Unclogging the drain

There’s a lot of construction going on downtown and apparently somebody made a boo-boo by cutting through a power line. Our entire office building went dark (as did a large portion of downtown Lincoln) and while the power was off for only ten minutes we’re still waiting for our networks to get back online. So while I wait I’m going to try to get this stuff that’s been collecting in my head and on scraps of paper into some sort of coherent form. Forgive me my bullet points.

• It seems I’ve become aware of a lot of death lately. People I know, people I don’t know, people who I don’t know but are known by people I know. From infants to teenagers to adults. Every one of them someone’s child. Every one of them leaving behind a grieving parent or parents. Death is a part of life…the great “circle of life” and all that. I get it, believe me. As a Catholic I believe I’m more acutely aware of it than I ever was pre-Catholicism and I’m glad my children don’t think of death as some foreign icky thing to be avoided at all cost. I wish I had more time to explain this now but unfortunately I don’t.
• Back to the recent awareness with death. A good friend of mine lost a son recently. He was in his twenties. Stacye is a writer and once some time passed she did as I knew she’d do: she wrote about it. And then did so again. And again. Beautifully in fact, and with the grace I knew she possessed. Naturally she has cut way back on posting things on Facebook and writing in general, at least publically. She may be keeping a private journal of her own thoughts. I hope she is. Because if I’m right she needs to write…needs to bring order to her thoughts and the swirling whirling emotions that have surrounded her in this time.
• Confession: I really hate writing. I hate it for the very reason stated above. Because I find myself almost hourly finding a subject to write about, some of them even interesting, that I want to share with others. But also that I want to share with myself and in some small way bring an order to the massive globstopper in my brain that seems to clutter up the place. I have to write it down as a means of eliminating clutter, and if I can help someone along the way by means of an understanding than it’s a bonus, baby. By placing it in the trash, or at times the recycling bin, I am able to keep it from growing out of control and stinking up the place. But damn it I wish it wasn’t that way sometimes. I wish I could just take something in by means of one of the senses and immediately let it go. But instead it ferments too long and then I don’t get wine. I get grape juice. And really crappy grape juice at that that leaves nothing but a headache behind. So I hate writing.

Not being able to write didn't work out so well for this guy.

• And that is precisely why I love to write.
• About the same time as my friend’s loss the dad I know across the street from our house also lost a child, his 16-year old son. I’ve written a little about it here. A few weeks later he and I were standing on his curb talking. While we spoke he kept glancing into my front yard where my two youngest were running and screaming and playing. “They grow up so fast, Jeff,” he said. And then he told me three things: “Play with your kids. Take them out for ice cream. Remember all of it.” And then he hugged me and went inside his house.
• Here’s what’s been marinating since he told me these three things. I am a steward of my children. I think all parents know this on some level. My oldest is 16, but I’m making a note to ask my friend Stacye sometime how she feels about it. My guess is that it never stops. As a Christian when talk turns to the principles of stewardship we mention three: time, talent and treasure. Time is another word for prayer; Talent is our service towards the Church and our fellow man; and Treasure is our tithing or monetary contributions towards worthy causes. So for weeks now I’ve been trying to fit a square peg into a round hole and write a clever blogpost about what this father said to me, kids, parenting and stewardship. The closest I came was
  • Time = Remember all of it.
  • Talent = Play with your kids.
  • Treasure = Take them out for ice cream.
• Or something like that. Either way, I thought his advice was pitch-perfect. But I couldn’t seem to unclog the drain and write it down.
• In both instances, Stacye and the dad across the street, I failed to reach out to them. I don’t know why I froze up when it counted, but I did. I told myself that I’d give them time to get through the first few days and week or so of numbness and being overwhelmed by it all, including all of the visitors and well-wishers. After that initial rush we are left alone, and that is when we need someone the most. So I waited. And then I began to feel I’d waited too long. Then I felt uncomfortable for having waited too long and I certainly couldn’t call or talk to them then, right? I cannot believe how poorly I did at this. Fail.
• A little over a week ago this email landed in one of my inboxes: “Special prayers are needed for Kirk N. and Family (wife Tania, sons Jordan, Ethan, & Gabriel) as they lost their unborn baby girl Thursday night. May God fill their hearts with strength & courage during this time of extreme sorrow.” Almost to the second I got a text from my wife to call her. She’d heard the news too.
• I didn’t meet Kirk until last fall when he initiated a men’s Bible Study/Prayer program at our parish called “That Man Is You”. We met for 13 weeks in the fall, took a break for Christmas/New Year’s, and just finished up the 13 weeks of the spring “semester.” We met every Wednesday morning from 6:30 to 7:30am (“we” being around 50 men) and it has been a real blessing to us men and our marriages, relationships, etc. Kirk is a quiet, unassuming man who once you get to know him…well, let’s just say the well runs deep within him. He’s one of those guys who doesn’t say much, but when he does you want to listen.
• Kirk’s wife Tania had just entered into the Catholic faith at the Easter Vigil under two weeks ago. A week ago on Wednesday morning as our prayer group was finishing up I asked Kirk how the Vigil had gone. He smiled broadly and said it was fantastic and that the boys (in grades 7, 4 and 1) were all so happy for their mom. And in just a few weeks they would be welcoming their new daughter. Life was wonderful.
• Except that twenty-four hours later it wasn’t so wonderful. Having noticed that she hadn’t felt the baby move that day Tania went to her doctor. There she received the worst news any of us could receive. For reasons unknown her little girl had died. Sunday morning at 3am she was induced and delivered little Sophia Gianna Therese. Our pastor was there to baptize Sophia and mourn with the family. Gianna was the confirmation name Tania had chosen when she became Catholic just a week before. St. Gianna Beretta Molla, pray for them.
• I found a short, beautiful poem when I was writing this.
• Yesterday morning I attended the funeral Mass for little Sophia. Her dad and her grandfather carried her tiny white coffin to the front of our church where it rested on the tiniest funeral bier I’ve seen. I went early, so as to sit in the pew alone with my thoughts. I prayed the Office for the Dead from the Liturgy of the Hours. The last lines of the opening hymn are

In him all our sorrow,
in him all our joy.

In him hope of glory,
in him all our love.

In him our redemption,
in him all our grace.

In him our salvation,
in him all our peace.

• I find Catholic funerals much more comforting, and I suppose that comes as no great surprise. I do because like a proper Catholic wedding, the main reason we are there is to honor God. God is the center and the emphasis of the event. Not the bride or the happy couple. And not the honored dead. Of course, they are prominent and we are there to honor them and their memory, but the focus remains on God and our faith, whether within the Sacrament of Marriage and the union of the man and woman, or in the hope of joining Christ in the Resurrection.
• The readings, music, and homily by Fr. Johnson were perfect. I was a mess through the first part of the Mass but I composed myself and focused on the liturgy. That was a tremendous help.
• And then the three brothers processed to the front with the offeratory gifts before the Liturgy of the Eucharist while the pianist sang a moving version of Ten Thousand Angels. Cue water faucets.
• For some reason I thought back to when I was a teenager and my thoughts turned to funerals. I remember thinking that for my own funeral I wanted something angst-ridden like Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” or “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas played at my funeral. Thank God that didn’t happen.
• And not just because of the crappy funeral music. But because I’m still, you know…here.
• If I were to choose now, I’d lean more towards having a slower version of this song played at my funeral Mass. That and a little Mozart for good measure.
• Kirk said a few brief words at the end of his daughter’s funeral about how much the family had appreciated all the prayers to give them strength to get through this time. He mentioned a quote by Saint Faustina that he’d read in her diary (a book I highly recommend as one of the pillars of spiritual reading). I wish I’d captured it correctly, but paraphrasing her she’d said “Sometimes God creates children for his own purposes.” Kirk said it brought him great comfort to think that perhaps that was his daughter’s role.
• While I can’t recall  the exact quote above, I did find this one from an early Father of the Church, St. Gregory of Nyssa:

Well, your child may have departed from you, but he has gone to Christ the Lord. For you his eyes have been shut, but they are opened to the eternal light: he is gone from your table, but is now added to the table of angels. The plant was uprooted from here, but planted in paradise. From the earthly kingdom he was transferred to the heavenly kingdom. You see what was exchanged for what. Are you sad because you no longer see the beauty of the face of your child? But this happens, because you do not see the real beauty of the soul with which he rejoices in the heavenly feast. How beautiful indeed is the eye that sees God! How sweet indeed is the mouth that is adorned with divine melodies!

• All of these events remind us that life does go on. It really is a big, and whole, circle. We’re born, we live, we die. We recently spent forty days of preparation for Easter, experiencing the triumph of Palm Sunday, and the agonies of Christ’s Passion. We celebrated the victory of Easter and the Resurrection, and thus began fifty days of celebration. Forty days to prepare for a fifty day party. I’ll take it. But even during the party there will be reminders that the struggle on this earthly plane continue. Since Easter we celebrated Divine Mercy Sunday, children have received their First Holy Communion, prayer groups continue as do weddings and funerals. We have mourned and we have celebrated. We continue to be the best stewards we can be. We are the Church Militant on earth, waiting to ultimately join the Church Triumphant in Heaven.
• Last thoughts: After the funeral I went home to change for work. The house was empty except for our beagle puppy Buster, so I took him out to the backyard to enjoy some sunshine before I had to drive to work. I sat on the park bench in the little garden area (a work in progress) while he frolicked in the warm sunshine, rolling around in the grass and soaking in every ray of the sun possible.
• While I sat there a squirrel perched in one of the tall evergreen trees in our fence line chirked angrily at Buster. And I mean this squirrel went off. I laughed out loud because years ago when we still had our first dog, Fenway, we rented a house that had a large oak tree in the middle of the small back yard where he would trap squirrels. They were climb down to the lowest branch possible and chew him out for treeing them. I love that memory. Looks like I’ll be hearing more of it (the chirking) going forward.
• Sitting on the weatherworn bench I make a note to myself to replace the wood slats. These are getting a little weak having been exposed to the elements for a few years. Twelve small pieces of lumber should do the trick. And then I decide it’s time to build the wooden arbor trellis over the bench, too. And thus a summer project is born.
• Is there anything more wonderful than working with our hands? For my money there is nothing more satisfying than creating or working on something in this manner. It’s almost divine. Maybe it is.
• Before going inside I decide to join Buster for a roll around the grass and soak up some of the sun’s rays. Why should he have all the fun? So I do. Therapy.
• I hate writing. I love it so.

***

Plunger to the face image source.

Good Friday with The Man in Black

Two songs from the Man In Black, plus Psalm 88. The first song has been a favorite of mine for the last several years and never fails to make my eyes moisten. I thought of it today while praying Psalm 88 earlier today in the Liturgy of the Hours.

Psalm 88 is a lament in which the psalmist prays for rescue from the alienation of approaching death. Three times the psalmist issues a call to God and complains of the death that separates one from God. The tone is persistently grim. In both the psalm and the song above, a man is taking stock of his life and is not happy with what he’s made of the gift he was given. He has hurt people…himself…and God.

Lord my God, I call for help by day;
I cry at night before you.
Let my prayer come into your presence.
O turn your ear to my cry.

For my soul is filled with evils;
my life is on the brink of the grave.
I am reckoned as one in the tomb:
I have reached the end of my strength,

like one alone among the dead;
like the slain lying in their graves;
like those you remember no more,
cut off, as they are, from your hand.

Christ of St. John of the Cross, by Salvador Dali (1951)

You have laid me in the depths of the tomb,
in places that are dark, in the depths.
Your anger weighs down upon me:
I am drowned beneath your waves.

You have taken away my friends
and made me hateful in their sight.
Imprisoned, I cannot escape;
my eyes are sunken with grief.

I call to you, Lord, all the day long;
to you I stretch out my hands.
Will you work wonders for the dead?
Will the shades stand and praise you?

Will your love be told in the grave
or your faithfulness among the dead?
Will your wonders be known in the dark
or your justice in the land of oblivion?

As for me, Lord, I call to you for help:
in the morning my prayer comes before you.
Lord, why do you reject me?
Why do you hide your face?

Wretched, close to death from my youth,
I have borne your trials; I am numb.
Your fury has swept down upon me;
your terrors have utterly destroyed me.

They surround me all the day like a flood,
they assail me all together.
Friend and neighbor you have taken away:
my one companion is darkness.

The second Cash song is one I’ve sung myself many, many times. I’d not heard this version before today, and seeing the video transported me back to my grandmother’s living room in South Dakota where this and similar songs were always heard during Sunday visits (she was a devout Lutheran). She had 8-track recordings of The Statler Brothers, and hearing them sing backup on this song made that memory more vivid on this Good Friday.

I realize this is all pretty grim and dark. Today is, after all, the blackest day in history for a follower of Christ. But Sunday is coming…

***

For more information about Dali’s painting, visit here.

Know these things and do them.

Christ Washing Peter's Feet, by Ford Madox Brown

Each year for the Holy Thursday Mass, twelve men are chosen to have their feet washed as a remembrance of what Christ did for his apostles during the Last Supper. It is also a reminder what Jesus said in the Gospel: “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord; and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you should do as I have done to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not great than his master; nor is he who is sent greater than he who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you who do them.” (John 13:12-17)

Last night I was one of the twelve chosen in our parish. It is a very humbling thing to have done before several hundred of my fellow parishioners and family. To have my feet washed by Fr. Lyle, a man who has for his thirty-six years as a Catholic priest dedicated his life and so much time to the service of others (including me and my family) seems backwards. Just as Peter protested that he would not have his feet washed by his Lord and Teacher my first reaction was similar. Surely I should be washing Fr. Lyle’s feet. That is how the world would see it to be sure.

I’ve read the cynical writings and comments by many Catholics or ex-Catholics about their priests, usually coming from a more liberal area of the country, and it saddens me. Every priest I know or have come into contact with in the Diocese of Lincoln, Omaha or Grand Island (all in Nebraska) do not share the clerical traits I hear about. Are they human men with human faults? Of course. I’m most fortunate to reside where I do and wish those Catholics and non- or ex-Catholics who sneer at the idea of a humble, servicing priesthood could see and experience what I do daily.

One of the common traits you often hear of regarding the saints is that they were painfully aware of their shortcomings and sins as they increased in their holiness. I do not dare to compare myself with a saint, but I have on occasion received a glimmer of this self-awareness. One wonders if that’s why so many reject and pillory Christianity or water down Christ’s teachings so as to make him nothing more than a great guy who taught some really cool things. Cafeteria Christianity. It is that type of Christianity that does not take to heart the following from Psalm 38, which was a part of this morning’s prayers in the Liturgy of the Hours:

My guilt towers higher than my head;
it is a weight too heavy to bear.
My wounds are foul and festering,
the result of my own folly.

How often is it that our wounds are self-inflicted through our decisions?

The first of the seven Christian virtues listed is Humility. Each virtue has a corresponding capital sin, and in this instance it is Pride. One of the barriers to effective prayer is having a prideful center, or heart. We pray for things we think we need, but they are often merely wants. And when these prayers go unanswered we stiffen our necks and become bitter. Surely it wasn’t me or my prayer that was inadequate and led to the answer I got. I think
the Catechism of the Catholic Church provides a good insight into humility as it relates to prayer when it says:

“Prayer is the raising of one’s mind and heart to God or the requesting of good things from God.” But when we pray, do we speak from the height of our pride and will, or “out of the depths” of a humble and contrite heart? He who humbles himself will be exalted; humility is the foundation of prayer. Only when we humbly acknowledge that “we do not know how to pray as we ought,” are we ready to receive freely the gift of prayer. “Man is a beggar before God.” (CCC 2559)

Did you catch that? Humility is the foundation of prayer. And to provide context it says that man assumes a most humbling position: that of a beggar.

As if to drive the point home a few paragraphs later the Catechism says

“If our heart is far from God, the words of prayer are in vain.” (CCC 2562)

We are called as Christian to imitate Christ. To model our lives after his. Within John 13 we are given just such a lesson. In verses 1-11 Christ modeled selfless service to us. In washing the disciples’ feet, Jesus performs a service normally done by the household slaves. St. Peter, at the time, could not understand why Jesus would want to humble himself in such a way. Jesus’ gesture is a simple and symbolic one which shows that he “came not to be served but to serve”, and that his service consisted in “[giving] his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45). It makes clear to all the apostles, and, through them, to all who would enter the Church, that humble service of others likens the disciple to the Master. In verses 12-20 Jesus explains why he did what he did and issues the call to service through humility.

And here is where we see what was perhaps the final straw for Judas. He wanted a Messianic warrior, one who would liberate the Jews from the tyranny of the Roman Empire through the means Judas knew: open revolution. Instead he found himself a disciple of the Messiah who was Love and non-violent. And so, after witnessing Christ’s humbleness and having his feet washed by His Master, he leaves the upper room with thirty pieces of silver in his pocket. Blood money awash in pride.

How many of us filled with such pride, both Christian and non-Christian, feel the same way and choose to leave Christ’s presence?

I read an excellent metaphor today that illustrates this point about humility and service in another way. Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, an English novelist (1803-1873) wrote:

Trees that, like the poplar, lift upward all their boughs, give no shade and shelter whatever their height. Trees the most lovingly shelter and shade us when, like the willow, the higher soar their summits, the lowlier droop their boughs.

We should assume the position of the household slave. Drop not just our physical position but our internal guard as well, and selflessly serve. We don’t have to be as radical and go as far as Mother Teresa of Calcutta, but there surely are ways we can begin within our own households and spheres of influence. We can and should lower our defenses, along with our boughs. To do so takes a lot of courage; courage that many seem unwilling to tap into. It is a courage that leads to freedom.

Bulwer-Lytton’s writing brought to mind one of my favorite lines from Youth And Age by Coleridge and one I quote often. “Friendship is a sheltering tree.”

And so it is, and can be, if we are selfless in our service to others as we are called to be by our Teacher.

****

With humble and contrite hearts (hopefully) we also prayed Psalm 51 in this morning’s Liturgy of the Hours. A penitential psalm of David, it is traditionally known as the Miserere (miz-a-ray-ray) because the psalm’s opening words in Latin are Miserere mei, Deus. (Have mercy on me, O God). It provided inspiration for one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever composed. Have a listen, and have a wonderful Easter Sunday everyone.

A spring cleaning of the soul

This Lent I’ve chosen to focus on the elimination of clutter in my life. In both the mental/emotional and physical sense, but mostly in the physical sense. This announcement was greeted with a huge grin from my wife and a hearty “Hallelujah!” Nonplussed, I spent a weekend cleaning out our 4-drawer file cabinet and shredding seven full trash bags of paper. It was our first purchase when we were married almost nineteen years ago and it appears that we simply threw everything in there.

(I did find a stack of football/baseball cards and the top one was a John Elway rookie card. A quick search online and it appears this thing is worth anywhere from $30-$129. Hmmmm…what else needs cleaning?)

I think what’s really hit me this Lent is developing a sense of detachment from the things of this world. To simply let go and not hold so tight to my possessions. After all, it is all fleeting and things fade away. And I won’t be taking it with me once I’m gone, so before I burden my wife/kids/family with the task of sorting through all the schtuff I’ve begun a preemptive strike. It actually feels pretty good once you begin and I’ve been surprised by the nagging feeling I get now as I see another pile of books, or papers, or videos, or compact discs, etc. It’s actually very liberating once you start.

So that’s the physical end of things. But what about the mental…or the emotional? Isn’t there a lot of baggage and clutter there, too? In both my heart and my mind I know for a fact I’m either dragging it around or building little piles in the corners and shelves of my inner self. Just as I don’t want my family to have to sort through a lot of things, I don’t want to have to begin eternity by doing the same thing. I am dealing with them now, and “straightening up my room” so to speak. This has involved prayer and the sacraments, in particular the Sacrament of Confession. It occured to me that by going to confession I’m participating in an activity similar to what I used to go through when I was preparing to leave a house or apartment I was renting. I would have to go through each room, cleaning walls and carpets and tubs and sinks. Or repairing the nail holes and blemishes on the walls and/or removing stains from the carpet. The landlord usually provided a checklist and this served as a guide to ensure nothing was missed in order to get my full deposit back upon leaving.

God has done this too. He is our landlord and he has provided us with a checklist. When’s the last time you went over it with Him? 

An examination of conscience based upon the ten commandments is usually a good place to begin. BeginningCatholic.com has an excellent guide here, and I downloaded a copy of this PDF from LifeTeen at my desk to use when I walk to St. Mary’s for confession prior to Mass at noon. Even if you’re not a Catholic nor go to confession it’s not a bad place to start.

Fabreeze or a carpet shampoo will take care of the carpet cleaning in the apartment. God uses His grace to clean the stains from your soul. The deposit you receive back is pretty good I’d say: eternity in Heaven with Him.

As if to drive this concept home, I came across this exceprt from a sermon by Saint Augustine the other day.

Our wish, you see, is to attain an eternal life. We wish to reach the place where nobody dies, but if possible we do not want to get there via death. We would like to be whisked away there while we are still alive and see our bodies changed, while we are alive, into that spiritual form into which they are to be changed when we rise again. Who wouldn’t like that? Isn’t it what everybody wants? But while that is what you want, you are told, Quit. Remember what you have sung in the psalm: “A lodger am I on earth.” If you are a lodger, you are staying in someone else’s house; if you are staying in someone else’s house, you quit when the landlord bids you. And the landlord is bound to tell you to quit sooner or later, and he has not guaranteed you a long stay. After all, he did not sign a contract with you. Seeing that you are lodging with him for nothing, you quit when he tells you to. And this, too, has to be put up with, and for this, too, patience is very necessary. – St. Augustine, Sermon 359A.8.

Beauty and miracles in the desert

“Boredom of course is another matter. It has little to do with what actually exists in the world outside any of us. The world is just fine; it is full of beauty and miracles abound even in the midst of the most desolate of deserts.” – Kevin Codd. To The Field of Stars: A Pilgrim’s Journey to Santiago de Compostella. Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. (2008).

*****

I read these lines just before turning in last night. The words struck hard at the heart of what has become such an epidemic in today’s modern world. Everyone, it seems, is bored. Or they are scared of being bored and race and work and stretch themselves in a million directions at once in order to avoid the fear of being bored. We stuff our lives and our homes with mountains of stuff, hoping that the next thing will once and for all fill that hole in our soul. When it doesn’t we work longer hours and push ourselves harder to make enough money to buy the next thing. Yet the hole remains, as we remain on the mad gerbil’s wheel. Instead of considering the miracles that surround us with each step we take, we bemoan the fact that our lives are drab, unexciting…boring.

It’s a paradox perhaps that the hub of what modern man sees as the necessary excitement and activity is the modern city. But it is within these city walls that we block out the very miracles to which I refer. The sun setting (or rising) on the distant horizon is difficult to see when surrounded by city buildings or suburban rooftops. Nature, grass, animals (outside of the squirrel, possum or rat variety) are non-existent unless one goes to the zoo. And my personal favorite, millions of stars and the constellations that fill the night sky, are almost impossible to see in the illuminated city at night. God’s wonder in nature hasn’t left us…we left it.

And when nothing seems to work and we begin to wear down from all the fruitless pursuit of activity we can succumb to boredom, acedia, and finally melancholia. “What’s the point of all this?” we ask ourselves. “Is this all there is to life? How long will I wander in this paved, urban desert?”

The answer, I believe, is provided in many places. I happened upon one of them a few weeks ago when I read the following poem by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958):

To A Pessimist
Life like a cruel mistress woos
The passionate heart of a man, you say,
Only in mockery to refuse
His love, at last, and turn away.

To me she seems a queen that knows
How great is love—but ah, how rare!—
And, pointing heavenward ere she goes,
Gives him the rose from out her hair.

You see, I believe the hole that lies in the hearts of humanity is, to use a well-known cliché, God-shaped. It is a huge hole, one capable of only being filled by God. And what is God? Love, of course.

I’m sure I sound like a Hallmark card to you by now and I’d have to agree, but I also know from my own personal experiences in this life that this is true. I’ve ridden the depression rollercoaster. I’ve also watched as it took hold of friends and loved ones and attempted to pull them down below the ocean waves of this life. You feel as if you’re drowning; gasping; struggling to stay above water to breathe while clinging to any life raft, driftwood or flotsam you can find each time you can get your head above water. Only too many times we are grabbing an anchor, weighed down by yet another purchase or another activity that we gravitate towards instead of the one thing that we need. Such is the stubborness of man.

In his second stanza Noyes perhaps is pointing the way. I’m not a learned interpreter of poetry by any stretch of the imagination, but to me the “queen” he refers to is Mary, the Mother of Jesus, who knows the depths of love that God’s heart is capable of storing, as well as the depths of depravity possible in a human heart. She points heavenward, and gives the pessimist a “rose from out her hair.”

A rose is a widely recognized as the queen of flowers and a symbol of love. Catholics who pray the Rosary also know the significance of Mary and roses. Indeed, the word Rosary means “Crown of Roses”. One piece of Catholic imagery says that each time they say a Hail Mary they are giving Mary a beautiful rose, and that each complete Rosary makes her a crown of roses.

From The New Baltimore Catechism of 1941, Part 1, Lesson 1: The Purpose of Man’s Existence, we read

1. Who made us?
God made us.

2. Who is God?
God is the Supreme Being, infinitely perfect, who made all things and keeps them in existence.

3. Why did God make us?
God made us to show forth His goodness and to share with us His everlasting happiness in heaven.

4. What must we do to gain the happiness of heaven?
To gain the happiness of heaven we must know, love, and serve God in this world.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church today begins thusly:

God, infinitely perfect and blessed in himself, in a plan of sheer goodness freely created man to make him share in his own blessed life. For this reason, at every time and in every place, God draws close to man. He calls man to seek him, to know him, to love him with all his strength. He calls together all men, scattered and divided by sin, into the unity of his family, the Church. To accomplish this, when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son as Redeemer and Savior. In his Son and through him, he invites men to become, in the Holy Spirit, his adopted children and thus heirs of his blessed life. (CCC 1)

Both the old and the new Catechisms in their following paragraphs point towards Jesus as the key to knowing love and finding the chief truths taught by Him. The Rosary is a biblical meditation upon the life of Jesus and one of the best ways I’ve found to come to know Him.

Or, if you prefer, perhaps the queen is an allegory for what the Greeks called sophia; that is, Wisdom. The concept of wisdom goes all the way back to Plato and his Protagoras dialogue. It is also a common tenet in Christianity where it is not only found throughout the Old Testament in Proverbs, Psalms, Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes, the Book of Wisdom, etc., but also in the New Testament where Christ referred to wisdom, as in “the wisdom of God.” Indeed, wisdom is mentioned over 220 times in the Bible.

So what do I do when I feel I’m about to go under? The first thing I try to do is to get out of the city for awhile. Go camping. Or hiking. Visit family or friends who live in the country. And when I can’t get out of the city? I seek wisdom in the very spot I’ve been planted.

No matter which method or activity you choose, whether accepting the conclusions of Socrates in the Protagoras:

Socrates claimed that “all virtue is knowledge and therefore one. He argues that the reason people act harmfully, to others or themselves, is because they only see the short term gains while ignoring the long term losses which might outweigh them, just like one makes errors in judging the size of objects that are far away. He says that if men were taught the art of calculating these things correctly, have a more exact knowledge that is, they would not act harmfully.

or by seeking, sharing and serving God in this world:

So that this call should resound throughout the world, Christ sent forth the apostles he had chosen, commissioning them to proclaim the gospel: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age.” Strengthened by this mission, the apostles “went forth and preached everywhere, while the Lord worked with them and confirmed the message by the signs that attended it.” Those who with God’s help have welcomed Christ’s call and freely responded to it are urged on by love of Christ to proclaim the Good News everywhere in the world. This treasure, received from the apostles, has been faithfully guarded by their successors. All Christ’s faithful are called to hand it on from generation to generation, by professing the faith, by living it in fraternal sharing, and by celebrating it in liturgy and prayer. (CCC 2-3)

or both (because they are not necessarily mutually exclusive) pick one. Remember Psalm 19:1: The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork. 

Then (and with humility) end each day with these words from G.K. Chesterton:

“Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world around me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?”

[Admin: It should come as no surprise to anyone that my daughter's name is Sophia Rose. It was chosen for many of the reasons I've just mentioned. Also, I chose not to go into depth regarding the Rosary as I plan on writing more about this prayer in the coming week or two. This single prayer, meditation, or exercise…whatever you choose to call it…has been responsible for deepening and widening my faith more than any other. It has opened the door for me to a rich world in which my head is able to stay above water. At least for the most part. I am human after all.]

Lent 2012: a series on Psalm 119 to clean my “messy house”

When I was considering what to do as a series of posts for Lent I had considered the Psalms. Today I came across someone who had suggested writing in regards to the longest psalm, Number 119, and all of its 176 verses. Overwhelming to be sure, but when I did some research and learned that the psalm could be divided into twenty-two sections of eight verses each, I thought it a great idea. Then tonight I came across this story by Kathleen Norris from the book Bread And Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter:

When I’m working as an artist-in-residence at parochial schools, I like to read the psalms out loud to inspire the students, who are usually not aware that the snippets they sing at Mass are among the greatest poems in the world. But I have found that when I have asked children to write their own psalms, their poems often have an emotional directness that is similar to that of the biblical psalter. They know what it’s like to be small in a world designed for big people, to feel lost and abandoned. Children are frequently astonished to discover that the psalmists so freely express the more unacceptable emotions, sadness and even anger, even anger at God, and that all of this is in the Bible that they hear read in church on Sunday morning.

Children who are picked on by their big brothers and sisters can be remarkably adept when it comes to writing cursing psalms, and I believe that the writing process offers them a safe haven in which to work through their desires for vengeance in a healthy way. Once a little boy wrote a poem called “The Monster Who Was Sorry.” He began by admitting that he hates it when his father yells at him: his response in the poem is to throw his sister down the stairs, and then to wreck his room, and finally to wreck the whole town. The poem concludes: “Then I sit in my messy house and say to myself, ‘I shouldn’t have done all that.”

“My messy house” says it all: with more honesty than most adults could have mustered, the boy made a metaphor for himself that admitted the depth of his rage and also gave him a way out. If that boy had been a novice in the fourth-century monastic desert, his elders might have told him that he was well on the way toward repentance, not such a monster after all, but only human. If the house is messy, they might have said, why not clean it up, why not make it into a place where God might wish to dwell?

*****

And that little story sealed the deal. Because I love the Psalms. I didn’t always, but after spending a lot of time with them while praying the Liturgy of the Hours with the Church I have developed a real appreciation for these beautiful poems from Holy Scripture. And so for twenty-two of the forty days of Lent I will be doing an exercise of which I hope you’ll find useful. I’m going to look at the Psalm in its twenty-two parts and, using a few books and commentaries I own, do a verse-by-verse commentary of the Psalm. Most utilized will be Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture (Old Testament, Vol. 8: Psalms 51-150) from InterVarsity Press and Haydock’s Catholic Bible Commentary, 1859 edition.

As Kate writes at Australia Incognita, Psalm 119

is an extended meditation on the importance of God’s law. It is a psalm above all about the path to happiness, as its first line makes clear:

“Blessed are those whose way is blameless, who walk in the law of the LORD!”

The first eight verses of this psalm in the original Hebrew begin with Aleph, which is the name of the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. The second eight verses begin with Beth, the name of the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet; and so to the end of the whole alphabet, in all twenty-two letters, each letter having eight verses. The poem is an acrostic; its twenty-two stanzas are in the order of the Hebrew alphabet. Each of the eight verses within a stanza begins with the same letter. Each verse contains one word for “instruction. There are nine words for “instruction,” not eight, so the principle of a different word for “instruction” in each verse cannot be maintained with perfect consistency. The nine words for “instruction” in the translation are: law, statute, commandment, precept, testimony, word, judgment, way, and promise.

There is a tradition that King David used this psalm to teach his young son Solomon the alphabet—but not just the alphabet for writing letters: the alphabet of the spiritual life. Others believe that he composed it while he himself was young, and persecuted by Saul. It seems very probable, that David wrote it for the consolation of the captives.

The Israelites might recite this psalm on their journey, three times a-year, to the temple, as Psalm 119 comes immediately before the fifteen gradual canticles that follow. These are associated literally with the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for major Jewish feasts and the climb up the steps of the Temple, and spiritually with the Ascent to heaven. This psalm is letting us know that as a preparation for the celebration of the Resurrection at Easter it is necessary to reflect on the Law of God.

Like the child who wrote “The Monster Who Was Sorry” that Ms. Norris referred to in her story, I must confess that my house is messy. There are things I really shouldn’t have done. I’ve sat in the middle of the mess for too long and it’s time to throw open the windows to my soul and give my heart a good spring cleaning. I hope that you’ll join me on this journey as tomorrow we begin by taking a look at verses 1 through 8.

Who will survive?

I informed my wife yesterday that I’d finally decided what to give up for Lent this year: Clutter. She immediately let out a whoop and did a celebratory dance; obviously I made the right choice. However, I wasn’t just referring to my little piles of books and papers that are spread out all over the house. I’m also going to continue to de-clutter my mind (no Facebook, still) as well as my inbox and posts that I’ve had drafted for awhile but not posted and attempt to spend the next 40 plus days focused on Lent and then the Easter that will come. What follows is one of those posts. Have a good Lent everyone.

*****

Among many things over the past 2000+ years, Christians have survived this:

Konstantin Flavitsky – Christian Martyrs in Colosseum. 1862

This:

And this:

Going forward the Church will survive this:

This:

And this:

Will the principles which founded the United States of America survive this?

Happy President’s Day

I’m a 3rd Degree Knight, so yeah I’m going to post this message from the Knights of Columbus.

A new television commercial airing Presidents Day weekend reminds Americans how God and religion are foundational to this country.

Released by the Knights of Columbus, the minute-long spot highlights quotes from Presidents Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy and Reagan – each focused on the foundational role that God and religion play in American rights and government.

“The idea that our rights come from God and that religion has a role to play in our nation’s public life is not partisan or sectarian, it is quintessentially American,” said Supreme Knight Carl Anderson. “This Presidents Day is an excellent opportunity to remind Americans that God is – and has always been – foundational to this country and to our system of ordered liberty.”

The spot is running on national cable networks between Feb. 18 and 20. It is also running in regional markets from Connecticut to California.

• Thomas Jefferson (Notes on the State of Virginia, 1785, abbreviated from Jefferson Memorial): “Can the liberties of a nation be secure when we have removed a conviction that these liberties are of the gift of God?”
• Franklin D. Roosevelt (State of the Union, Jan. 6, 1941): “This nation has placed its destiny in the hands … of its millions of free men and women; and its faith in freedom under the guidance of God.”
• George Washington (Farewell Address, Sept. 19, 1796): “Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports.”
• Ronald Reagan (“Evil Empire” Speech, March 8, 1983): “Freedom prospers when religion is vibrant and the rule of law under God is acknowledged.”
• Abraham Lincoln (Gettysburg Address, Nov. 19, 1863): “This nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom.”
• John F. Kennedy (Inaugural Address, Jan. 20, 1961): “The rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.”

The Knights of Columbus is the world’s largest Catholic fraternal organization with more than 1.8 million members worldwide. One of the nation’s most active charities, last year, Knights donated nearly $155 million and 70 million hours to charitable causes around the world.

Love is. Am I?

Almost everyone is familiar with St. Paul’s “Hymn to Love” from 1 Corinthians 13:4-7:

Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

This was the subject of my meditation exercises from Fr. Timothy Gallagher’s book An Ignatian Introduction to Prayer: Scriptural Reflections According to the Spiritual Exercises. I met Fr. Gallagher when I attended a silent weekend retreat he led two years ago this March and have thoroughly enjoyed using what I learned from him and his books to deepen my prayer life and dive further into the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola. What follows are some of the questions posed in the chapter I used this morning. I encourage you to make some time to quiet yourself and your surroundings, read slowly through 1 Cor 13:4-7 and then work through Fr. Gallagher’s questions.

“Love is”:

• “patient” And I?
• “kind” And I?
• “not jealous” Am I?
• “not . . . boastful” Am I?
• “not arrogant” What of me?
• “not . . . rude” Am I sensitive to others?
• “does not insist on its own way” Do I?
• “is not irritable” Am I?
• “is not . . . resentful” Am I?
• “does not rejoice at wrong but rejoices in the right” How do I respond to others’ weaknesses?
• “bears all things” Do I?
• “believes all things, hopes all things” Do I continue to hope for growth in others?
• “endures all things” Do I?

If you’re not in a place where you can slow down into a quiet time and place then I suggest you save this entry for a time when you can. It may open your eyes just a little and give you some insights on areas that need attention. It did for me.

The Ferris Wheel

The wing and the wheel are gonna carry us along
And we’ll have memories for company… long after the songs are gone.
~ The Wing & The Wheel (Nanci Griffith)

Credit: jupiterimages.com

Last night I described my recent relationship as a father to my oldest son thusly:

We connected, and then went around on the big circle that we wind up on these days. We start off far apart, draw closer, and then go round again…winding up apart.

I was thinking of a Ferris Wheel. This morning I awoke with the image even more engrained in my mind.

In this life we walk hand in hand with our little ones through the Carnival of Life. We try to guide them through life’s midway, a maze of vendors screaming at your kids to “play” this and “try” that. Games of chance that fleece them of their money or worse, their dignity as human beings. You hold their little hands tightly, calmly teaching them about why they should avoid such things, at times not shielding them so they can see the ugliness with their own eyes.

A few steps past the last vendor finds us staring up in the sky. We are at the foot of the Ferris Wheel. In the small town carnivals of my youth this was always the most distinct landmark as it was usually the tallest ride. As time has gone on it is no longer the most popular or viewed as the most dangerous of rides in a thrill-seeking culture such as ours. It’s kind of slow and a little boring. Our child looks up with us with pleading eyes and asks to ride it. As you’ve ridden it with them before you nod and begin to walk to the waiting car with them. They stop and turn to look up to you. Silently they say with their eyes that this time they want to go solo.

“I’m going to pre-school now, Daddy. No worries. I’ll just go around once.”

And so he gets on while we stand, feet firmly planted to the ground. He’s a little nervous but also excited as he grips the bar and his feet dangle in the air because he’s not quite tall enough to rest them on the car’s foothold. The wheel starts to turn and he’s taken away from you, going backwards and upwards with the wide-eyed look of one who is tasting his freedom for the first time. Up to the top he goes, and finally down towards you and the ground. The ride stops. He exits the car and runs towards you excitedly and once more puts his little hand in yours, but you notice that it seems to be a little bigger as you hold on.

“It’s my first day of school, Dad! Kindergarten will be awesome!”

Away from you while going upwards he climbs, this time going around twice. As he makes his second circle you notice that his feet are not dangling and now rest on the car’s foothold. Taking his hand after the ride his lengthier fingers now more easily entwine with your own.

The first sleepover finds him on the ride again.

Again as the teenager.

High school.

Graduation.

Each time the Ferris Wheel ride goes a little faster. Each time the number of circles increases. And each time he steps off he walks back to you a little taller and with less enthusiasm. Finally he stops putting his large hand into your own. And each time as you walk through the midway with him he seems intent to listen to what the carnies are pitching. And you pause to look at your reflection in a booth’s sideshow mirror to see that you have gotten softer around the middle, more gray is on your scalp, and your stride is not as swift.

You have more than one child. This is not happening in a vacuum. As you place the older child on the Ferris Wheel for his umpteenth time you turn and put your pre-schooler on it for her first trip round. As she gets on the ride your middle child is in the car paused at the wheel’s apex. You shield your eyes and looking up you notice that his car is beginning to swing more carefree at the top as he breathes in the sweet air of freedom and no cares, and takes in the view of limitless possibilities for the very first time.

You step back and place your feet on the familiar ground.

And let go.

*****

This morning I read from Psalm 139. Among many things it says “You know me when I sit down and when I rise up.” And I thought of the Ferris Wheel. Verses 1 through 18 read as a son talking to his father or as a child to the parent. I read it even now and I see that I am the son speaking of and to his heavenly father. Reassuring myself of His love, and of the relationship we share.

But I know something else. I am called to be a father. I am in truth already a dad. A very human and earthbound dad, being more humbled with each passing day. While I will never be the omnipotent father as God is to me, I can be and will be an earthly father to my children.

I will help them to “search out” their path.

I can offer my hand to “lead” them. In my right hand I “shall hold” them. No darkness is too dark for me to ever stop searching for them when they get lost. The “night is bright as the day.”

And when the time is right I will take a deep breath and find strength as their dad by trusting in my Father. I will step back and place my feet firmly on familiar ground so that they always know where to find me.

And I will try to let go.