"If today, you hear his voice, harden not your hearts." (Heb 3;15)

I realize that I often don't listen to others with much attention.  I'm usually organizing what I am going to say or do next and not really listening to what someone is saying to me.  I don't think it is because I really am not interested in what they are saying but that my ministry always has me focused on what comes next on my agenda, not yours.  It happens in prayer, too.

I'm talking a lot in my prayer life. No, I'm talking a lot about me in my prayer life, others, too.  I'm asking Our Lord to attend to the needs of those who have asked me to pray for them. But, still, there isn't much room for Our Lord's voice.

Maybe, the same thing happens to you.

He speaks in the silence of my heart. He speaks when someone reaches out to touch my life with a word that cuts me to the soul or flashes in my heart.  He speaks in His holy word (see above). That is, when I am listening.

I remember being taught the practise of "active listening" where you repeat what someone has just told you in such a way that they are sure that you understand them. Or, you simply reflect a person as you see him/her. This demands incredible patience and it takes time, but it gets to the truth.  Example:

It's dark ouside when the rectory doorbell rings at 7:30 pm. On opening the door I see a boy of about seven years old standing by himself, downcast. "Father, I left my homework in my desk.  Would you open the school so I can get it?" His words are slow and somber.

I am not happy with this.  I want to say: "Why didn't you remember to bring it home? Now, I have to go and open the school just because you didn't do what you were supposed to do."

Instead, somehow -- it was amazing  grace, I'm sure -- I said a simple statement to him: "You look sad." He grabbed hold of me and began sobbing.  I had to sit down with him. He would not let me go.  For what seemed like an eternity, he wept.  He tried to tell me what was wrong.  He finally choked out: "My --Father--hates--me."

"Your Father hates you," I said.  "Yes, he thinks I'm stupid. He loves my brother more than me." The words came slowly, shaken out, measured.

He continued to cry until I felt he was ready to go over to the school.

I can still see him carrying a book and some papers over to the car where a man in the driver's seat sat in the dark with the engine running.

I wanted to go over and tell the man what he was doing to his son. I wanted to beat the cxxp out of him. But, I was afraid the son would be punished further by his father, if I said anything.  I hope my listening to the boy was a comfort to him but in no way could I take the place of his father.

In this case, I wasn't listening much to his words but taking notice of his demeanor.  He was communicating saddness but I would never have known that he ached for acceptance by his father unless I had told him that I saw he was sad. To the boy, it indicated that I was willing to hear more.

He called me "Father," though, and maybe on a day when my heart listened, I was able to provide some comfort to a child because I listened.

I need a softer heart.  I need to listen more.





 

Boston Bomber Apprehended to Applause.

What's wrong with by-standers applauding last night the apprehension of the young terrorist who brought horror to the finish line of the 2013 Boston Marathon?  The crowd was happy that the search and capture of this man ended successfully, so why not applaud as these people did with NBC news filming it all?

Don't we applaud throughout a concert at the finish of each song? I've seen an honored child in a moment of joy applaud when a birthday cake with candles lit is carried into a room full of the child's happy friends.  I've heard applause from passengers when, after a bouncing and wavering flight, the plane touched down on the runway. Applause has its place.

To my mind, applause at the capture of a terrorist bomber reduces the end of the chase to a final scene at the end of some movie. Sure, it's natural to feel relief at the end of a torturous twenty-four hours in which the entire Boston area was shut down as the nation followed the hunt on TV.  But, gratitude would have been nice.

Gratitude to the law enforcement people for seeking out and apprehending a dangerous individual with a long and heartfelt, vocalized "thank you" would have been nice. Hugging one another and supporting survivors would have been nice. Applause is OK, I suppose but pretty generic.

 Every movement of the search was on TV. The media people were falling over themselves not only to chronicle the story but to "make news." So, why not applaud?

I'm afraid we've developed several generations of people who can't tell ther difference between reality and virtual things.  TV is virtual reality. Facebook is virtual reality. Boston, however, is a real city and the terrorism that took place in that city during the last few days remains real.

Do you know what reality is? Here are some real things: The birth of your daughter. Death is real and final. Prison is a village of caged humans.  Friends meet one another simply because they enjoy being with one another. Lovers can't stand being apart from each other. A croccus finding its way through wet, cold soil to bloom faster than you believe it should, is real.

Pictures and videos that represent these things are virtual, and they are wonderful, too, but they are not what they represent.

The first time I saw this blending of reality and faux reality was when I stood across the street from an enormous victorian mansion which was burning fiercely.  It was one of those old abandoned buildings that once were part of the elegance which first attracted people to the site of a fledgling university.

Firefighters were getting as close as they could but the entire building was hot.  Suddenly and simultaneously the banks of windows on the three story building exploded and red and yellow flames shot out from all directions. The noise from those explosions was stunning. The crowd of college students shouted as if they were at a football game: "Yeah!" And, then, the pleasure they were feeling at the spectacle erupted in wild applause. It was a great show.

I was their age, too, but my first thought was: Are fire fighters in that furnace? Are there vagrants who might be killed in that house? My fellow students thought it was a good show, just like they'd seen on TV.

If we lose track of reality we go off into illusion. We sit in front of our TVs gaping at the reality shows which aren't real at all, just a fantasy. We use our iphones to simulate reality and are somehow in the presence of our friends when we text. On TV and facebook we are all for sale.

Reality is what is present when we remove the battery from our iphones and turn off the TVs.





 

It's Hard to Forgive the Boston Marathon Bombers.

How incredibly hard it is to forgive the Boston Marathon bombers. Like most Americans, I suppose, I want justice plus revenge.  Justice because things have to be made right, somehow.

San Clemente Church, Rome: Crucifixion with Doves.

 Revenge because someone must pay for the lives lost, the injured who are suffering and the family and friends who grieve. Revenge wants to make it clear: We will not suffer this kind of horror ever again.

I have a priest friend who over twenty-five years ago was on a plane that was leaving Israel, when hijackers commandeered it and threatened to blow up the plane unless the pilot flew the hijackers to Lebanon.  They demonstrated their determination by executing one of the passengers. The tourists and business people on the plane were terrified, not knowing if maybe they would be next.

"I knew I had to forgive these men," my friend said. "I did not want to die with hate in my heart.
So, I prayed for the ability to forgive them."  He believes that he received that grace then and it is still with him now.

After many days in captivity he and his fellow passengers were released.  The hijackers had made their point.

At this stage the motivation of the young brothers who have disgraced their cause and brutally hurt so many people is unknown.  We can only guess that anger at our country and jealousy formed some kind of a foundation for their actions

With the elder brother now dead, the younger brother is in custody and the only one who can tell us what spirit drove them to want to kill as many people as possible

When I think of senseless murder, the words of Our Lord seem particularly relevant: "Father, forgive them.  They don't know what they are doing." (Luke 23;34)

The essence of the Gospel is forgiveness. It is nearly always difficult to forgive but sometimes it is hard, very hard to do.


 

Pope Francis, the Gardener

It's spring and Pope Francis, with one month underneath his sash, has formed a council to reform the curia, the Church's administrative bureaucracy.  After years of infighting and obstruction, it looks like the curia is in for some serious weeding, trimming and thinning out. The pope is opening the windows and doors of the ancient offices and letting some fresh air in.

The Curia has offices along the Via della Conciliatione and inside Vatican City. 

I think we have Benedict XVI to thank for this inspired decision. In the last months of Benedict's reign, he initiated an investigation into some of the darker workings of the curia.  Brought on by his valet's thieving ways, Benedict faced the curial mess by calling for an investigation of the ancient workings of the Vatican bureaucracy.  He wanted a thorough report and just before he retired, he got it.

The report has not been released, in fact, Benedict left it to Pope Francis as a secret document. The cardinals were aware of the investigation and some of the results when they began meeting just before the conclave. It was clear that the new pope would have to face the issues brought up in the expose.

In forming a new council of eight cardinals, including Sean O'Malley of Boston,  Pope Francis has taken the first big step in reforming the curia.  Now let's see whether he will be able to break the power of some of the powerful men who have wrangled their way into authority positions.

The Church is tainted with the stain of original sin. The dust of centuries has settled on her garments.
We Catholics are ready for some of the curial nonsense to go away. Pope Francis may just be the leader to do it.

It's spring.  These days at the Vatican, a little sunshine is entering the old places as Francis,  the gardener,  plants some seeds of hope for the Church in the twenty-first century.

You and I could use some seeds of hope thses days.


 

The Easter Season, a Merry Time.

There are priests who bemoan the fact that the feast of Christmas gets great PR and  joyful attention, but Easter, not so much.  I agree with them.

But, did you ever reflect on the fact that there would be no Christmas without the Resurrection?

The name "Jesus Christ" should have been lost among the many phenoms who proclaimed themselves messiahs during the Jewish nation's long subjegation to the empires which controlled the destiny of the Chosen People.

Each of these messiahs sprang up like Spring flowers and just as fast their movements withered and faded. Something different happened with Jesus, called the Christ.

He died, but faith in Him did not. It wasn't so much that faith created an enduring movement in the world.  No, it was the sight of Him, the experience of Him as alive which lifted the hearts of his early followers and created our Faith.  This is just the opposite of what most non-believers think.

Unlike the eyewitnesses, these days we walk by Faith and not by sight.  We believe because the rich tradition of those eyewitnesses was handed down to us. Because of this belief in the Risen Messiah we celebrate his birth

It is easy to see in a baby the hope presented by John: "God so loved the world that he sent His only-begotten Son into the world so that those who believe in Him might not perish but have everlasting life."  (John 3:16)

So, "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Easter."  These feast days both celebrate the same miracle of God's abiding love, something, I think, we should all be merry about.








 

The Road to Emmaus and the Unknown Jesus

The road to Emmaus reading is compelling, even urgent. (Luke 21; 13-35)

How many people do I pass everyday and I look right through them. I, of course, perceive them --I'm not blind-- but, I don't really see them at all.




 Three days after the death of Jesus, Cleopus and the other disciple are determined to get home from Jerusalem by nightfall.  A stranger joins the two and they begin talking about the crucified Jesus.

 The stranger doesn't seem to know anything about the events surrounding the death of the supposed messiah.  What he does know is that Isaiah spoke of the suffering of the "servant" who was to come and save the chosen people. The messiah was described by Isaiah as a man with such love for humanity that he took the abuse that should have been laid on us because of our sins:

"Yet on himself he bore our sufferings, our torments he endured....he was pierced for our transgressions and tortured for our iniquities....The Lord laid upon him the guilt of us all." (Is. 53; 1-6.)

Hope rises in the hearts of the two disciples. The stranger breaks bread with them and is revealed as the risen Jesus. In the dark, they rush the seven miles back to Jerusalem to join their story with the experiences of Peter, the tomb women, and the other disciples.

I've met a lot of strangers and looked right through thousands more. The elevator pilgrims with me today at the hospital, for example. We were being being lifted up to floors to continue whatever our tasks were but we didn't talk, each of us exiting at our selected floor.  My mind was on my journey, minding my own business. They, too, were focused somewhere else.

Some of my most memorable experiences, though, have come from chance enounters with people whose names I will never know. These I took a moment to actually see and listen to. I know that some of them also saw and listened to me.

One 50-something man was tending to his elderly mother who was in a wheelchair and groaning.
Without one other word of introduction, he looked at me, the priest, collarless andjust another guy sitting with him in the dingy saddness of an emergency waiting room, and he  said:"I wonder if God will ever make a human being who cannot suffer." I mumbled something about understanding his feeling and not another word was said.

Who was he? Why did he ask me that incredible question?

Or, the young songwriter stopping by my bench below a Maple tree one Monday morning at sunrise who looked toward the glowing dawn and sang a ballad named for me (He'd asked my name.) which he spontaneously created on the spot. It was a song of hope, a kind of prayer for the senior who was reading his bible there alone.  He sang the song and off he went.  I think he was an angel.

And, there have been many, many more who I have listened to in planes, in taxis, while sitting on a park bench, or walking down a path in a park. They each entered my life for a moment and left their footprints lightly on my heart. Was it He, each time?

We ought to take time to meet and greet strangers along the way, don't you think?