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Marlene’s Dad

My friend, Marlene, lost her dad a few weeks ago. I never met her father, but I have known Marlene for years. She came with Maureen – it was a package deal.

Marlene read at our wedding. No, she proclaimed the Word at our wedding. She found such joy in proclaiming one of the readings we had chosen and took pride in delivering the message directly to us.

I have known Marlene to be a person of faith since I met her. She challenges me when I need to be challenged, telling me lovingly but forcefully exactly what I need to here. Among all my close friends – and there are not that many – I count on her to be direct, to bring Jesus back into the conversation when I have made it mostly about myself, and to offer just enough snark to keep things that could be emotionally heavy light enough to believe they are manageable, survivable, and even embraceable.

So, naturally, when I heard that her dad was dying, I offered my prayers and good wishes. Through Maureen’s text exchange, I kept tabs on the family. And that is when the friend I thought I knew challenged me even more.

In one particular text exchange, she admitted that her father was hanging on to what little life there was in his body not because he wanted to live, but because he was afraid of death. Specifically, he was afraid of going to hell. You see, his relationship with Marlene was not always the best. They struggled like many children do with their parents and her father was now admitting that he had not been present enough, had not been loving enough, had not been faithful enough. The thought of dying scared him not because he would miss those who he left behind, but because he was facing the reality that throughout his life, he had not prepared well for what came next.

I should pause here and tell you that Marlene is the consummate youth minister. She has led hundreds of retreats, given talks all over the place, led a parish, a deanery, and contributed more than most to raising a generation of faithful teenagers around the country. She has also suffered much – at the hands a Church that  sometimes forgets its mission, at the hands of doctors who don’t get it right the first time, and at the hands of self-proclaimed Christians who aren’t really that nice after all.

It would have been easy for Marlene to just pat her father on the head and say, “There, there, it will be alright” – or even easier to up the medication so her dad just slips away. But that is not what my friend did. Not even close.

Instead, she admitted that she had witnessed to thousands of young people about the love of Jesus Christ. She had prayed with and for teens and their families. She had written and studied, and taught countless adult leaders on what it means to be a witness of the faith. But never, not once, did she recall being a witness to her dad.

So that’s what she did.

When her dad died, he did so with his eyes closed and his heart full. His daughter had helped him journey from darkness to light, from fear of the unknown to dreams of dancing with his late wife like they did at their wedding. Marlene had opened her heart and her mouth and let God go to work. Through her, God spoke, God acted, God touched – and forgiveness was found. No more fear. No more anxiety. Just peace. Those left behind would be fine, knowing that dad would join the angels and saints in that heavenly banquet our faith promises – and because dad knew this too, the end was not a struggle, but a gentle stride into the loving arms of a Savior he met through his daughter.

I love my friend. Not just because she is always teaching me, but because she is always reminding me that life is not about me, it’s about the Jesus all around me that I often forget to introduce to others.

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Immaculate Mary

On Sunday the Holy Father placed a wreath at the statue of Our Lady at the Piazza di Spagna in Rome. Placing the wreath is a tradition dating back to Pius XII and the statue has been in place since 1857.

I was there once for this wreath-laying adventure. The streets were so jammed that I climbed onto a windowsill of a nearby building to take a picture. I was much, much lighter than and when those around me saw what I was doing, they all handed me their cameras whilst supporting my legs. I have a really great photo of St. John Paul II looking up and pointing to me in the window. My guess is he was thinking, “Look, Zacchaeus is here.”

This morning’s event is important not for the tradition it upholds, but for the message Pope Francis delivered. The Pope thanked our Immaculate Mother for reminding us that, because of Jesus’ love “we are no longer slaves to sin, but free, free to love, free to love one another, to help one another as brothers and sisters, despite our differences”.

Aside from the above, my other favorite lines are here:

O Mary Immaculate,
we gather around you once again.
The more we move forward in life
the more our gratitude to God increases
for giving as a Mother to us who are sinners,
you, the Immaculate Conception.

And so you remind us that being sinners and being corrupt
is not the same thing: it’s very different.
It is one thing to fall, but then, repenting,
to get up again with the help of God’s mercy.

Your crystal-clear purity calls us back to sincerity,
transparency, simplicity.
How much we need to be liberated
from corruption of heart, which is the greatest danger!

This week, let us dedicate ourselves to our Mother. May she intercede for us, plead for us, and continue to love us unconditionally, like any good mother would do.

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Please, I Want To See

This morning in Luke’s Gospel, we hear the story of the man born blind.  

There it is, the great and powerful question that Jesus asks us all: “What do you want me to do for you?”  

On behalf of all of us, the man replied, “Please, I want to see.”

This reading always makes me chuckle. The man was blind. The people on the side of the streets  knew it (they had to tell him what all the fuss along the road was about). My guess is the townspeople knew it. The man certainly knew he was blind. And Jesus likely knew it too.  

Still, he asked the question, “What do you want me to do for you?”

I always imagined Peter, who struggled to understand so many things, slapping himself on the forehead at the question and then leaning in to whisper to Jesus, “Dude, he’s blind. You really had to ask?”

But yes, Jesus has to ask – for two reasons, I think.

First, in Jesus’ time, the sick were the way they were because of sin – the sin of the lame or of their parents. That’s how sickness was explained. The person who was sick or those who brought them into the world, must have done something wrong to deserve such animosity from a God that was sometimes very distant.

Jesus restores not just his sight, but his dignity. By addressing the man directly, he raises him up as an equal, treats him with respect, and shows the crowd how we are all to treat the ill.

The other reason is more simple. Then – as now – the question demands an answer.

“What do you want me to do for you?”

Show you how to love? Check.

Show you how to forgive? Check.

Show you how to heal one another? Check.

Show you want it looks like to love hatred to death? Just watch.

The challenge for us is to answer the question Jesus poses so that in our blindness, we might come to see the presence of God in our midst.

 

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Little Things

I broke my pinky in six places last weekend. Thankfully, it’s on my left hand. Still, it’s amazing to me how one little tiny part of the body can be so painful and can get in the way of opening bottles, rolling down the car window, holding a cell phone, and typing. In time, it will heal and I imagine I will grow to be grateful for the role it plays in my life.

I’ve been thinking recently about away little things affect our lives. I suppose I have St. Paul to thank for the meditation about how one part tends to affect the whole. In a large family, one disagreement among siblings or one child’s irresponsibility can affect all other relationships. At work, one employee’s incompetence or bitterness or passive aggressive behavior can affect the work of everyone. In a parish, the attitude of one leader of one program can poison the ministry of many others. One driver on your journey home can anger you, distract you, or even endanger you.

I suppose it all comes down to what we choose to care about. Perhaps it comes down to what we are willing to overlook, what we are willing to forgive. We can let the one driver ruin the rest of our journey or we can chalk up that driver’s negligence to ineptitude or other mitigating circumstances. I like to make up reasons for why people are stupid. I tell the kids that we should pray for the driver going 90 miles an hour because their mother must be sick and they are racing to get home. Or the person who never uses a signal and never lets you know where they’re headed on the road must be so consumed with thoughts of a sick child they don’t even think about using a directional. It’s an invitation to prayer and it helps me be less angry. It’s harder at work. Sure, everyone has a story and everyone has sick relatives or children or other responsibilities beyond the office, but some behaviors are just unprofessional.

Our town recently held a shredding day and we gathered up all sorts of whole papers to take to the park to be destroyed. I ran across a letter from my father that he wrote to me in high school. In it, he challenged me to be more tolerant of those who are not as smart, not as confident, not as creative as I think I am. It gave us all a good laugh because some things haven’t changed since I was in high school. Needless to say, I kept the letter as a reminder of things I still need to work on more than 30 years later.

I think sometimes we are addicted to outrage. We enjoy being irritated. Everyone on television is angry. Everyone is screaming at each other. The folks on the left hate the people on the right. The people on the right hate the people on the left. In the end, nothing gets done. We could all use a little more tolerance, a little more prayer, and a little less outrage.

We can all make little differences. My pinky taught me that. We can pray for each other. We can forgive one another. We can stop being needlessly concerned with the actions of people we simply cannot control. There will always be people who are dumb. There will always be people who are passive aggressive. There’ll always be people whose attitudes are poisonous because they don’t believe they have anything more to learn in life. But we don’t need to be one of these people. We only control ourselves, our reactions, our thoughts, our prayers.

This week, let us take responsibility for ourselves. Let God sort out the rest. Let us commit to doing our little part to make the world better place.

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Clocks

I was at a parish on Saturday morning giving a presentation when an elderly gentleman wandered through the room. He was known to a few people, who engaged him in conversation. It seems that he had arrived that Saturday morning because he remembered that the clocks were changing and thought it would be a good idea to change all the clocks in all the classrooms so the students on Sunday morning would see the correct time in religious education class.

No one asked them to do it. No one assigned him the task. He just took it upon himself because he “wanted the children to concentrate on Jesus and not whether or not the clock was right.”

We spent most of Sunday either ahead or behind. The clocks on all the phones and electronic devices change automatically, but until we thought we were late for church, no one changed the time on the microwave or the oven or the not-so-smart devices.

As we ran around on Sunday, I remembered that man from Saturday morning. I wondered how often we overlook the people in our lives who do things without asking that improve our day, our mood, our lives. The person who holds the door for us. The person who stops so we can turn left in front of them on a busy road. The person who picks up the paper in the hallway without being asked. The person who jogs by your house and throws the newspaper a little closer to the front door. The person who puts extra change of the dish at the cash register so, when we are a few cents short, the change is waiting for us.

Life is messy. The world is complicated. But, once in a while, we experience the anonymous kindness of people around us. This week, I will try to notice the kindness. I will express gratitude for those who make my life a little better with simple, random, acts of generosity.

I was in an airport recently and the cashier was watching people go by, hurriedly and absorbed in their own world. She stood on a stool and yelled to the passing crowd, “Hey people you get what you give. So let me see you smile.“

If she’s right, and I think she is, perhaps this week I will be more intentional about spreading a little kindness myself.

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Mary in Luke

Since we celebrate the feast of St. Luke this week and since October is often one of those months (like May) where there is a strong focus on Our Lady, I thought I might combine the two.

Luke gives the fullest account of Mary both as the mother of Jesus and a symbol of humanity. She is a real mother and completely human. She is a Jewish girl who grows to womanhood in the company of a son who is as much a mystery to her as a child can be. Yet she is a woman of extraordinary faith, which is what sets her apart and makes her a model for the rest of us.

Although Luke does not give us a glorified and unrealistic portrait of Mary, neither does he give us an undoctored photograph. What we read in the first three chapters of his gospel, therefore, is not so much a historical account as a theological account. He is speaking not only about individuals but also about exemplary individuals. He is not so much describing particular events as much as he is portraying the universal meaning of those events.

We need to see Mary not just as a person, but also as an example for us all. She is a particular woman, but she is also a model of faith for all women and men. And the events which Luke describes are not simply events in one woman’s life; they portray the eternal meaning of every life of faith.

A few of my favorite Mary stories in Luke:

1:28-29

Rejoice because it is always good news when the Lord speaks to us. Since we’re never sure who is speaking, the angel goes on…

1:30

God is calling her to the way of faith, which is not a way of fear. When the Lord is present, there is no need to fear. When the Lord calls, the only need is to trust. The woman is not to doubt God’s ‘favor’ – in Greek charis or grace. So then this is an experience of grace.

Each of us has a calling. The call comes personally and individually. It speaks to where we are and to what we are capable of. And yet, God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called.

1:35-37

Through Mary, Luke is opening up a new realm of possibility for us. He is saying to his readers that the way of faith is the way of unheard-of possibilities. The power of the Spirit is such that even the impossible is possible. Yet it does not happen to everyone. It does not happen automatically. It happens only to those who put their whole trust in the Lord.

1:42-45

Visitation – When Mary receives this word of the Lord, therefore, the woman does not turn in upon herself. Rather she goes out toward others.

1:46-49

In Mary’s hymn of praise, Luke sums us the combined wisdom of the Old Testament and the New Testament alike. Some call it the most succinct and perfect summary of biblical spirituality. The moral development of Israel leads up to this, and the spiritual growth of the Church takes off from this.

But this way of the Lord, this total surrender to the Spirit is a way of suffering. Jesus knew this and he lived it to the utmost. Here at the beginning of Luke’s gospel, the evangelist speaks the same word to every disciple by having it spoken to Mary, the perfect disciple.

8:19-21

Now she waits. Except for one further glimpse of Mary, we don’t see her again until Acts. She does not understand the meaning of this son of hers. Yet she never doubts. She has given over control. She makes no claims on reality or God or others.

For the next 18 years, Mary’s life is uneventful. She waited for the hour to come. She did not force it. She trusted that what God wanted to happen would happen. She needed only to be faithful, for she knew that God is faithful.

Discipleship is often like that. We do everything we think the Lord is calling us to do, but nothing happens. We pray, we read Scripture, but we do not feel any holier or smarter.

Luke’s reminder to all disciples, spoken through his silence about Mary, is this: Waiting in the silence is sometimes exactly what God is asking of us. God needs to do God’s work, but in the end, the work is God’s. God will bring it to fruition, not us.

‘Jesus growing into manhood…’ – while we wait, the Spirit moves and works.

Finally, the time arrives. When Jesus is about 30, he is baptized by John in the Jordan, and he receives the anointing by the Spirit which launches him into his public ministry.

Sometimes Jesus even draws large crowds. Luke’s last mention of Mary happens here.

In Matthew and Mark’s gospel, Jesus contrasts his family with the hearers of the word. In Luke’s interpretation, however, Jesus affirms that his mother and brothers are disciples, that is, they hear God’s word and practice it.

Of all these disciples in the early Church, Mary is the first and foremost. For 30 years she has said her yes to the word of the Lord, long before the others even heard it.

She is also foremost among the disciples because she has endured everything that any disciple could be called by God to endure for the sake of the kingdom. Day after day she said yes to her Lord, even though she did not know where she was being led. She was led to the meaningless of her son’s crucifixion, the absurdity of seeing him murdered by the very people she respected. Yet her faith did not falter and so, three days later, she witnessed the resurrection as well.

Mary has seen it all, from before the beginning until after the end. She is the unique witness to the whole life of Christ in the world, from before its conception in her until its transformation and continuation in the Church. She is the ultimate disciple, giving birth not only to Christ but also to the Church by being at the center of the earliest community.

Mary, Our Queen and Our Mother, Pray for us.

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Our Lady of the Rosary

These thoughts were published a few years ago, but the sentiment is still true today. 

My father was the one who introduced me to Mary. Every day on the way to school, we would pray the Rosary. It is a tradition I came to cherish and have sought to maintain as a parent. Even though the children now take a bus to school, the daily prayers are a practice I try to maintain – in part as a nod to my father and in part because of the power prayer has to focus me on the things that matter most.

But praying can be a challenge. It can be hard to hear above the din. The drive to the office is only a few minutes and I get busy at home or work. The noise around me – or in my own head – distract.

A few years ago, after Maureen was diagnosed with Colon Cancer, we were at a meeting for diocesan leaders that was taking place as part of the National Catholic Youth Conference, which Maureen organizes. In a moment of unscripted sharing, she told those in attendance about her diagnosis and impending surgery.

All of a sudden a woman in the middle of the room interrupted her. “Take it to Our Lady,” she called out and immediately invited all of us to pray the Hail Mary together for Maureen – and each other.

It was a powerful moment. It was a powerful experience. Even today, though the cancer is gone and Maureen’s at full power, it gives me chills. I can still hear that clarion call, “Take it to Our Lady” echoing as though they are instructions for the rest of my life.

This week, I will focus more on prayer. I will go back to the ritual my father taught me and try to stand still before moving forward.

This week, I will take it all – the pain, the ignorance, the cynicism, the joy, the work, the play, the family, the driving, the shopping, and the conversations – all of it – to Our Lady.

And, like my father, I know I will find peace.

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A Good Man

I attended a funeral on Saturday morning for a man I had never met. He was the husband of a friend, a Methodist minister, and by all accounts, a remarkable man.

Because he had recently been ordained as a minister, after years of preparation and study, there was an added bitterness to the celebration – a life so full of meaning and purpose had been cut short by an infection no one saw coming. He had kissed his wife and son goodbye, gotten on an airplane, and flown around the world to take part in missionary work. Shortly upon arrival, he fell ill, quickly lapsed into a coma, and, once his wife and son arrived, he passed away.

As I sat at the funeral, set it a typical New England protestant church, filled with ministers and mourners, family and friends, I found myself wondering what people would say if this a celebration of my life. John had been, by all accounts, a hard worker, a writer, a wonderful husband and father, and certainly more open about his faith than many.

We were reminded, more than once, of John’s lifetime adaptation of the words of John Wesley: “Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.”

What a great challenge to us all.

When one of the members of John’s congregation spoke about Pastor John’s work, she spoke of his humility, his willingness to reach out to the margins, and his response to every compliment, every mention of goodness, every recognition of light in the world. “Do you remember what he would say?’ she asked the assembly. They responded without hesitation:

“To God be the glory.”

You see, John knew that the ministry in which he was called to participate, the people to whom he was called to go, the words of wisdom he was moved to share – all of these things – had nothing to do with him. He felt a call that disturbed his soul until he answered it and at the very core of his being, he knew that the glory was not his. He was simply the vessel, the conduit, the means to an end.

To God be the glory.

I listened intently to the others who spoke, to the poem his son read aloud, and to the beautiful and emotional tribute his wife delivered. I was moved when one of the ministers reminded those gathered that John always introduced himself because John never felt worthy of being remembered. It’s not an issue with self-esteem, the minister remarked. It’s humility.

I left the celebration two hours after it started, having greeted my friend and shared in her tears. I left wondering if I would ever be brave enough to give God the credit that God is due. I left wishing I had known John and had participated in his remarkable journey.

Most of all, I left remembering that if we are truly in touch with our call, our faith, our ministry, and the Truth we profess each Sunday, we cannot help but react to all that we encounter – good and bad – with John’s refrain.

To God be the glory.

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Dinner Out

We decided to take the family out to dinner last night. We had roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and rolls. There was coleslaw and apple sauce and beets (though I noticed no one at our table ate the beets). It only took three and a half hours to get there, but the food was great.

It was the annual roast beef dinner at our children’s former school in Maryland and at some point on Saturday, child number two missed the Oblate Sisters who founded the school and who continue to live on the campus and serve the students faithfully. Armed with access to the Internet, she looked online to find out when the dinner was being held. As luck would have it, we had very little planned on Sunday, so into to car we piled and off we went. When we arrived, the children could not wait to get inside. It was as if they just needed to touch base with a place they once called home.

Inside, we were immediately greeted with looks of surprise (“Who drives three hours for dinner?”) and the children, in time, found their friends and listened patiently as adults talked to them and about them. The eldest sister gently chastised child number three for failing to write (which he really should do), everyone commented on how tall the children had gotten (which they have), how must they are missed (not as much as we miss that school), and how much children can change in four years (Amen!).

The food, of course, was delicious but the night was really about reconnecting with the holiness and calm the good sisters bring to any occasion. Their charism is simple: “Live Jesus.” And they do this so well, so kindly, so gently, so effectively. There is a peacefulness about the place we have yet to duplicate. The sisters invite you into their home, share what little they have, pray with you and for you, and challenge you to be better than you were when you arrived.

There is not enough of those challenges in our daily lives these days. There are not enough people who Live Jesuson our networks and in our halls of government. There is not enough authenticity on our airwaves and online. We need more people living Jesus – and, as the sisters would remind us, we need to start with ourselves.

After dinner, we headed home – another three and a half hours up the Jersey Turnpike and across the George Washington Bridge, which in and of itself is a near occasion of sin. Then down the Merritt Parkway, over to 95 and on to exit 25.

The children were tired this morning, but no one complained about going to school. Their stomachs are still satisfied by the full of good food we enjoyed, and their hearts are filled with the joy that only comes from touching base with home.

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My Friend Next Door

There is an empty office next to mine. It’s where my friend used to work. Friday was his last day and I missed it. I was out of town and, though I knew it was coming, today’s quiet brings a reminder that he has moved on.

His generosity of spirit was the first thing I noticed when he picked me up at the train station when I first came to meet with the Bishop about this new adventure. He took me to lunch at a great little bistro – long since closed – and showed me around the small town, making sure I saw only the good. Trying to “sell” me on the move were his instructions and, apparently, it worked.

Over the next three and three-quarter years, we forged a friendship built on mutual respect and trust. Though age separates us by ten years and experiences separate us even farther, we shared our office suite like a couple of brothers, listening to one another when it was necessary and picking on each other when the tension needed breaking.

He’s off on another adventure, shifting gears, recalibrating. So he is in my prayers today. As I pray, I am reminded of the wise advice I received just about four years ago: “If you don’t want to change, don’t pray.”

Prayer teaches us to dream, to imagine the impossible. Prayer works against time, noise, language, pragmatism, and inability. It begins with an appraisal of what we are and where we find ourselves, and then moves on to changing the situation and ourselves.

We pray and change is inevitable.  It is the start of a motion, a continuing transformation, and upheaval. Things are never quite the same as before and there is no going back.

Change means letting go, dying and rising.  It is the continual paradox of death and resurrection, which is experienced in prayer. It is a longing for change.  It is asking that we become what God dreams us to be. 

If you don’t want to change then don’t pray. To live is to change.  To be holy is to have changed often.

My friend prayed for guidance and knew a change was necessary, that life outside these walls was not only possible but essential.

Still, I will miss my friend in the office next door to mine.

~pjd