A Prayer for Unity

Today the United States celebrates Independence Day, the federal holiday that commemorates the adoption of the Declaration of Independence 241 years ago on July 4, 1776.

In 1776 the American colonies were united in their opposition to overreaching by the British Government, which taxed them severely while not letting them make their own laws or trade with other countries.  I’m not suggesting the years surrounding 1776 were glory days of unity.  “We the people” largely meant white property-owning men.  But there was a belief that the united colonies stood for something.

What are we as Americans united for or against today?  That shouldn’t be a hard question to answer, but lamentably it is.  What do we as a nation stand for?  I don’t know how to answer that question, and that saddens me.  And it should sadden all of us.

To adapt a portion of Jane Deren’s Prayer for Unity, I pray on this Independence Day that we may “move beyond partisan politics so we may create a vision of the common good so sorely needed for our country.”  That we may practice respect, be grounded in compassion, and work together to rebuild our world.

[Note this is the same post I made three years ago on this day.  When I re-read it, it seems even more appropriate today than it was then]

How Do We Cope When Fear Overcomes Us?

I again offered the reflection at daily Mass at the Jesuit Retreat House in OshKosh, where I am a director for a directed retreat.  I spoke about the Gospel reading for today: Matthew’s account of the storm at sea.

Jesus is asleep in a boat with his disciples when a storm suddenly arises, and the disciples are terrified.

It is not so difficult for me to understand the disciple’s terror as this violent storm comes upon them.

Several years ago, I was kayaking up in boundary waters in Minnesota.  It was a beautiful day – sunshine and not a cloud in the sky and the water was completely calm when my husband and I first entered the water, each in our own one-person kayak.  But at one point, after we were quite far out from where we had started, with no warning, the heavens opened and the wind kicked up as rain furiously beat down.  I frantically began paddling toward shore, while also trying to keep an eye on my husband in his kayak (he is older than I am, and prone to getting tired from paddling much faster).  For a long time, it seemed as though no matter how hard I paddled, I made no headway, and I experienced real fear.

As a result of that experience, when I enter into an Ignatian contemplation of this scene, I have no difficulty imagining the disciples fear as the waves swamped the boat.  The Greek word for the violent storm (megale) suggests a kind of tornado. Continue reading

Only Say the Words

I’m at my happy place – the Jesuit Retreat House in OshKosh – directing at a silent directed retreat (with lots of bells and whistles due to Covid).

Today I offered the reflection at our daily Mass, at which the Gospel was Matthew’s account of two healings: that of the Centurion’s servant and that of Peter’s mother-in-law.  Both of those Gospels are powerful for me, albeit for different reasons.

In my reflection, I spoke about both of those healings, but it is the first of those that has
always makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.

Recently my son-in-law came to disconnect the Wii console from our television.  (My daughter had used to use the console for some dance and exercise programs and no one has used it for years.  So it was time to give it away.)  David disconnected several things from the TV and the power socket, and said, “OK, all done.”  “So my TV and Roku are not affected by this, right” I said.  “Right, everything will work fine.” “Wait,” I said, “just let me check to be sure it all works.”  And he waited with a patient smile while I satisfied myself nothing was amiss.

This was not an isolated incident.  Whenever the IT folks at the University of St. Thomas come to fix something on my computer, or perform an upgrade, I hold them hostage in my office until I check to make sure all the major programs that I use are operational, and they didn’t mess anything up.

So while it would be nice to think I’d act just as the Centurion did.  I have to wonder whether I would have been able to walk away from Jesus, secure that Jesus’ merely saying the words would be enough?

If I’m being fully honest with God, I have to admit that I can’t answer yes to that question with certainty.  Given my tendency to want to see things for myself and my frequent habit of double-checking things I’ve asked others to do for me to make sure they are actually done and done right, I kinda know what my tendency would be in the Centurion’s position.  I’d want to take Jesus by the hand and lead him to my house and to the servant, and then to peer over his shoulder until my servant was actually healed from his paralysis and suffering.  Perhaps I’d even want to feel the servant’s muscles, or have him take a few steps, or perform a few tasks until I let Jesus leave my house.

Not the Centurion.  “Only say the word and my servant will be healed.”  I don’t need to see you do this with my own eyes.  I don’t even need you to be in physical proximity to my servant.  Just say a word right here on the road (which may have been miles away, perhaps even a day’s ride away), and I know it will be done.

A degree of faith that amazes even Jesus. “In no one in Israel have I found such faith.”

I suspect most of us are more like the father of the child in Mark’s Gospel – “I do believe, help my unbelief” – than like this Centurion.  We believe, but we have some cracks in that belief.  We don’t manage 100% of the time to have the solid faith of the Centurion.

So we pray, as did the father in Mark’s Gospel, “Lord, help my unbelief.”  Givbe us the grace to see that God always has our back and will always take care of us.

He Competed Well; He Finished the Race

This morning was the Mass of Christian Burial for Tom Johnson.  As David Lebedoff noted in the eulogy he gave at the service, but for COVID, not even the Basilica of St. Mary in Minneapolis would have been large enough to hold the mourners who would have been there to pay their respects.  (As it was, the Mass was held with a limited number of attendees at Our Lady of Lourdes, and livestreamed for the rest.)

It was my privilege to know Tom, who I met through his wife Victoria and my adult faith formation work at Lourdes.  (Tom came to many of the talks I gave there.)  It was my privilege to talk with him, laugh with him, and to see the love between him and Victoria.

It is impossible to adequately describe his life of public service in a short blog post.  Upon leaning of his death, our Minnesota Governor, Tim Walz called Tom “a voice for the voiceless [and] a passionate pursuer of justice.”

Early in his career, as a member of the Minneapolis City Council, he fought for campaign finance disclosures, expanded anti-discrimination protection, and truth-in-housing inspections, to name a few.  One of his last jobs was serving as clergy abuse ombudsman for the archdiocese here.  Of that work, Archbishop Hebda (who presided at Tom’s funeral mass) wrote that “we are a better church and a better community because of Tom.

In between those two positions, in addition to time spent serving as County Attorney, Tom founded CornerHouse, an advocacy center for children who are victims of sex abuse.  He also founded and sat on the board of the Minnesota Justice Research Center, which seeks fair and humane treatment for those int he criminal justice system.  And much, much more.

Tom battled stage 4 cancer longer than anyone thought possible, several years longer than doctors predicted.  Last Christmas, Tom wrote his own obituary.  Among other things (some lighthearted, some less so), he wrote that  none of his jobs gave him more satisfaction than “calling attention to the unacceptable racial disparities in the justice system and their cost to society.”

The second reading for Tom’s mass this morning was one I love, from Paul’s second letter to Timothy.  There would have been no hubris in Tom penning these words himself.

For I am already being poured out like a libation,
and the time of my departure is at hand.
I have competed well; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith.
From now on the crown of righteousness awaits me,
which the Lord, the just judge, will award to me on that day,
and not only to me, but to all who have longed for his appearance.

Rest in peace, dear Tom.  We shall miss you.  I have no doubt the angels are leading you into paradise even as I write these words.

 

Our Common Home

May 24 will be the fifth anniversary of Pope Francis’s encyclical letter,  Laudato si (On Care for our Common Home).  The Pope invited Catholics around the world to celebrate Laudato si week from May 16 (yesterday) through the anniversary day of May 24.

The message of the Encyclical has continuing importance to our world.  The symptoms of environmental degradation that he outlines in the early part of his encyclical continue to be manifest today.  Indeed, in the United States, the relaxation of pollution standards by the current administration contributes to a worsening of the situation Francis described give years ago.  And the inequalities that he spoke about are more apparent today in light of the pandemic.

In his address to the faithful today, the Pope said that “in this time marked by the pandemic we are more aware of the importance of caring for our common home.” He invited all of us to think about and undertake “a shared commitment to help build and strengthen constructive attitudes aimed at caring for Creation.”

We ignore that invitation at our own peril.  As the Pope remarked in March, when he invited Catholics to take part in Laudato si week, “The cry of the Earth and the cry of the poor cannot continue.”

Note: If you still haven’t read Laudato si, you can read it in full here.  For quicker reference, see this 2015 article from America magazine highlighting the most important takeaways of the document.

Lessons on God’s Love from Catherine of Siena

Today is the feast day of St. Catherine of Siena, Doctor of the Catholic Church and Patroness of Europe.  She has long been among my favorites of the mystics of the Catholic Church.  Catherine was a laywoman associated with the Dominican order who lived during the 14th century.

Catherine had a deep and intimate friendship with God and she was open to hearing God’s voice.  When she spoke about prayer, she said that the humble soul waits patiently for the flame of love.  When asked how the soul waited, Catherine said, “not lazily, but in watching and constant humble prayer.”

She also compared prayer to filling our cup at the fountain of love.  She writes:

Even simple folk know this…If you have received God’s love sincerely without self-interest, you will drink your neighbor’s love sincerely.  It is just like a vessel that you fill at the fountain.  If you take it out of the fountain to drink, the vessel is soon empty.  But if you hold your vessel in the fountain while you drink, it will not get empty: Indeed it will always be full.

Most of what we know about the fruits of Catherine’s prayer life comes from a work titled The Dialogue (or The Dialogue of Divine Providence), which Catherine started writing two years before her death, and which is now hailed as a classic of Western spirituality.

One of the recurring themes of The Dialogue is God’s deep love for humanity.  In words reminiscent of the beginning of the Book of Jeremiah in the Hebrew Scriptures, God tells Catherine, “I loved you before you came into being.”  Here is how God expounded on tht love to Catherine:

It was with providence that I created you, and when I contemplated my creature in myself I fell in love with the beauty of my creation.  It pleased me to create you in my image and likeness with great providence.  I provided you with the gift of memory so that you might hold fast my benefit and be made a sharer in my own, the eternal Father’s power.  I gave you understanding so that in the wisdom of my only-begotten Son you might comprehend and know what I the eternal Father want, I who gave you graces with such burning love.  I gave you a will to love, making you a sharer in the Holy Spirit’s mercy, so that you might love what your understanding sees and knows.  All this my gentle providence did, only that you might be capable of understanding and enjoying me and rejoicing in my goodness by seeing me eternally.

All of us are made to rejoice in God’s love forever.  And so these words are written to each us.  Today, let us hear them as Catherine did.

St. Catherine of Siena, pray for us!

 

“If Someone Is Glad You Were Born”

I just finished reading Danielle Vella’s Dying to Live: Stories from Refugees on the Road to Freedom.  It is a powerful, albeit heartbreaking read, as Vella gives voice to refugees to tell their harrowing stories.  The refugees whose stories Vella shares left homes for varied reasons; some were targeted by terrorists because they had done work for the US military, others to avoid being forced to take up arms, others physically and otherwise abused because of their minority status.  Many have watched friends and family die, and many languish for years in refugee camps.

I was touched by many things in the book (and I highly recommend you read it), but what prompted this post was something one of the refugees said.

Nabeel was a member of the Hazara minority in Pakistan, forced by terrorists to confine themselves to two neighborhoods in the city in which he lived.  Not permitted to leave the ghetto meant people could not go to work, to school, or anywhere else.  So Nabeel decided to leave.  He was more fortunate than most whose stories we hear in Vella’s book.  He was granted asylum in Sri Lanka and got the benefit of a resettlement program there that helps young refugees complete high school.  Afger four years, he has managed to achieve economic self-sufficiency.

But Nabeel is clear that being self-sufficient is not enough, that he did not become a refugee merely to survive, but rather to be fully alive.  Here is what that means for him.

Truly living means living in the hearts of people, not just doing your thing – everyone does that.  I can’t describe it very well but what I’m trying to say is, if someone is glad you were born, because you help them, that’s when you are truly alive…I want to work hard, to be in a position not just to help myself, but to help the people around me.  What others did for me, I want to do for someone else.

There are many ways we can describe what it means to truly live.   But one way is certainly Nabeel’s.    Truly living is not just living for oneself.  But rather to be an instrument for making positive changes in the life of others.  I love the way he puts it: to make someone glad you were born because you helped them.

 

 

What Blinds Us To the Presence of Christ?

Today’s Gospel passage from Luke is one of my favorite of the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus recorded in the Gospels.

After Jesus’ death, two of his disciples are walking to Emmaus.  Although Luke doesn’t talk about the state they are in, we can imagine that they are sad, dejected, confused, scared.  All of their hopes that Jesus would be one to redeem Israel were dashed when He was arrested and put to death.  We know from what they later tell the man who “drew near and walked with them” that they’ve heard some tale about some women finding an empty tomb and a message from an angelic vision, but it is not clear they believe a word of it.

They converse with the man, not recognizing him and he explains the Scriptures to them.  When they get where they are going, they invite him to stay and eat with them, still not recognizing him.  But then, he takes the bread, says the blessing, breaks the bread and gives it to them.  “With that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.”  You can almost feel their joy and consolation when they recognize Jesus.  And they excitedly run off (the Gospel says they “set off”, but you know they went running) to find their friends, recounting “what had taken place on the way and how he was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.”

The question that obviously comes to mind is: why didn’t the disciples recognize Jesus?  Luke says that when Jesus walked up to them “their eyes were prevented from recognizing him.”  What prevented them?  As I watch the scene unfold in my imagination, I imagine that they were so focused on their own grief and confusion that they don’t really see the man they are speaking to.

Perhaps the more useful question for us is: what prevents us from seeing Christ when he appears to us?  What blinds us to His presence?  What are we so focused on that we do not recognize Christ, even when He is standing right there in from of us?