Thanks for the Christmas Present

A little boy looked up at me as I was greeting people after Mass on Christmas Day. His mom and dad were standing there and I found myself asking the kid what he thought he might get for Christmas. He mentioned some toy --a name I did not recognize. Then he asked me what I was getting for Christmas. I mumbled something about not knowing what I wanted.

"I'm going to get you something," he said. Maybe he was five years old. "I'm not sure of what, but I'll think of something."

I thought that was nice but my attention was already moving on to greeting the next people coming out of church. As he was walking away with his parents I said, "Hey! What's your name? "Jesus!" he replied.

Now in print those five letters read out loud and clear, don't they.But, I'd been speaking Spanish and the boy had answered "Hey-Zoos!" accent on the "Zoos." But, I saw the word "Jesus" in my head and heard it in my heart.

Ever since, I have felt that I have been given a unique gift this Christmas. The child reminded me that Christmas itself is my gift, the one the boy had been thinking about.

So, I am grateful for the Divine Child in the manger and the gift of grace that He brings to our world, to you and to me. I've always thought that inattention or rejection of a gift is one of the worst things you can do to someone. Accepting a gift with thanks is one of the best things you can do.

The Lord has given me a grateful heart as a Christmas present this year. Little "Hey-zoos" can forget about finding a present for me, I already have his gift.

Bob Feller's baseball

Bob Feller, the Hall of Fame pitcher who played eighteen seasons for the Cleveland Indians died yesterday. I met him twice at autograph signings, once in Chicago in the early seventies and then In Las Vegas about ten years ago.

"Rapid Robert" had lost a lot of speed on his fastball by the time I saw him play in Chicago.  That's nearly sixty years ago.  He was still formidable but he was crafty and mixed in change-ups that made his strike-out pitch look faster than it really was. He left baseball in 1956.

Feller was signed right out of high school and skipped the minor leagues. In a memorable game that first year, Bob Feller truck out seventeen batters.  He was seventeen years old.
A few years later, on opening day at Comiskey Park in Chicago he no-hitted our beloved White Sox. That was in April 1940, three months before I was born.

Feller claimed that his fastball in mid-career was clocked at 106 mph. I'll be that hurt when it snapped into the catcher's mit.

He was joking around at the small store in Chicago which had arranged for him to come in and sign autographs. Forty years ago, it was still a novelty to pay for a baseball player's autograph but I wanted my book signed, one of his books on how to pitch. I think he charged five dollars for a signature.

When he walked into the store he held up over his head, a baseball covered with autographs of the players who had played in an old-timer's game the day before at Comiskey park. There were a handful of people waiting.

"The first thirty-five dollars takes it," he said.  I didn't hesitate."I'll take it," I said. Before I knew it he tossed the ball to me --overhand.  He was maybe fifteen feet from me. I caught it! I thought: "I just caught a ball thrown to me by Bob Feller!"

The ball is long gone and so is the book.  But, it's a good feeling to know that I met this great baseball player. He's not just an obituary to me.

I am sure no one will mind if I pray for him today.

Second Sunday in Advent: Twice as bright

It's the Second Sunday in Advent and I am high on the Kingdom of God.  It struck me this week that the "new way" which the early christians talked about was, and continues to be,
the building up of the Kingdom of God in this world.  John the Baptist exclaims: "Repent the Kingdom of God is at hand." We don't have to wait for it.  It's here.  It's now.

I had way too much to talk about in the homily today.  So, I simply spoke from my heart
about the joy that comes from knowing that I am a member of the God movement to change the world in the Name of Our Lord. Calling for repentance and living the Gospel is the same message that we hear at the beginning of Lent. But advent celebrates thebirth of the new kingdom.  First the shepherds heard about it, then the wise men sought the king. Those were the first christians, the first members of the kingdom.  Apostles and disciples followed.  Now, there are many, many of us.

We are pilgrims walking along the way straightenting out roads, bringing down mountains and filling up valleys. There is a lot to do but so many of us now to do it.
The Kingdom is here, it's just not finished yet.

A good start is to remember the Christ Child, the Savior born for us and born a king.
It is His kingdom we celebrate in advent.

We light the second candle on the advent wreathe and our little kingdom shines twice as bright as it did last Sunday.

A Bluejay is scolding someone from my roof this Thanksgiving morning.  Is the Blue Jay protesting in solidarity with wild turkeys throughout the United States in opposition to the wanton killing of the birds Benjamin Franklin wanted illustrated on our official national seal?

No matter that the Blue Jay squawks,  I'm one of those who is grateful today that the American Eagle was chosen by our forefathers to represent our country's honor rather than the stumpy, frumpy-looking turkey. I know, I know.... Wild turkeys look sleeker and more elegant than the caricature turkeys on our placemats and Thanksgiving cards.

I'm grateful for a lot of things today--and in no particular order:

I'm grateful for the orthopedic surgeon who loosened the bands in my back which were squeezing off the nerves to my legs. Now I can walk for a long time without pain. Not to mention the cardiologist who has me running on batteries.

I'm grateful to God that I made vows in the Congregation of the Resurrection and inherited
a family dedicated to rising from sin to a new life in Christ. I don't know where I would be without the great grace of community life. The guys keep me, or try to keep me real.

I'm grateful for my priesthood and the Eucharist (Greek for "Thanksgiving").  It's my life.  It's who I am.

I'm grateful that I have a close family, and a large one. We have our issues and problems
but when I remember my four sisters and my parents who have gone before us, my heart softens and I think how great it is that we have one day set aside in our country to
formally give thanks. In a few hours, I'll sit down with that family for the traditional turkey dinner.

My oldest sister will prepare it and nearly everyone will bring something for the table to add to the feast. There will be turkey with sage stuffing, of course, and cranberry relish, mashed potatoes and gravy, linguini (the Italians are hosting today's dinner), creamed green beans (a favorite) and all kinds of pies including, apple, pumpkin and banana cream.

When the table is ready and everything that needs to be hot will be hot, we'll all amble in.
Some will sit, others will stand and I'll likely lead the prayer. My thanks will be brief
because who wants cold turkey on Thanksgiving? But, I'm also going to take time to ask everyone to join me in the "Our Father" and the good ole "Bless us, O Lord and these Thy gifts...."

I hope you are welcome somewhere for Thanksgiving.  If not, for whatever reason,
I am including you in our Thanksgiving prayer and praying that God will fill you
with what you need to serve your deepest hungers.

Catholic Relief Services Takes Me to School

I was in Baltimore this week attending a workshop sponsored by Catholic Relief Services.  "Charm City" was bekoning me all week.  The first Catholic Cathedral in the U.S.was definitely worth a visit. Then, there is Baltimore's inner harbor where the U.S. Constitution is docked only three blocks from our hotel.  But these sights will have to wait for a return visit. My four days in Baltimore at CRS were action-packed from Mass at 7:30 AM until we returned to our hotel at the end of the day.

The orientation workshop offered once a year trains preachers to go out to parishes to spread the good news of the work of Catholic Relief Service which brings aid to the poor throughout the world.

  I have always had a soft spot in my heart for CRS and  a sense of pride in the work of my Church as it brings the Gospel to life by assisting the poor. Whether being on the scene in disaster relief or assisting in the development of impoverished peoples, CRS has been working for over seventy-five years as the international outreach of the U. S. Catholic Church.

My first preaching assignment for CRS is in November and only twenty-five miles away. It will be a great opportunity to get my feet wet as a preacher for what CRS calls their "Global Fellows" program.



Pakistanis, homeless after an earthquake



The motive is twofold: to help Catholics understand what CRS does in their name and to seek prayerful support. I know Catholics are generous and I know they will want to respond by taking CRS into their hearts.

Photo: sxc.hu/ Mani098, 977164

Andrew Greeley and Chicago Catholics

Father Andrew Greeley has published a new book," Chicago Catholics and Their Struggle within the Church." 

A pain in the lower back," "Chicago's Priestly Prophet," "Father Andy," whatever you call him Father Greeley has been an important commentator on the life of American Catholics and Chicago Catholics in particular.

For a long time I simply gave up reading his column in the Sun Times.  I became tired of his constant harping on what he considers lousy sermons, terrible music and arrogant bishops. He usually described the Chicago Church in the words "Pay, Pray and Obey."

It wasn't that I thought Father Greeley was a pompous academic. No, he was a dripping faucet, an annoying voice that never seemed to let up on the Church that he claimed to love.

Now, he has written his last book and I want to read it. (In 2008, he suffered a serious head injury that impairs his thinking and his speech.) I want to read his
evaluation of the survey he conducted of over five hundred Catholics in 2007.

He found that seventy-eight percent of Catholics consider their Faith extremely or very important. Who are these people? His book will tell me.

There was a stunning response to a question concerning what makes a good Catholic.
Ninety-four percent answered that it was belief in the resurrection of Jesus.  I have had the feeling that most Catholics did not think much about the resurrection and that it has been kind of a secret. I thought most Catholics identified the Savior with His Passion, His death on the cross. Mel Gibson's film "The Passion of the Christ" epitomizes that concept of salvation.

Andrew Greeley is saying, No!  Catholics get it!
The Christ of the Resurrection is their enduring hope.

Years ago, I wrote a response to a Greeley column in the Sun Times.
I criticized Andrew Greeley for his judgement of the American Catholic Church
as tottering and growing in irrelevance.  It was a letter to the editor of the Sun Times and to my surprise, they published it in a full page article entitled "Most Catholics Still Love Their Church." I knew then and I know now that Catholics do love their Church. My phone did not stop ringing the morning the paper came out. People had had enough of Father Greeley.

I feel different now. Father Greeley said things then that needed to be said.  We were living through a frustrating time and he pushed our collective faces into the mess we had made of the Church and basically told us to wake up.

I am concerned nowabout the thousands who have fallen away.  I heard somewhere that the second biggest group of American Christians, after Catholics, are Catholics who have left the Church.

We can learn from Father Greeley's new book. We do need to preach more effectively, sing more devoutly, and all of us need to live our Faith more deeply. This is Greeley's final call to the Chicago Church to listen to the voices of Chicago Catholics as they struggle within the Church to live out their call.

Thanks, Father Greeley, you little Irish imp. We have needed your voice in the past and now we need it more urgently than ever.

Photo: stock.Xchange. Credit:ba1969

Rescued! The Kneeling Chilean Miner Gives Thanks.

"More things are wrought through prayer than this world dreams of."

It's a few hours after the Chilean miners rose out of their tomb separately and miraculously. They were buried for sixty-nine days, all thirty-three of them. Meanwhile, their families, friends and eventually the whole world was watching and waiting to see the drama play out.

My first reaction was to thank God for their rescue. If prayers could be counted, what do you think would have been the final number of petitions lifted up to God for the salvation of these ordinary people?

I watched as the live video feed from Chile showed several of them exit "Fenix"(the rescue capsule) and rush to greet their families and friends. One of the Chilean minors, though, stepped out of the capsule and immediately knelt down and, with head bowed, stayed that way for a good minute before moving on to the embraces of his family.

I can't find that picture anywhere. The one I used above isn't it. But I wanted some
image to accompany these words because we all ought to stop and thank God for hearing our prayers for these good men.

A question brought up by at least one commentator was what has sustained these men
during their long and dreadful night. The Chilean miners early on asked for and recieved images of Our Lady and St.Lawrence. The men constructed a shrine downin the mine where they could offer prayers for their families and for their rescue.

It was their Faith, and I use capital "F" because their trust was not in some superstition but in a person. They knew "La Madre" would watch over them and that San Lorenzo, the patron of minors would intercede for them.  But, "Primero, Dios or "God's will be done." He would not let them perish. Those prayers, and I mean the action of actually getting down on their knees and praying, was what enlivened their spirits and sustained them through the long, lonely night of sixty-nine days.

Their lives have been changed by prayer. It is unlikely that the miner who knelt down to thank God after his rescue will ever pray in the same way again. He knows that prayer is answered and that life-long thanks is right and just.

photo credit: istock

Thank God It's Sunday.

It's the sabbath. Not doing laundry today or washing the car or tackling computer projects.
Resting my soul, too, and so, no unnecessary worrying about daily things or fretting over the big questions of life that I haven't been able to figure out during decades of trying. Sunday should be free of that stuff. 

It is hard to cease. Just try it. You can do it. 

Stop working on Sundays because time isn't money.  You get to spend the time the Lord has given you to rest your weary head and tired body. The day is the Lord's gift to you and me. It's a refreshment break, a grace-filled space in the week as sacred as the church sanctuary.  To break the sabbath is sinful, an act of ingratitude.  
Cease. 
Rest.
Embrace life and those around you. "I have come to bring you life," says Our Lord, "and life in abundance." Take the offer of abundant life. 
Feast.  It's O.K. to take the time to eat good food and drink, preferably with those you love. Alone, too, if necessary. 
Pray.  On Sunday, eat and drink something nourishing for your spirit, too. So, pray. At the Sunday Eucharist with the rest of us and also in some private moments. Try praying while you take a walk, or drive to Walgreens. A good prayer is "Thanks!" Lots of our prayers are
"Gimmies" but on the Sabbath it should be gratitude that we offer Our Lord. 

Thank God it's Sunday.

Frost on the Pumpkins

This morning there is white frost on the windshield of my black car and, I suppose, on the pumpkins for sale along the main road here in McHenry county. Some of the sugar maples look like huge sprays of red and gold flowers laid against the oaks which are still hanging in there with bowers of green leaves. It's definitely Fall.

It's always interesting to see the changes which come with the four seasons. I missed the seasons when I lived in Southern Mexico and in Las Vegas. There are few sensible changes to the environment in those places as the year passes. Las Vegas is nice enough but its only seasons are "hot and dry" and "warm and dry." Oaxaca has a dry season and a wet season and both are hot.

Midwesterners are formed by the four seasons. We are used to going from shirt sleeves to sweaters to parkas. We don't stay inside because it's blustery outside or snowing.  We just keep on keeping on. It makes us an adaptable people.  It also gives us something to talk about. "Man, it's cold! I can't wait for Spring!"

If St. Francis were here, he'd be outside today praising God for the frost.  Praise Him, too, for the pumpkins which contribute their warm orange in abundance in the fields where they lie among broken cornstalks whose dry leaves wave in the biting wind. Fall is just beginning to bloom.

"He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change. Praise Him."

("Pied Beauty," Gerard Manley Hopkins)

Photo: rmullis, sxc.hu/photo/419624

Up in the Air with a Catholic Charismatic

Once he found out I was a Catholic priest, the Belgian businessman sitting next to me on the transatlantic flight was anxious to share with me his experience of Church.

"I grew up Catholic in a small village. My parents were obervant Catholics and we went to Mass on sundays and practiced devotions like the rosary. When I married, my wife and I went to our village church for Mass but the experience was so unsatisfying that we simply stopped going.  The pastor was cold and formal.  He was not open to spontaneous prayer and distrusted lay involvement in the church."

His name was "Pierpont." Fiftiish, tall, thin and soft spoken, he talked with a conviction that impressed me. I like to hear Catholics speak of their faith.

His English was good, but studied, and he often had to search out an English word that would capture what he could have easily said in French. He was careful not to be critical of some of the Belgian  priests and bishops whom he felt were not pastoring as they should.

"We Catholics need nourishment for our hearts and not only our heads. We want  to
pray freely from our souls. We want to express Jesus in our lives."

He showed me the book he was reading on comtemporary trends in the charismatic movement in the Catholic Church.  He was very aware of the pitfalls of emotionalism and self-activity that can lead to divisions in a charismatic community.  For a long time, he was a kind of under-shepherd to his local community and he was humbled that he had been chosen by them to lead discussion  and prayer.

He stressed that his new pastor does come to their weekly meetings which are held in church and attended by about twenty people regularly. Only about forty people show up for Sunday Mass, though.

"I am very happy in my church when I pray from a charismatic viewpoint," he said. We do have some things we must clean up, though."

A Belgian to the left of me, Catholic. A Hindu to the right of me. A Muslim from Tunis on my left. My intercontinental flight was a smorgesbord of discussion on contemporary religion. It reminds me that far from being irrelevant to people, religion is contemporary and urgent.

Going Home Together

Tunisia.  It sounds exotic and remote. The graduate student holding a rolled-up poster  tucked next to him looked to be in his early twenties.  We were sitting in the same row on our flight from Chicago to Frankfort. I couldn't place his accent.

"I'm from Tunisia, he said, "a very small country.  Hey, we all get along and have no problems with one another."

The East Indian Hindu next to me was silent and I could only wonder if it were possible that a country exists where there is no conflict. The Tunisian also wanted to know if I was open to understanding his culture or like other Americans he'd met, was I secure in my "USA,  All the Way" mentality.

I listened. How proud he was that he had just come from giving a seminar in Minneapolis. He had created a posterfor that presentation which illustrated some concept of computerese that was beyond me. He was just starting his career and after five months in America he was looking forward to going home.

There wasn't time for much conversation.  He was sitting two seats away but  I could see
he wanted to talk more. Other than that he speaks Italian, his local language, French and English, I didn't learn much more about him or his country.

I wonder how he feels now that he is back home. I'm home, too. So is the Hindu.

My companions on this flight were all going home. Home to friends and family.  Home to their wives' familiar cooking and to the embraces of their children. Home to the sounds of neighbors chattering on their way to work, to kids playing and calling to one another, home to trees and flowers or sand and hills --whatever they remembered as home.

Our Father has placed in our souls a restlessness, a yearning for home and a sense of deep satisfaction when we arrive there.

Someday, my travelling and yours will cease and we all will be home. We will know one another as our Father knows us.  The mystery which each of us is hides us within. In our eternal home, our journeys completed, each of will know God and one another as He knows us. Home at last.

Storing Memories Respectfully

A Belgian, an Indian and a Tunisian were seated on an International flight.  Wait! These are not the first words of a joke ("A priest, a minister and a rabbi were golfing...".) No, these were real people, businessmen who were my companions for a few hours as we travelled from the U.S.to Europe. It's surprising what people whom you will never see again will tell you.

The East Indian, from the sub-continent which is changing how the world thinks, was on his way back from seminars which he gave in Boston concerning esoteric (to me) computer programing. I had been writing in my ever-present pocket note book which acts as info-storer for my lists of tasks, descriptions of what I am thinking, and a kind of diary.

"Are you writing?" the thirty-five year old asked with the lilting accent of East Indian English.

"I can't write my signature the same way twice. I never write," he said. He asked me at least three more times during the long flight about my writing.

"Are you writing again?" he said. I began to feel guilty somehow. Perhaps, my act of writing was suspect. It began to dawn on me after he told me his hand cramps if he tries to write for more than two minutes that it was hard for him to believe that there were still people like me who used such a primitive way of storing information.

But what really piqued my interest was when he began talking about his values, his core system of belief. First, in value is his mother, then his father, then his teacher and finally "the God."

 He explained that everything comes from the mother. She brings you to life and you owe her your life. She requires great devotion. The father sacrifices for you so that you have food, clothing, home and a good name in the community.You must bring him honor. The teacher gives you for your head, intelligence and learning without which you cannot survive in this world. The teacher must be given great respect.

The God?  You must be responsible to someone for what you do with your life. 
If your life does not please the God, you will be punished. However, just the knowledge that the God's justice is sure and swift will keep you from making a mess of your life.

As my Canadian friend would say: Something to think about, eh?

Truth comes in all kinds of packaging. We can learn from this man's culture. Reverence for mothers, fathers and teachers is not exactly a current American virtue and we are poorer for it. In fact, the virtue of reverence is about as rare today as an heirloom pocket watch.

So this East Indian who reveres his parents and teachers and who can't write
reminds me that my life has been nurtured by my parents and elders. It's my responsibilty to make integrity and thanksgiving a life-long commitment.

I think "the God" will be pleased with me if I live a thankful life.  After all, it is He Who gives me life just as a spring waters a garden. In my value system, God is my mother, my father, my teacher --and my brother. He has spoken to me through all those who have stopped to share their lives with me, including this East Indian.

I'll tell you about the Tunisian and thr Belgian later.

(Photo: sxc.hu/zatrokz/1067628)

Apple Picking Along the Road

Along the Road There are Blurry Apples to Pick

I do not remember the entire poem. I do remember the words in that poem, though, that have become important to me over the years. Here's what I can bring to mind of a familiar Robert Frost poem: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...one was grassy and wanted wear...the other was equally as fair...I took the one less travelled by and that has made all the diverence. I won't place quotation marks around that because my memory skews importance by changing things as they should have been rather than how they really were.

The holy card (remember those?) from my ordination contained similar sentiments. I thanked God that he had led me along the road to ministry in the Church. I talked about running down the road laid out for me but sometimes stumbling along the way. I recalled the people who had travelled with me and encouraged me over the years including friends, my sisters, teachers and, of course, my parents.

I still look at life that way. Sometimes I am not sure where Our Lord wants me to go next. Where does the journey lead now, Lord?

As I get older I realize how deeply I must trust in You because
the journey cannot be too much longer, though I still want to run as the goal gets closer.

In two days I am off again to Europe. Dare I believe that the Lord has made this journey possible so that I can enjoy more of his creation? This time it's Copenhagen, Krakow and Vienna.

Don't envy me, too much, though I realize few people get to travel as often as I do.

I could have stayed home. But, then, how could I see what is around the next corner? I have to keep walking, and peeking and poking around in life.

My journey is not yours. But I know you have a road of life ahead of you like I do. The one thing we should not do is just sit around waiting for God to surprise us with a thunderbolt of motivation --- no, not with the road clearly there ahead of us.

Reminds me of another Frost poem. I think it's called "Apple Picking Time." Again I have forgotten most of the poem but I do remember the part I want to share with you. After talking about how he's ready to go out the door and joyously pick the rosy apples that are ready, ready for picking, he turns around, looks out at the reader and says something like: "I'm going apple picking. You come,too."

I am on a journey, every day. You come, too.

Mentorella: Our Lady of Mentorella Shrine Celebrates 1500 Years.

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The Shrine of Our Lady of Mentorella is not the easiest place to get to. Just 30 miles outside of Rome, this shrine to Our Lady of Graces sits on the top of a mountain like a storybook castle. To get there it takes nearly two hours by car up a winding road through small villages that few tourists ever see and where cows have the right-of-way. But, at journey's end the site of the shrine of Our Lady of Mentorella is worth the trip, especially this year as Mentorella celebrates its 1500th anniversary.

The complex includes a monastery where the Resurrectionists who minister at the sanctuary live
and the sanctuary itself. The sanctuary of Our Lady of Mentorella (Our Lady of Graces) is a beautiful stone church which exhibits an ancient carved wooden image of Our Lady seated with her child on her lap.

Pilgrims come from all over Europe to visit this sanctuary which may be the oldest Marian shrine in Italy, and perhaps in all of Europe. They come to ask Mary's intercession and to thank her for graces received.

Just after his elevation to the papacy, Pope John Paul II spent a day there in prayer and thanksgiving. He returned often during his papacy to retreat and pray in the quiet of the mountains. Benedict XVI also visited Our lady of Mentorella just after he became pope.

I have been there many times and always find the experience uplifting. Benedictines come to honor the
monastery as one of those founded by St. Benedict. Benedict resided in a cave at Mentorella for about two years.

This weekend there will be a huge celebration for the 1500th anniversary of the Sanctuary. Cardinal Giovanni Battista Re, retired prefect of the Congregation of Bishops will be Pope Benedict's envoy to celebrate the solemn Mass this Sunday, August 29, recalling the 1500 years of the sanctuary's existence.

I will be thinking of all the members of my Congregation who will be there and, of course, that makes me there in spirit. Our lady of Mentorella, Mother of Graces, you taught your Son how to love, teach me, too to love and serve the Church with all my heart.

Will Christ Come to Chicago?

William T. Stead, journalist, went down with the Titanic. Like last year's newspapers, if it weren't for writing one book, he would be forgotten today.

If Christ Came to Chicago was published in 1893, the year of the Columbian Exhibition, the Worlds' Fair. Stead was in Chicago to record events of the Fair and transmit his views to his London newspaper and he did a great job. But, Stead was not only a newspaper man, he was also a devout Christian.  It was the time when social ministry was resurgent and the move toward a single,world religion for everyone was popular. 

The bookseller who reissued this classic claims to have ten thousand books about Chicago in his personal library.  He'd give them all up to keep his copy of  If Christ came to Chicago.

After looking around Chicago, the Las Vegas of its day, Stead concluded that  prostitution, alcohol consumption, and corruption from top to bottom of the city's authority structure combined to make Chicago one of the most immoral cities in the world. He claimed that if it were not for the poor themselves and the bars where they drank, Chicago would also be one of the most irreligious.

Certainly there were hundreds of churches with much of the populace attending services on sundays but Chicago's churches didn't practice what they preached. They did not take care of the poor, the widows, orphans, families of alcholics and those down on their luck.And, the sinners? Those outside the church doors? The sinners would just have to see the light, someway, someday.



 In 1893, even with the World's Fair in progress, Chicago like the nation was in a deep recession. Not far from the glorious "White City" out on Chicago's  southern  lakeshore, the lives of many Chicagoans stank as badly as its sprawling stockyards. Stead documents and details the city's corruption with the accuracy of an archer who consistently hits the bullseye.

If Christ came to Chicago he'd likely be found in the saloons comforting and feeding His people. If he came to Chicago the church leaders would have to hang their heads in shame because the churches of Jesus Christ had become comfortable with themselves.

I've hauled out Stead's old book again. It's chock full of data and particulars
about Chicago which ring true today.

Could Christ come to Chicago? Of course he could. And, he would comfort the sick, and the sorrowful, feed the hungry and give drink to the thirsty, not just talk about these things.

As for me, I'm going out to look for someone who needs a cold drink of water.

Danny, tumbling through the Air

I was on my way to the First Mass of a friend but I thought I'd stop at the closest fast food joint so I could get something to eat. I'd celebrated Sunday Eucharist and visited two people in the hospital and it had been a long time since breakfast.

There it was, a Popeye's Restaurant. I pulled into the drive-through, gave my order and drove up to the service window. I placed my car in park and reached for my wallet when suddenly there was a loud crashing sound. In the instant that I I looked up I saw that a motorcycle had plowed into an SUV and the motorcyclist was flying up into the air high above the scene.  The person in flashy motorcycle uniform and full helmet seemed to float as he/she made a complete flip in the air and came down hard on the asphalt.

I looked at the girl at the service window and yelled, "Call 911!" I ran to where
the victim was lying face down on the ground, not moving. It was a young man, probably in his early twenties. Several of his friends were standing around just staring, their fine, brightly colored motorcycles parked where they had left them in the street.

After perhaps two minutes the guy began to stir and I and another man
held him down. His right arm was obviously broken and likely his hip. He had blood on his left hand but I couldn't see where it came from. We kept him on the ground until the ambulance came.

When he came around, he asked me, "What happened?" I told him there had been an accident. "What's your name?, I asked. "Danny,' he said. "Oh, I'm
messed up! he whispered. (He actually used a more graphic phrase.)
"You're going to be O.K. I said. I'm a priest and I'm with you and praying for you.

We kept him flat on the ground until the paramedics came. I guess it was five minutes or so after the accident when they arrived..

I told this story to a priest friend of mine and he asked me: "What kicked in first, your role as priest or medical person?"  I answered, "Medical person." But, when I though about it later I realized that my response was just me, priest and medical person and concerned citizen and Christian.

I've always thought that the priesthood is all about healing so maybe I don't have a division in my person where I act as a priest or a provider. I'm me and I help. I think I'm a better priest, though, than I am a medic.  I can tell you, it is very humbling to be at the side of someone who may be dying.

What would you do? Now, when I look deeper into this situation, the question comes, "Why was I there at all?" Surely it was the Lord's guidance and providence that moved me to be where I was and to help as I could.

I haven't been able to find out anything more about Danny but I trust he is O.K. and will survive this accident, messed up or not --one of God's children who simply loves motorcycles.

Talk about "Days of hope and resurrection!"

Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder

"What does she see in him?" is asked every time a wife forgives her bungling husband. It's usually asked by someone who doesn't love the poor guy. The wife does see something that others don't see, although that knowledge doesn't make it any easier to tolerate an annoying brother-in-law much less a loudmouth. Your sister loves him because she sees something else, she sees more than what you see.  And, what she sees is, to her, beautiful. What you see makes you shake your head, and sometimes grit your teeth.

What has happened to our eyes? Why is beauty something we rarely see? Take a sunrise, for example.  "Big Red" rising from the horizon and scattering the darkness to bring on morning is, to many people nothing important. The sun is just there and not too worthy of attention. Other people, look and say "Wow! That's beautiful."

Too many people have lost the sense of beauty.  They have people to see, things to do, and time, like money, is fleeting. There's no time to stop and smell the roses.

I propose that each day we stop, each of us and stare deeply into something, anything, even someone.

There is incredible harmony of line in a spider web, the spider itself, even a kind of beauty in the revulsion some of us feel for the dark legged spindly thing scurrying across the floor.  The first reaction is "Where's a shoe?"instead of stopping and getting a good look at one of God's great wonders.

We just have to stop more often and recognize beauty.  It's everywhere.  Just like God.

What's your name?

Yesterday, a waitress standing over me at a family restaurant introduced herself with a pleasant "Hi, I'm 'Memory,' and I'll be your waitress."  What an interesting name, I thought. It reminded me of an earlier encounter with a waiter whose name caught my attention.

Once, when I was out for dinner with a local family, a short, stout, waiter appeared at our table with a nametag that read "Jesus." Though pronounced in Spanish as "Hay-Zus," accent on the "Zus," this encounter with Jesus became a spiritual experience for me as I wondered at God's sense of humor in sending me a name-sake of His Son to wait on our table and serve us. But, back to "Memory."

I clamped my teeth shut and bit my tongue because I wanted to say things like: "Hey, Memory! Do you every forget?" "Is your brother named 'Forgetery?'" "How many gigs to your memory?"

With a last name like "Watt," I've had enough of the jokesters who think they are the first to ask: "And, how many Watts are you?" or "Watt's up?"

Names are important. People's names have great value to them. Sometimes, their name --it's good sound-- is all they have of their dignity left. Think of what it means to you when someone whom you love calls you softly by your name. Or, how angry you can become if someone --a sales person, for example -- misuses your name: "GERARD??!!"  A nurse you've never seen before stands there with her clipboard mistaking your name or mispronouncing it in front of an elderly lady knitting, two male figures reading "Mechanic's Illustrated" and "Today's Doctor" and four other people who all look up from their reading to see who will answer to that name.

It's Gerald," I answer. The nurse looks at her clipboard and says "I'm sorry." She slurs the words as she turns away and waves me back to the examining room like she's motioning to her dog. Somehow, I am annoyed.

Think of the last time someone was dealing with you in an off-handed way and suddenly asked, What's your name again?" That makes you feel like they don't really care what your name is or who you are. Otherwise, they'd remember. I wonder if "Memory" ever has that problem.

In the bible, the personal name of God is written YWHW but it is never spoken out loud. So sacred is God's personal name that not even our Savior used it when he taught the disciples to pray. "When you pray say, "Our Father, who at in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name." The greatest respect for God demands that we do not pronounce His name with casualness. The second commandment reminds us to enshrine God's name in holiness and be careful how we use it. God Himself remains a mystery whether we say "Lord" or "Father."

Every person, too, is a mystery and using an individual 's name just barely begins to lift the veil on the one whose name you speak.

I love the verse in the bible which says that at the Second Coming of Jesus when the dead rise in Christ, God will give me a new name, my secret name, the name for me known only to Himself (Rev. 2:17 and 3:12).  He will call me by that name when I see Him. He will call you by your true name, too.

God never forgets who we are.

Vigilance, on tip toe, waiting.

I met a dog named Henry today. A poodle. White.  He was guarding the territory of the house I was visiting. He was not unfriendly, just reserved. Several sharp barks greeted me on my arrival . Later he regarded me from the arms of his owner. The pooch saw no need to try to make friends with me.  The feeling was mutual.

For forty-five minutes we both ignored each other.  Finally, the owner placed him on the floor and the animal proceeded to go off duty: He rested inattentive underneath the coffee table in the front room.

Vigilance is very Christian. We are waiting for the return of Our Lord Jesus Christ. We should be watching and listening for Him.

We should be vigilant for someone else, too.  "Be alert!," St. Peter cautions in his epistle, because your adversary goes about like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.  Resist him steadfast in the faith."

So we need awareness of how evil itself, roaring and hungry, could catch the lazy Christian off guard.

At the same time we should be ready to embrace the Lord Jesus when He comes in glory.

The dog, Henry, is a sentinel on the bulwarks of the family home, waiting and then warning the family of approaching danger.

Our Christian sentinels are those who remind us constantly of the signs of the presence of Jesus in the world.
Today, there are echos of Jesus in the words of his followers.  We see His traces and the footprints in the wonderful actions of those who believe in Him and live that belief.

 But we don't see Him, yet. We must keep watching and waiting. Arf! Arf!

Projects

Are there just some things that confound you no matter how determined you are to control them? I have a project that I've been working on and it just will not bend to my will to get it done. I've tried DETERMINATION. I'll stick at it until I get it done, I say.  Bread and water if necessary, I vow. With my body rigid and my spirit in a coma, a squeeky voice from somewhere inside of me says BRING ON THE BREAD AND WATER.

I've tried WAITING.  Waiting, like waiting for a seed to germinate seems the way to go at times.  Maybe my project isn't mature enough yet. So, I wait. For a seed to germinate.  For a flower to bloom.  A lump of crabgrass to appear on the parched lawn of my life. The ground is dry. I've prayed rain over it. Nothing.

I have searched for more information to find a deeper footing for what I want to build. It's manure in quick
sand. From additional reading and pondering I've got a lot of stuff but it all just sinks into the swamp.

Sure, there have been snatches of inspiration like the sun breaking through the morning fog. But then the clouds take over and I am unable to see enough to build something beautiful.

 By now you've guessed that I want to write something.  I have an idea, several of them but they lie there like mismatched socks in the drawer in my head marked "work."

It's not that this writing project is more than I can handle.  In fact, it's to be short and sweet. The shortness almost comes, it's the sweetness that's missing. That's why I was on my knees  today. Not for long, but I thought maybe that's what I have been missing, the prayer part. But, I can't remember a job I have prayed more over than this one.

Inspiration does come from the Lord and my heart is in this.  But I can't find the excitement of how to do it,  the "Aha!" factor. It's strange feeling enthusiasm and futility.  It's humbling. I am not going to give up, though.   Maybe, tomorrow.

The Land lies Fallow

My sabbatical has been wonderful but it's time to get back into the fast lane of ministry --well, maybe not the fast lane. The middle or even the slow lane will do.

When I say I am on sabbatical I get blank stares from those who could never have the opportunity I have had this past year to review my life and get ready for what comes next. Guilty? No, I don't feel guilty because a sabbatical is not an extended period of laziness. Instead, like a year of Sundays, it's a time to let the land lay fallow so that new seeds can take root in rejuvinated soil. It's a gift and I've accepted it from God with a grateful soul.

For the most part, my physical health has improved and my mental and emotional health are renewed, too. I've learned that I need communion in the Body of Christ to survive. I've learned that I still have the strength to lay some brick along the foundations of the Kingdom of God.

I've watched families pray and at play and thought again about the goodness of God who makes it all happen.

I've read the New testament with greater love and understanding, in particular the Resurection stories and the narratives of the birth of the first Christian Churches. I see that those churches have the same problems we have today. The seven deadly sins are still deadly to the Church and the
grace of God is still stronger than any sin.

So, I am ready to return to full-time ministry with the added joy of having an associate this time, a man graced by God with joy and energy.

I hope there are sabbaticals of refreshment in your life. If they are offered do take them.

Sabbatical: A long or short period of time like a vacation but characterized by these qualities: Ceasing from ordinary work; Resting in body and spirit; embracing things and people that make you happy; praying in your own spirit for as long as you want to; and most of all realizing that like grace, it's all a gift from God.

Returning to the Sabbath

The son who ran away from home came back, I think, on the sabbath.  Maybe "ran away" is too strong a phrase for the young man who we usually refer to as the "prodigal son." Running away from home means getting out from under the authority of parents who insist on curfews, errands, homework, and all those rules which seems so arbitrary at home.  Sometimes you just want to do what you want to do and for once, have a good time. That is what the younger son was looking for once he had arrived at the age when he could rightly demand his inheritance from his father.

It was the sabbath, perhaps several years later, when his father saw his run-away coming down the road toward the house. He could scarely believe his eyes.

I think it was a sabbath because the boys's father was out on the porch. He wasn't working, he was resting and thinking about life. His younger son was never far from his thoughts. Was he O.K.? Was he happy?  Did he care about his family anymore?  Was he even alive?

He embraces his repentant son and welcomes him back to the family. He calls for a party, a feast. The fatted calf who had been treating this sabbath as any other, a day to eat and rest, was now going to be the main course of the welcome home party.

The father brings out his son's finest clothes and the boy --now a man-- cleans up pretty well. I hope his mother was still alive to hug her youngest at that moment. "Give him a gold ring and let the party begin!"

"Remember to keep holy the Sabbath," is not an option, it is a commandment. We Catholics observe Sunday as our sabbath, the day Jesus rose from the dead. Every sunday is Resurrection Sunday. That day should be celebrated as a day given as a gift by God to us.

How to observe the sunday sabbath:

Cease! Don't go to work today. Stop living in the past. Bury the old hurts and let them decay. Just stop.

Rest! It's a day to recover your emotional and physical strength. You are weary.  Rest awhile.

Embrace! Isn't there someone you should touch today? Someone to shake hands with; someone to kiss; someone to hug warmly, someone to be intimate with? Embrace life!

Pray! You may be right.  There's not much time to pray during the work week. Sunday should be a day of praying with the Church in community at the Eucharist. It should also be a time just to sit, or stand, or kneel in thanksgiving, in wonder, in peace.

Feast! There is a time to enjoy food and drink and good company. It is sad thing to try to feast alone.
Sunday should be a shared meal of dinner or just pizza and drinks. It is not a day to fast.

The young man missed so many sabbath days with his family. Now he came home on the sabbath and drinks in the warmth of his family life with its values and commitments..  His father explains this to the older brother: "We have to rejoice. Your brother was dead and has come back to life."

I love the sabbath.

(Photo: courtesy of sxc.hu/FruitJuice)

The Trip of a Lifetime

Unsettled. Homeless, in a way. That's how I have existed for the last two months.  Now, don't feel sorry for me because that's the way my life has been right along.  Since last I wrote I moved from the North American College to the generalate of the Congregation of the Resurrection, both places in Rome, and in each place I had a small bare room with a bed, a desk, a chair and a closet. That was it.

Then I moved from Rome to Chicago to another small room overlooking the Chicago River.  Now, I am in a nice apartment in Woodstock, Ilinois right next to a golfcourse. In eight weeks, I get to move again, this time to a parish in Morris, Illinois. But here's the kicker: the parish has three small houses available until they are torn down to make room for other church projects.  I get to choose one of these. You know, I sometimes wonder if the Lord enjoys watching me stumble around from residence to residence. I thank him for insisting that I move often to keep me awake and agile for my next ministry lest I get too comfy in any place.

During those short stays in Rome and in the U.S., life went on, mine and yours. Life is what happens while we plan on what we think we are going to do next. Do you want to make God laugh?  Tell Him your plans.
Do you want to walk with God throughout life?  Listen to His plans for you.

Life is a trip. For me, it seems like I am always going somewhere else.  It keeps my life off-balance but interesting. The Lord guides me through communities of interesting people whom I meet along my way and He shows me new vistas.

The photo of what I call "St. Francis of the Shades" reminds me that noticing what people place in their yards can prove interesting to those of us walking by. Sometimes I wonder how much of God's revelation I have missed by just not paying attention to the lives through which I was passing. I noticed this unusual statue of St. Francis next to a home in Skagway, Alaska. Even now it makes me smile.

I haven't been sitting down doing nothing because doing nothing is impossible and I like to stay occupied. I've contacted old friends and met some new ones. I've done some research and worked on some projects for the Congregation of the Resurrection. Regarding the projects, I am too picky and deliberate but eventually most of these projects get done.

I've even been able to pray longer because I've made more time for prayer. Just sitting waiting on God's presence and listening for Him has been refreshing for my spiritual life.  I hope you can find some time
for that kind of prayer, too.

I know this seems abstract but it is my reflection on the meaning of what has been happening in my life.
What's been happening in your life?

Rome, Holy Saturday Evening, 2010

Rome, Holy Saturday evening, 2010.
Holy Saturday Evening in Rome.  Most of my brother priests have left for the Vigil service at St. Peter's Basilica. It's so close they will arrive at St. Peter's Square in just a few minutes. Since I am not feeling well, I'm staying back to rest before tomorrow's Easter Sunday Eucharist.

I am thinking of the new fire, the sacred fire that is lit outside Catholic churches as the Holy Saturday Vigil Service begins.  Lighting a fire in the darkness of night is the way Catholics announce that Jesus Christ is still the Light of the world. Every light was extinguished in Catholic Churches at yesterday's remembrance
of the passion and death of our Savior. The churches have been dark ever since. Now it's time for the light to return.

In the darkness of our own human weakness and sin, we remember Our Lord who once shouted out that He had come to "cast a fire on the earth." And, then He said: "How I wish it were enkindled!" So, we Catholics light a bonfire outside our churches on the Vigil of Easter to remind us of what He expects of us. No timid, weak flame for us! We are meant for great things.

That fire scene will play out at all Catholic Churches throughout the world.  Here in Rome in front of St. Peter's in a half-hour, Pope Benedict XVI will preside at the lighting of the new fire. I will be able to see the glow from where I am since St. Peter's Square is just down the street.

Once the fire is blazing, a huge Easter Candle representing Christ is dipped into the fire until its wick catches a flame. Each of those present light their small candles from the great Christ candle. As the deacon lifts high the candle of Easter, now shining its light and dispelling the dark, we Catholics lift our tiny lights together and make enough light for us all to see. The lit candles are witnesses of our hope in Jesus Christ. In Him, there is no darkness.

Once in Church, the announcement of God's plan as it has played out in history is chanted by the deacon as  Catholics hold burning candles and listen to the words which proclaim our salvation. Our Lord instructed us that our lights must be kept burning brightly so that our good works will be seen and give glory to the Father.
"You are the light of the world,'" he said.

Scriptures are read, songs are sung and the announcement of Easter continues with alleluias  and glorias. Organ and brass, along with stringed and reed instruments are given full voice. Christ is Risen! Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

I just came down from the roof on the sixth floor of my building. St. Peter's Basilica is ablaze in light. It's bells are ringing, announcing the Resurrection of Our Lord. The bells, the old huge deep clanging bells are joining their alto and tenor sister bells. They are ringing out loudly, Christ is Risen! Now, the bells of other churhes are ringing, too. Rome begins its celebration of Easter.


Tomorrow, the scriptures will be read recalling the moment that Jesus was recognized by two of his disciples who were returning back to their village after the death of Jesus.  A stranger joins them along the road and explains to them that all is not lost.  The messiah was to suffer to show God's love for the world.

They recognize Him at dinner when he broke the bread and then left them. "Were not our hearts burning within us as he explained scripture to us?"

Tomorrow, at dawn on Easter day, Rome will still be Rome with its history of ancient sins and ruins, its intrigue and its noise. Nevertheless, the alleluias will rise from its hundreds of churches. I will be in one of those churches singing my alleluias with all of the other believers in Jesus, the Light of the World.

First of all, it's Holy Week in Rome. A million visitors have arrived in the Eternal City. The streets are full of teenagers, college students, and pilgrims from everywhere.

What can I say? The whole city is full of life and excitement.  The liturgical celebrations are beautiful and take place all over Rome.  Hundreds of churches offer the entire series of Masses and services of Holy Week. Everyone comes to them, Catholics and non-Catholics

I will join hundreds of priests tomorrow for the Chrism Mass of Holy Thursday morning in St. Peter's Basilica with the Holy Father presiding. The holy oils consecrated at that Mass will be used for anointing the sick, blessing of catecumens and anointing of new priests at ordinations.

On Friday, I will distributing Holy Communion at the Good Friday Service in St. Peter's.

Holy Saturday and Easter I will join other services in local churches where the Masses are not so crowded as a St. Peter's.

It's the eve of the Sacred Triduum. You can almost feel the entire Church here in Rome take a deep breath as the holy days begin.

The Church needs prayer at this critical time but so does the entire world. It is time to repent of our sin and embrace the grace of Jesus Resurrected. The whole of human society needs the grace of Jesus Christto bring the birth of a new kingdom into our tired and waiting world.

Passion Sunday in St. Peter's Square

It's hard to know the exact figure but there must have been 50,000 people in and around St. Peter's Square this Palm Sunday morning. The day was full of light as just a few white clouds passed through a blue heaven on their way somewhere else. For the people of God below, the sun shone brightly with enough warmth to make the day perfect.

We were outside for this Palm Sunday Mass. Benedict XVI was celebrant and cardinals, bishops and priests from throughout the world joined him.

I was up on the platform (for want of a better word) with the pope and the prelates as one of  two hundred priests who were to distribute Holy Communion. Among my other thoughts was this: What am I doing up here with all these important people? Soon one of the Swiss Guards will come up to me, point his spear at me and ask me to go down to my proper place in the crowd.

The Holy Father in brilliant red vestments spoke of Palm Sunday as a new vista from which we should look to the two Jerusalems: the Holy City of God which some day will come down from heaven beautiful as a bride prepared for her husband; and the city of man where the kingdom is being planted now in our own day.

The Mass was nearly three hours long but semed much shorter. The music was touching, especially the tonalities used during the singing of the passion.

The pope looked spry and happy today. He spoke of the joy of being a Christian and referred to the Glory of Christmas when the angels sang of the glory of God. We should have that joy even now as we enter Holy Week, he said. The passion of Our Lord will lead to the joy of the Resurrection. We should console ourselves with this certainty.

Joy was clearly shown in the square today as the popemobile passed slowly through the crowds after the Mass. Today was a special celebration for youth. The young people from all over Europe waved their olive branches and palms and shouted "Viva Papa" while the pope himself smiled and waved enthusiastically.

I won't soon forget Passion Sunday in St. Peter's Square.

Photo: John Yake

Pope: Pastoral on clergy sexual abuse in Ireland

Pope Benedict XVI announced today in Rome that this Friday, March 19, he will sign a pastoral letter addressed to the Irish people on the problem of clerical sex abuse in Ireland.

Those of us present today at the Wednesday general audience were surprised that the pope would use this informal occasion to make his announcement concerning clerical sexual abuse in Ireland. Usually, Pope Benedict is more attuned to the festive nature of these audiences. However, it is St. Patrick's Day, a day the Irish people hold dear and the pope made it clear that he wants to respond quickly and firmly to the issue of clerical sex abuse in Ireland.

Under a bright blue sky and a brilliant sun, the pope seemed inspired as he began to speak of the love of God in the traditions of St. Thomas, St. Bonaventure and St. Francis of Assisi. The huge crowd gathered in St. Peter's Square was excited and attentive to the words of the Holy Father. After urging the faithful on to greater love in several languages, including French, Italian and Spanish, he changed course when he began the English text of his talk.

As I sat on the raised platform just yards from the Holy Father with other pilgrims and visitors to Rome, I noted how joyous the scene was as various parish and university groups were announced in their own languages.

When the pope began to refer to clerical sexual abuse in Ireland, the crowd hushed and became somber. It was clear that the pope was using this public occasion to announce his pastoral letter on clerical sexual abuse in Ireland to underscore his determination not to sweep this issue under an ecclesiastical rug. Even the non-English speaking visitors seemed to sense the gravity in the pope's voice.

The pastoral letter on clerical sexual abuse in Ireland will be signed by the pope on his name's day this Friday, the Feast of St. Joseph and a national holiday in Italy. St. Joseph, the foster-father of Jesus is held up as an example of purity. He is often invoked as St. Joseph, the Chaste.

Though the pope will sign it on Friday, the letter on clerical sexual abuse in Ireland will be issued sometime after the signing, perhaps next week.

After announcing his letter on clerical sexual abuse in Ireland the pope said: "Read it for yourself with an open heart and in a spirit of faith. My hope is that it will help in the process of repentance, healing and renewal."

Source:
Papal Letter to Irish Faithful to be Published Soon. Vatican Information Service.visnews-en@mlists.vatican.va
Personal report from Rome, Italy.

Ninety-two Stairs

Ninety-two stairs. That's how many stairs I have to climb these days to get back to my room after class at the Pontifical North American College, sometimes two and three times a day. I am so grateful I can do it. A year ago, at this time I could not walk up twenty stairs without nearly collapsing. But, now that my pacemaker is pacing correctly, I'm fine.

It's a kind of resurrection for me, this ability to walk to events without having to think if I can make it or not.
It would be painful to be in Rome and unable to walk to the most beautiful churches in the world.

I am ten minutes away from the main altar of St. Peter's Basilica. Today, I was there again for morning Mass at 9 AM. Sixty-feet above the huge altar at the end of the vast expanse of St. Peter's, sunlight was brightening the stained-glass image of the white dove on its golden yellow background as people of different colors and languages gathered for the regular Sunday Mass. And, I thought of the Holy Spirit shining down on the Church --the same spirit that hovered over the waters at creation.

God's Holy Spirit makes us one body in Christ and joins us together as temples, temples of the Holy Spirit.
I thank God that today, on the day of the week that recalls the Resurrection of Jesus, I was able to walk up the stairs of his holy temple here in Rome, enter His magnificent sanctuary and join his people in praise and thanksgiving. It's Lent so I can't use the exclamation here that I want to use but it rhymes with "so here's to ya!" "A-- -- --!."

Holy Communion in the Eastern Rite

This morning, Sunday morning, I, along with two of my priest friends, attended an Eastern Rite Mass.  I hadn't been to an Eastern Rite Mass since the seminary.

The little Church of San Anastasio on Via Balbuina between the Piazza D' Espana and the Piazza del Populo is not only the church for Greek speaking community of the Byzantine rite but also serves as the church of the eparchy of the Hungarian Comnmunity in Rome. The bulletin was in Greek, Hungarian and Italian!

The liturgy was beautiful with the eparch processing in after the three processional crosses, icons and all assisting priests had entered the sanctuary.  The choir of mostly seminarians and young priests sang in reverent harmony as the solemn Eucharist continued.  Soon we were all enveloped in whispy clouds of incense which perfumed the air and lifted our spirits toward the presence of God. "Holy, Holy, Holy," chanted the deacon as the bishop celebrant bowed profoundly to the altar, now flanked by solemn icons on pedestals.

I must admit I got lost in the ritual at times but the focus on worshiping God in his majesty touched me even though it was all Greek to me (sorry). There are so many ways of being Catholic, so many Catholic expressions of liturgy. Here I was a Latin Rite Catholic sharing with my brothers and sisters in a Catholic Oriental rite. Then, of course, sharing Holy Communion with them, one with them at the altar, one with them in spirit and body.

St. Anastasio's is close to the generalate of my Community so after the Mass the three of us walked over to the Piazza D'Spagna to share in Sunday dinner with the priests and seminarians of my religious community.  The community of  fifteen members includes two Brazilians, one German , one Canadian, nine Poles and two Americans. We had a great dinner with these men and also sang Happy Birthday to one of the nuns associated with the generalate (There are three sisters residing there.)

Communion with St. Anastasio Eastern Rite community and then my Congregation's Sunday Dinner.  We three were blessed with two communions with two different communities on the same day. What a Sunday!

February 11, The Vatican City State Celebrates.

At 6 PM tonight, at dusk, there was a tremendous bang and then twenty or thirty explosions in a row.  I lost count. Then, I recognized the noise as fireworks. It sounded like it was coming from the Vatican, just down the hill from the North American College where I am staying. Now, the cracks and booms were overlapping one another and I was sure it was fireworks.

I joined some of the seminarians and  members of my sabbatical group who were out on the roof watching the spectacular  entertainment. There were bursts of red stars, then soaring blue flashes, then waterfalls of yellow light, so close that I felt I could reach out and touch them. I could sure hear them --popping and roaring, shattering the Roman evening with each burst of flashing colored lights. 

What a wonderful show and it went on for at least twenty minutes.  It was the celebration of the 81st anniversary of the establishment of the Vatican City State. In 1929, Mussolini representing the Italian government and Pius IX, through his secretary of state, signed the Lateran Treaty, thereby ending the half-century of "prisoner in the Vatican" status that the popes had endured since Italian unification.

Apparently few here expected today's noisy celebration. There was seemingly little advance warning. Just like everything else in Rome, it happens and if you are there for it, fine. If not, it can't be helped. It's the Roman way.

I have to keep remembering that the Vatican complex is a separate state and not only the central showpiece of the Catholic Church.  For one, the Vatican is a full member of the United Nations but, by its own decision does not vote. The Vatican's delegate can address the UN or respond to issues other nations have addressed which concern the world, like Global Warming. Also, most nations of the world exchang diplomatic relations with the Holy See, which represents the Vatican. When a display like today occurs, it's a reminder that the tiny state is, nonetheless, independent and important.

Earlier today, I participated in a Papal Mass in St. Peter's Basilica. The crowds overflowed the basilica on this World Day of Prayer for the Sick.  Thousands of medical workers, including doctors, nurses, technicians
and the sick themselves attended this annual Mass.

It was hard not to notice the Vatican police guarding the entire area inside and outside of the basilica.
Some wear dark suits with emblems of St. Peters on their coats, others wear the uniforms of the Vatican City Police and look like Chicago patrolmen without the guns. And, of course, the Swiss Guards in their orange and black striped archaic uniforms with bright red plumed hats are posted at strategic areas inside and outside of St. Peter's. Besides being a religious center, the Vatican is clearly a state. By the way, yes, it does have a jail.

What a day this has been for the Vatican! The entire day dedicated to praying for the sick and those who are dedicated to their care. And, just when you think it's time to go home, the Vatican celebrates its anniversary
and pops a thousand champagne bottles in a spectacular evening light show.

Resurrecting Fire of the Spirit

I just walked back from St. Peter's Square here in Rome. On my walk, I was thinking about what the presence of Jesus in my life has meant to me. He has made all the difference. I can't imagine not being a Resurrectionist, both preacher and teacher of the gospel of hope.

Sometimes, of course, I wonder what it would have been like to have my own family. Would I have been a good husband and a decent father? Could I have loved enough or would I have made a mess of things.
If I preach a lousy sermon on a poarticular Sunday, the following week I can do better. You can't do that with kids, throw one away because you didn't make it right.

 My present vocation is the right thing for me. I still feel the fire.The presence of Jesus in my life still shakes me up. His message still moves my heart.

Today I am  thinking about  when Jesus announced: "I have come to bring a fire upon the earth and I am anxious to see the fire kindled."

Another translation has the text like this: "I HAVE COME TO THROW FIRE UPON THE EARTH." I'd like to throw some of that fire around and get resurrecting life moving among the people serve.  It's that same fire which appeared over the heads of the apostles at Pentecost. It is the Risen Jesus who sends His Spirit to us to remake our lives, to remake this earth..

Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful people and enkindle within them the fire of your divine love.

THE REFINER'S FIRE  -MALACHI 3:1

When in Rome....

The eternal city is infernally cold in January. It's not just cold here in Rome, it's damp cold. Everone is hunched down into sweaters and coats, sometimes both. To be honest, it's not even freezing but the lack of heat in buildings means that there is no refuge from the cold and little chance to warm up. And, the sun has been out for but one day out of the last five. It's hard to think warm, colorful thoughts when the sky hangs over the city like a grey pall.

Romans don't seem to care about the cold, though.  Last night, Sunday night, there were thousands of people strolling the Corso as if it were a nice warm day. Talking with each other seems to make them happy and oblivious to the weather.

"When in Rome, do what the Romans do." So, I am going out in this cold to discover how the Romans do it. My theory is that they simply focus on something else, or someone else.

Well, I went out for a walk in the cold evening air. On the way, I passed a small chic store displaying several pairs of men's shoes.  A pair of shiny black shoes, very simple in design, for 450 Euros, (about $700 dollars) took my mind off the cold for a moment as I wondered who has that kind of money for shoes! Then, I watched college aged  young people laughing and conversing with one another sauntering nowhere in particular, oblivious to the cold.

Then, today I watched three young women plop down in the dead leaves in the park on the hill above our house, studying I think. It's probably forty degrees outside. Their jackets help, a little.

Then, I got it. There is so much more to think about than weather.

I wish I would have had my camera.  It was Sunday morning around 9:30 AM and frigid temperatures kept  most Chicagoans inside. But it was a morning full of sunshine and I thought it would be a good day to go to the Lake. So, I drove to Montrose Harbor. Chicago's Lake Michigan harbors are great places to get to know the city.

A few hardy runners were out and some Canada geese were moving around, but not much else. There are millions of people in Chicago but only my car and another vehicle were parked facing the water which fronts the Magnificent Mile.  On a quiet, windless day, the harbor's water mirrors a picture-postcard image of downtown Chicago, including what used to be called the Sears Tower.

With a hazy blue sky above, bare trees and a lambswool blanket of snow,  the Sunday morning scene was breathtaking. That's before I stepped out of the car and into the zero degree sunshine and literally had my breath taken away.

There was something new in the scene this morning at the harbor.  Someone had built a snowman there. It stood man-high with dark buttons of coal down its front, black eyes and somehow -- rosy cheeks.  He was a sturdy fellow made from three mounds of snow, with the largest mound as its base and the other two forming its body and head. Two spindly branches stuck carelessly into the snowman on either side gave the illusion of welcoming arms. He had a jaunty knit cap on his head and a big smile on his face, a smile for Chicago.

I hadn't been there for five minutes when a young man dressed in jeans and a light windbreaker arrived with a violin. He approached the snowman, bowed to it and beckoned some friends to come over. A second man toting a guitar arrived. Then another with a long drum attached to his front, and finally, a third with a large guitar-like instrument slung across his chest.  They joined in a jaunty line and began to circle the snowman.

 Suddenly, another man with a flute appeared and jumped into the circle of his friends. The floutist led and as he piped  each musician followed him. They danced around and around the snowman sending waves of joyful music out into the icy morning air of Montrose Harbor.
I got out of the car and asked one of  the group where they were from. "Ecuador," he said, laughing.
They were all cold, this group of male troubadors, but they were having fun and got the entire song and dance in before the cold made them move toward their cars where some geese were hanging around hopefully.

"Pajaritas!" yelled the drummer. The band gathered around a flock of five Canada Geese and played another song for the geese, all the while laughing and enjoying their music and one another. They finished their dance and quickly piled into two cars and were gone.

I am going to come back to the harbor and photograph the smiling snowman.  I'll just have to remember thethe dancing musicians.

 We have celebrated the birth of Christ and rejoiced in the compassion of the Father for nearly three weeks now. I think it's only the liturgical churches, the Catholic Church among them, which celebrate not just a day but an entire season of remembrance dedicated to the birth of the Savior. It seems to take that long to let the meaning of the birth of Jesus settle deep into our minds and hearts.

Christmas trees are already piling up in local parks in preparation for the controlled burnt o be monitored by the fire department. Christmas light displays are all down now and the joyous music of the season  fades along with the festive lights. The memory of the sights and sounds of Christmas do stay with me, though as we pass on to the next ecclesial season.

The next phase is Lent. The reason I enjoy Lent, and look forward to it, is because Lent leads to Easter and the Resurrection season, and Spring.  After our long cold and dreary winter, hope lifts its head in our souls as light and warmth increase.
Come Lord Jesus!






"God so loved the world that he sent His only begotten son into the world that those who believe in Him might not perish but have everlasting life."
Lent, however is very close. And Easter, the celebration of the resurrection of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Epiphany

Winter is more about light than it is about cold. The cold seems so much more intense when the heavens are cloudy and the sun is hidden. Plus, in the winter, the days are already too short. Here in the city by the lake, we walk shivering in the shadows of our buildings while the sparrows fly around searching for food in the snow before it gets dark again.


I think the psychological infirmity that this diminishment of light brings on in some people is called seasonal dysthimia and it is a really debilitating form of winter depression. We need hope, the antidote to depression.

Hurrah for the Church which celebrates Epiphany today! This day commemorates the journey of the magi who followed the star-light to the place where the child was in Bethlehem. We need light in our darkness and the message of the magi is that we should watch and keep alert. Following stars are quests as old as Don Quixote and as new as the astronaut who signed my photo of him and then wrote "Reach for the stars!" next to his signature.

I think the message of Jesus is confirmed by this feast. Jesus is the light of the world, shining from within the sinfulness of our world. The revelation which is epiphany exposes the futility of violence, the saddness of ignorance, and the corruption that sin brings to our world. But it doesn't only expose these things for what they are. Our Lord, himself, brings the strength and surety of His grace-filled presence to enlighten our exhausted world.

"He Fathers-forth whose beauty is beyond change: Praise Him." (Gerard Manley Hopkins)