile with Jesus. To weep, to repent, to choose to love again. That gives me hope too. I am forgiven. I can be reconciled. I can experience Jesus in the people around me and choose love over ignorance and self-serving behavior.

Finally, there are the early followers. The ones who ran to the tomb and yet still stayed locked in the upper room. The two who ran off to nowhere, only to find the risen Lord along the way. We are like all those people. We are scared. We are alone. But we know the end of the story. We know there is light after darkness, resurrection after crucifixion.

We know that we are Easter people and that Alleluia is our song.

And that makes all the difference in the world.

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A Very Different Holy Week

It is hard to believe it is Holy Week without little crosses made of palm all over the place. Plus, I kind of miss those strings of palm that come from all the frayed edges. They get all over the car, the floor, and the kid’s rooms. The palms were a bit of a misnomer 2,000 years ago – as people confused the types of kingdom Jesus came to establish, so maybe not having them is a good thing.

Still, it is a whole new world, isn’t it?

We will not watch 12 people from the parish get their feet washed this week. We will wash each other’s feet at home.

We will not stand in line to venerate the cross, trying to kiss it where no one else has kissed it (I cannot be the only one who does that). Instead we will take a cross off the wall, read the Passion, and have our own little service.

There will be no fire on Holy Saturday night and sparse Easter baskets come Sunday morning.

But there is cause for joy. We are spending tons of time together, watching movies, laughing at old Vine videos on YouTube, and building the treehouse.

The walls of the treehouse are complete and the siding starts tomorrow. Fortunately, the supplies were delivered long before the virus took hold and I have even convinced a local roofer to come by as we hide in the house to put the roof on.

We celebrated the 15th birthday of Ace Number One last week and I am grateful to the dozens of you who were a part of it. Tiger came home and she was delighted. If you want to see the video, let me know. I won’t post it here in an attempt to shield her privacy but for those who haven’t seen it, it will bring you to tears. We took portions of many of the letters you wrote and decorated the box. When she got to one that referenced the day he was lost, the look of surprise came over her and she tore through the box.

“He came home,” she muttered.

All of us knew the implications of the reunion. A childhood friend returned, reminding her of simpler times and easier days. He has been hanging out of her pocket since. It will take some time for her to get through all the notes and letters.

This week, we will celebrate another birthday as Maureen follows my footsteps into the next decade. We will delay her annual birthday dinner because of Good Friday but we will celebrate her life just the same.

May this holiest of weeks bring you closer together with your own loved one – even if only virtually.

May the solemnity of Holy Thursday give way to the eerie calm of Good Friday. May you turn off the television and find some solitude to remember the great sacrifice of that day.

May we remember that Jesus’ “yes” to God on the cross created the space where hatred goes to die and, in that act, Jesus literally loved hatred to death.

May we remember that he did it once for all, paying the debt man owed God but could not pay unless God became man. The paradox of salvation that is only possible if we understand that mankind needs redemption and yet cannot achieve it on his own.

As C.S. Lewis says, “Only a bad person needs to repent: only a good person can repent perfectly. The worse you are the more you need it and the less you can do it. The only person who could do it perfectly would be a perfect person – and he would not need it.”

Let us remember that 2,000 years ago, God became man, walked among us, and tried to teach us what being fully human looked like.

As a viral darkness covers the earth, let us look for the light that comes from this simple fact: we know the end of the story.

That’s right. We know how this story ends.

In that, let us find the hope the world so desperately needs.

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The Longest Lent

It seems this Lent has lasted longer than most. It seems it might last longer. With the world around us shut down for another month or more, how can we celebrate Easter alone? How can we celebrate the washing of the feet, the veneration of the cross, the Easter fire, when the lights in our churches are turned off and the doors are locked?

Well, we could go back to the beginning.

We could remember that 2,000+ years ago there were no churches like there are today. There was no schedule, there were no livestreams, there were not daily phone calls and meetings reminding us of the distance between us.

There was only fear. Not of a virus, but of persecution for those who had followed the Lord.

And yet they gathered as families and cared for one another.They gathered as small communities and fed one another.

They washed each other’s feet by caring for widows and orphans.

They venerated the cross by remembering the sacrifice they had witnessed – even from afar.

They remembered their experience of the person of Jesus Christ and loved one another as a response.

Yes, Lent will seem long this year. Hope will seem distant. Light will seem weeks away.

But perhaps that is the gift of this pandemic: time to stay close with those who love us most, quarantined with those who love us no matter what. It offers us time to be still – as if we were in the dessert.

We must remember our experience of Jesus and his challenge to us to love one another, forgive one another, serve one another.

It started with an experience of Jesus.

That encounter led to discipleship.

May this experience – this desert experience – do the same.

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God’s Own Fool

Sitting at Mass this weekend, there was a line in the second reading that caught my ear. But first, some context.

Over the course of the last few weeks when I have been traveling in the car, I have hooked up my phone via Bluetooth and just let the music play. I chose the entire music library (several thousand songs) and hit the “random” button. There are tons of songs I love, and I am always amazed at how many a human brain can remember. But let’s be clear, there are lots and lots of songs that I hear and wonder why in the world they are on my phone. The Countdown Kids compilation that was fine when the kids were younger but now make me want to intentionally hit a tree. Then there’s the Veggie-tales, which are worse. Those I skip. Anything that makes the children groan, I skip. Anything that has inappropriate lyrics (I’m a grown up, don’t judge), I skip.

That still leaves several thousand songs to play and it’s made driving back and forth to drop off and pick up the kids, especially when Maureen is out of town, all the more enjoyable.

There was one song that came up last week that I love, sang along too, and remembered long after it was over.

That brings me back to Sunday’s second reading. In the first letter of St. Paul to the Corinthians, we hear:

Let no one deceive himself.
If any one among you considers himself wise in this age,
let him become a fool, so as to become wise.
For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in the eyes of God,
for it is written:
God catches the wise in their own ruses,
and again:
The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise,
that they are vain.

This brought me back to that song in the car. It’s called, God’s Own Fool and was written and sung by Michael Card a generation ago, when religion was more touchy-feely, and we used songs at retreats the way people use apps to pray.

Still, the lyrics are a great reminder of our call to live a life worthy of imitation.

Seems I’ve imagined Him all of my life
As the wisest of all of mankind
But if God’s Holy wisdom is foolish to men
He must have seemed out of His mind

For even His family said He was mad
And the priests said a demon’s to blame
But God in the form of this angry young man
Could not have seemed perfectly sane

When we in our foolishness thought we were wise
He played the fool and He opened our eyes
When we in our weakness believed we were strong
He became helpless to show we were wrong

And so we follow God’s own fool
For only the foolish can tell-
Believe the unbelievable
And come be a fool as well

So come lose your life for a carpenter’s son
For a madman who died for a dream
And you’ll have the faith His first followers had
And you’ll feel the weight of the beam

So surrender the hunger to say you must know
Have the courage to say I believe
For the power of paradox opens your eyes
And blinds those who say they can see

So we follow God’s own Fool
For only the foolish can tell
Believe the unbelievable,
And come be a fool as well

As Lent begins, may we all be a little foolish this week. A little less wise in the know-it-all sense, and a little more willing to let others know whose we are but showing them who we are as a child of God.

pjd

To hear the artist sing the song, click here.

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Long Live God

Sitting in the parking lot last week, waiting for child number one’s bus and listening to the local public radio, I was distracted by the mention of Godspell playing nearby.  Something about the station giving away tickets if you signed up online.

So I signed up online and forgot about it. A day or two later, I receive an email that I have won two tickets to see the show at the Contemporary Theater of Connecticut in Ridgefield, a thirty-five-minute drive from the house. With everything going on last week – Maureen out of town, teaching two night classes, the children wanting to be fed every evening – I almost wrote back and said, “thanks but no thanks.” Something made me hesitate.

By the night of the show, we had decided that the eldest would be ready, that I would end my night class early, and that I would then race home, pick up the child, and head north. I had very little hope that this plan would work, but like everything else last week, we’d have to wait and see.

The Contemporary Theater of Connecticut is a small equity theater that features professionals just as good as you would see on any Broadway stage. The intimate setting allows for you to feel like you are a part of the show and yet still a spectator to all that is going on up on the stage. Through their friendship with Stephen Schwartz, the directors are allowed to make some changes to the show, something that would normally be forbidden.

The oldest is one who struggles with her faith. She argues about going to Mass more than anyone and yet still has a deep longing for that which is bigger than all of us. I was so glad she wanted to go with me to see the show.

Sitting on the edge of her seat, I could tell she was moved by the story and the music. The genius of the directors at the theater was clear as the greedy king in one parable was a Trump-esque leader of his people and another was Harvey Weinstein. There were shades of Game of Thrones, Hamilton, and even a little music-by-cup from Pitch Perfect. The contemporary references – even the subtle ones – just made the show better and better. The actors were superb, and the music washed over her as I could see out of the corner of my eye as she bobbed  her head along.

During intermission, the actors hung out with the audience and she couldn’t wait to tell any of them that she loved their singing, their haircut, their outfits – all of it. One of the actors invited her to wander around the stage before the show started again, and I hadn’t seen her that happy in quite some time.

Godspell is one of my favorite shows. Seeing it years ago in Ford’s Theater in Washington was one of the things that drew me to study my faith more closely. In the last scene, when Jesus has died and his friends come to carry him to the grave, they begin to sing, “Long live God, long live God….” again and again. When I saw it the first time, the actors carried Jesus up and down the aisle as the people in the audience sang right along with them. There was less walking around in this small theater and not as many people sang along, but you better believe my daughter and I were belting it out – a message that speaks more of that faith we need in this world, at this time, now more than ever.

Love live God. Long live God.

In our words, our actions, and our attitudes. Around us. All through us. In our homes and in our communities.

Love live God. Long live God.

 

*This post updated with the change that the theater is an equity theater, not a community theater. 

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God’s Law

We see throughout the Gospel readings this week that Jesus made a habit of recognizing God’s law over man’s law. No doubt this made the legal scholars of the day angry and even those who didn’t study the law but knew the law were irked.

We look at these situations with the benefit of hindsight. We know how the story ends. We commemorate the crucifixion and celebrate the resurrection. The winners write the history books and we know, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story.

Why, then, are we still putting man’s law over God’s law? God says, “Do not kill” and yet we create ways to take a life again and again and then try to justify our actions. God says, “Feed the poor” and we’d just assume leave that to the people who run the charities and soup kitchens. God says, “Keep holy the sabbath” and we fill our time with less important obligations and find excuses not to rest as we have been commanded. I could go on, but you get the picture.

God’s law. Man’s law. One gets you to heaven. One does not.

Where you begin is everything.

May your week be filled with God-like decisions.

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Merry (early) Christmas

Merry Christmas a few days early.

This is the week when, for one day, all people, believers and nonbelievers alike, celebrate Christmas far more widely and with far greater joy than any other holiday or holy day.

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. I suppose it’s true that most of us would find it hard to identify with rising from the darkness of the tomb. Maybe that is why Christmas often has broader appeal than Easter. 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. 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. Each of us is an innkeeper. It is up to us to find room for Jesus.

Deep within us, we know it. We feel it and so we celebrate.

May that wonder and joy of that first Christmas be yours today and always.