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.