Throw open the shutters. Spring has arrived! Daffodils and tulips and the dogwood are blooming. Birds are singing. New life is in abundance!
Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, the day in which Christians celebrate Jesus rising from the dead. As believers, our salvation is ‘a done deal’ if we choose the gift of His redemption. So churches will be filled to capacity.
We need the joy of Easter. It is a welcome balm that can ease the pain in our world. I for one, love the carnival atmosphere of Easter Sunday services. Kids dressed in itchy new Easter clothes, barely able to sit still because of all the candy that they have consumed before breakfast; beleaguered parents who rose before dawn to hide eggs and prepare baskets full of the candy for the aforementioned little darlings; folks who have not been to church in a while looking conspicuously out-of-place; ‘the regular-attenders’ barely able to conceal their annoyance of having to share their pew. We squeeze in and make room for all. And we love and forgive and ask for forgiveness for the times that we have failed to love. The Alleluias return!
Baked ham, lamb with mint jelly, hot cross buns, deviled eggs and asparagus will adorn our dining tables. Desserts will be rich and plentiful. And don’t forget the candy, surreptitiously snatched from the kiddies Easter baskets while they’re being distracted by yet another treat left behind by the Easter Bunny. Welcome home Springtime!
Some Christians are bothered by all the focus on the Easter Bunny, feeling that it diminishes the sanctity of Easter. After all what does a bunny who hides eggs and gives candy have to do with our Risen Savior? I’m not sure. But what difference does it make? Easter supplanted pre-Christian spring festivals and it doesn’t make it any less sacred to me.
I’ll welcome the Easter Bunny to hop into my backyard again this year and hide his (her) eggs and leave behind some treats. I’ll smell the sweet aroma of new flowers and tree blossoms. I’ll love and forgive and ask for forgiveness. I’ll eat too much and sing my Alleluias. And be thankful for it all.
Peace,
Denis
“Why do you seek the living one among the dead?” Luke 24:5
I am blessed with an abundance of family and friends but still at times I want to be left alone.
There is escape in being alone. Being aloof and noncommittal can feel like freedom. Freedom from obligations. Freedom to do what I want to do. Freedom from other people’s misery. And sometimes I desperately long for that freedom. But freedom can lead to apathy and avoidance, and then I risk becoming insensitive to others’ needs.
This is why I am blessed to be in a community. A community of family and friends; a community of believers; a community of people who witness to me on a daily basis. I am constantly reminded that I need community. And I am strengthened and nourished by community. Community also allows me to share my limited gifts with others. I am humbled in knowing that I can bring goodness (God) to others.
Recently I learned of a father in our parish who suffered a stroke. His wife and young sons seem bewildered and are no doubt suffering immensely. As I stumbled to find a few words of comfort to offer to the mother, I saw a tiny glimpse of (relief?) (appreciation?) cross her troubled face. A small kindness that I couldn’t have offered her if we were not in community.
Two other young families of our parish have recently had babies. One family had their third daughter and they are delighted. I told the Daddy, with a wink, that raising three girls means that he “will get to go straight to heaven”. The other family had a set of twins which brings their brood to a total of five. I greet them each week and share in their joy and their exhaustion. We’ve taken them an occasional meal to ease their burden. What a blessing to be in community with them. These young families give me hope for our future.
In my small faith community, I have dear friend who has just received the gift of remission from her battle with cancer. I thank God and share in her joy! She is a testament to hopefulness and faith. She inspires me.
The tragic news of deaths and destruction due to tornadoes this week has been heartbreaking. But once again, I see communities coming together to help each other. The horrific news of yet another school shooting leaves me shaken and frightened. I have a daughter who is a teacher and five school-age grandchildren. How can we continue to watch as our babies are slaughtered? Once again, community steps in. We grieve the losses and bury the tiny bodies. On the saddest of days, I often want to pull the shades and climb under the covers, but I must use my voice and my vote. My letters to my senators and congressman may likely fall on deaf ears but I will continue to write, and protest, and vote! Because that’s what community does.
When my parents died, my community surrounded me with love and concern. We shared laughter and tears, and I could not have made it through those dark days without their hands to hold. When I retired last year, my community helped me navigate the uncertainty of life without a career. When my granddaughter was recently chosen “Mission Model” for her freshman class, because “she uses her voice for good and promotes human dignity”, my community shared my joy and pride in her accomplishment.
I am blessed to be part of a community who will carry me when I cannot walk, guide me when I am lost, and exalt with me in my days of jubilation. Being alone might feel like freedom, but my life has meaning when shared with others. Community matters.
Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the suffering in our world.
When my kids were small, I worried about a litany of things – Their faith formation, their education, their nutrition, their choice of friends, their personal hygiene, and on and on. Now that they’re adults, I still worry about most of that stuff except for the personal hygiene thing – I think they’ve mastered that (most days). Of course, I have grandchildren who now require that I worry – they don’t know it, but it’s essential. They don’t even know how much my worrying will help them (me?).
I pray that my teenage granddaughters will enter into adulthood unscathed by the brutality of an often unjust, patriarchal society. I pray that my grown children will continue to find faith in God while worshipping in a Church that at times seems tone-deaf and completely out of step with their lives. I pray that my grandson’s kindness and caring nature will not be not drummed out of him by peer pressure during his teenage years. I pray that my younger granddaughters find a world that is sustainable and healthy and fulfills their every dream. And that’s just my small clan. My needs (and those of my loved ones) are minor compared to millions of others. So, I also worry about my neighborhood, my village, and my world. I worry about climate change, the war in Ukraine, the proliferation of guns in our country, child abuse, and discrimination in all its forms. I often feel helpless in the face of so many with such great need. So, I fret. And I make a plan to help someone. Or I pray about it. Or I plan to help. Or I plan to pray. Or I think about planning and praying. And then I don’t. I fail.
In her book “Jesus, Companion in my Suffering”, Joyce Ruff talks about compassion fatigue.
A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up. Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion.
Ms. Rupp supposes that Jesus was suffering from compassion fatigue and through sheer exhaustion he fell asleep in the boat. Perhaps being on that boat was the only physical comfort he had felt in days.
Those of us who have aged parents, or drug or alcohol addicted children, or a spouse who is battling a life-threatening illness, or folks who are facing insurmountable financial problems or divorce, can understand why Jesus fell asleep during a raging storm. We are often fatigued to the point of mental or physical exhaustion. And yet, we continue to do what we can. No matter how overwhelming the situations seem. We nurse our sick. We bury our dead. We comfort our injured. We listen. We act. We love. Mother Theresa said, “We can no great things; only small things with great love.” I’ll start there. I can try to stop worrying so much and do something. At least some small thing. Anything.
Of course, I’ll continue to worry. I will wring my hands and plan to make a plan. I will probably fail. But I’m trying to try. And I will keep trying. Acknowledging that I am limited and sinful and selfish is a good first step. Realizing that after that first step that there will be many more to follow on this journey, I will find solace in the fact that Jesus was exhausted, too. I’m giving myself permission to fail. There will be days when I will need to climb in that boat with Jesus.
My resolution for 2023 is to get rid of some stuff. I started with my home office, got out the shredder and emptied the file cabinet and desk drawers of accumulated, outdated, unnecessary paperwork. Next came the spare bedroom with a closet chockfull of clothes that have “shrunken” or gone out of style in the 10+ years they have been hanging patiently waiting for another outing. On to the basement wasteland of abandoned but once-loved stuff. I’m trying desperately to take a clinical approach with my purging. If we haven’t used it or needed it in the past year or so, it can be sold, donated, trashed or otherwise disposed of. My mantra: “When it doubt – toss it out”.
Turns out that’s easier said than done.
At Christmastime when our grown children were in the house, I encouraged them to remove their treasures. I mean seriously, the Teddy Ruxpin Bear has been waiting to be loved once again for decades. What about all those scouting badges and dozens of neckerchiefs? What about the countless middle-school volleyball and basketball trophies? Even our grandkids have outgrown any interest in their parents’ old toys, dolls and games. Apparently, our kids were insincere years ago when they begged us to never get rid of whatever is in all those boxes of mystery lining our basement walls. I’ve been told that the landfills might be spared the dollhouse furniture, He-Man figures, and Teenage Ninja Turtles via Ebay but that seems like too much effort for too little return. Why won’t my grown children stake their claims on Ebay?
Now in fairness, not all of the mess is the kid’s stuff, but my stuff has more intrinsic value. My three old hammers: one came from my dad, one came from my father-in-law, and the third one is a mystery. My conundrum is that I don’t know which one of the three came from Dad or Pop, and only God knows where the third one came from, so I have no choice but to cherish all three. My wife has similar challenges with some old china, glassware and a trove of “home decor” accessories. So, separating the wheat from the chaff is painstakingly slow. But it’s just stuff.
Letting go of stuff is not easy but it is necessary unless your goal is to be featured on an episode of “Hoarders”. Is that show still on television? I’m usually too busy watching stuff saved in my DVR to watch anything currently being aired – ugh, more saved stuff!
As hard as it is to let go of the physical stuff, letting go of the emotional stuff is even harder. But it’s time to unload that baggage, too. I find I often pack up resentments, disappointments and heartaches in neat little boxes so that I can haul them out, unpack them and fuel my grudges and prejudices. Never forgiving or forgetting any injustice (actual or imagined) that has been inflicted upon me gives me another opportunity for self-righteousness and indignation. Sometimes it so satisfying to be the victim. And nursing those wounds of others’ wrongdoing only serves to make me feel correct and superior momentarily. In the end it just feeds my sadness. It’s exhausting carrying all that crap around.
Jesus invites us to be reconcilers. It’s impossible to be a reconciling presence in my world, my community, my family if I’m angry or resentful. Carrying boxes of hate in my heart just clutters my mind and burdens my soul. So, I have some unloading to do. I have stuff to get rid of. And it’s just stuff.
I grew up with images of Sweet Baby Jesus being born on Christmas day. Sometimes I’m nostalgic for those days of innocence: Jesus’ and mine. In the comfort of my suburban home, I imagined all good girls and boys had the same kind of Christmas to which I was entitled. I was taught that Jesus was born poor and in a stable but, I had no real understanding of poverty or homelessness. Our Christmases were gloriously predictable: Santa would come; cookies would be baked; dinner would be plentiful; family would gather. And plaster Baby Jesus was perfectly happy to stay tucked away in his manger with Mary and Joseph dutifully at his side while we opened our presents.
While playing with my new toys, I would give an occasional nod to Jesus. We would attend Mass and sing our carols and I knew that Christmas was about the birth of Jesus. But my world was small and my understanding of life beyond my family, my neighborhood, and my parish was limited. And I liked it that way. There was security in the bubble that was my young life. Mom and Dad and my brothers and baby sister were all I needed. The messy stuff; the scary stuff; the life outside; was more than my little mind could (or would) comprehend.
Then it happened. I grew up. Life got messy and sometimes scary, but I held on tight to my need for perfect Christmases. I wanted everyone to be happy. “Jingle Bells” would be blaring from my cassette tape player. Reality would be put on hold. As a newlywed I found Christmas to be another opportunity to share our love but with the added stress of finding (and affording) that perfect gift. When our children came along, I tried desperately to give them the Christmas of my youth: warm, secure, loving, with plenty of gifts and a dash of Baby Jesus thrown in for good measure. And we would routinely go in debt to make darn sure that happened. Because no one could be disappointed with a less than perfect Christmas!
They say with age comes wisdom. I’m not sure if that’s true. I think more accurately “with age comes the same mistakes over and over”. And sometimes if we’re paying attention or we get kicked in the head we might actually learn from those mistakes. You can call that wisdom, I guess. At least that’s my wisdom experience.
I mean no disrespect to anyone who needs the image of Baby Jesus at Christmas. I love babies and I think it’s remarkable that our Savior was born an infant. However, Jesus’ humble birth sends a message that for most of my life escaped me. As I’ve aged, I’ve come to the realization that Christmas comes to everyone, not just the happy little families gathered around their tree. I will always cherish my childhood experience of Christmas, but as Christians we are called to have a preference for the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten. “As followers of Christ, we are challenged to make a fundamental ‘option for the poor’—to speak for the voiceless, to defend the defenseless, to assess lifestyles, policies and social institutions in terms of their impact on the poor”. I have some work to do.
But here’s the good news: Jesus comes for all of us! What I need to constantly remind myself is that Christmas comes whether we’re celebrating a beautiful Christmas liturgy or working the graveyard shift at a convenience store. Christmas comes whether the gifts under our tree are beautifully wrapped and plentiful or if they are being given to us by a volunteer at the Salvation Army. Christmas comes if we’re enjoying a sumptuous feast with family gathered or sitting alone at a soup kitchen. Christmas comes while we’re holding our sweet-cheeked grandchild on our lap or holding the hand of a loved who has just received a devastating diagnosis. Christmas comes whether we are celebrating new love or mourning the loss of our lifetime companion. Christmas comes with giggles and joy and with tears and heartache. Christmas comes.
I still strive for those perfect Christmases. The ones where everyone is happy and well fed and sufficiently gifted and loved beyond measure. But now I know to also look for Jesus in the less fortunate circumstances. I try to find Christmas in the hurried shoppers, the beleaguered parents, the refugees searching for a home, the lonely neighbor, the recovering alcoholic, the estranged family member, and that old man that I see in the mirror.
So, my prayer this year is that wherever we find ourselves, we are still able to shout the Good News. Jesus is born! Our salvation is at hand.Whether you’re in a high holy place with a glorious choir singing Alleluia or handing out “Toys for Tots” to children in need; if you are “on top of world” or find yourself lost in despair, hoping for better days to come or pining for days gone by, I hope that Jesus (or whatever/wherever you find comfort at Christmas) touches your heart and lifts your spirits.
May your Christmas this year be perfected by His love.
Denis
The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all people. Today a savior has been born for you.”
Sometimes I feel like I’m the ONLY ONE. The only one who gets the joke; who knows the score; who sees the absurdity in a given situation; who uses correct grammar and knows the meaning and proper use of the word exacerbated, which is often how I feel. Being the ‘only one’ can be a lonely place. Why isn’t everyone as intelligent, well-informed, and confident?
Of course, when I think about it (and pray about it) I realize how self-important and misguided I am. At times I choose solitude because I really want to be left alone; to not be bothered by the opinions and needs of others. It’s easy to be uncaring when you remain aloof.
Do you suppose that John the Baptist (the crazy, animal skin wearing, locust eating, hermit) thought that he was the ‘only one’? The only one who knew what was coming? Was he skulking around in the desert because he was disgusted with the callous disregard of others? Maybe. Or did he think that wandering around alone in the desert was a great way to get his message out? I don’t know. But as we prepare for the coming of the infant Jesus at Christmas, John the Baptist reminds us that there is something else coming. We must prepare for the change that Jesus creates; in our world; in our church; in ourselves. While I may feel like ‘the only one’ that is exactly the opposite of the message of hope, peace, love and connectedness that Christ brings to us. I am admonished by the Gospel message.
I need to join humanity. Get dirty. Pay attention. Get involved. Make a difference. Lend a hand. Carry a load. Love. These are not things that I can do alone.
I believe that when I open my heart to others, Christmas will come. In the meantime, I have some valleys to fill and some mountains to tumble. I know that my own arrogance, pride and ‘only one-ness’ need to be made low. And my heart and spirit could use some filling up and straightening out right now.
Then and only then, will I be truly worthy to hold the Christ-Child and be able to encounter Jesus in everyone I meet.
Peace,
Denis
A voice of one crying out in the desert, “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.”Matthew 3:3
Waiting seems to be the story of my life. Waiting for the end the school year as a boy. Waiting to get my driver’s license as a teenager. Waiting for my bride to come down the aisle. Waiting for our first child to be born and our second and our third. Waiting for promotions and raises. Waiting for grandchildren. And now I’m waiting for retirement.
I’ve been thinking lately about waiting and my impatience. During Advent we are reminded to slow down and be patient. We are expected to wait. We are told to be hopeful. Impatient people like me, try to “gird our loins” and tough it out so that we can get through these weeks of waiting. We prove our worth by being watchful and ready to embrace the impending joy of the coming of the Christ Child at Christmas.
But waiting alone is not enough. Being hopeful about the good things to come isn’t the complete answer either. It misses the point. The beauty is the waiting. The joy is in embracing the longing. Peace comes when I surrender myself to God’s plan. True patience is actively living in the present. It requires that I let go of my need to finish the game; win the race; get to the prize. The true joy of Advent is acceptance. Accepting my here and now; for better or for worse. I live with the hope of better things to come but I must love and treasure what I have now if I am to truly be fulfilled in the future. Baby Jesus at Christmas won’t mean much if I don’t find Christ in everyone I see TODAY.
So, I try to be patient and I try to live in the moment but realistically my impatience is not going away any time soon (or ever). Waiting for my wife to be ready to go somewhere or for the weekend to get here or my coffee to finish brewing will always make me tap my foot and wonder, “How much longer must I wait?”
Anna and me (back in the day)
Today I ran across a text message my daughter sent me years ago when her daughter was only six or seven years old. It reads:
Tonight, at Girl Scouts, we decorated bags that will eventually be used to carry food to the homeless. The girls have nothing to do with the food portion, but were asked to decorate the bags with drawings, stickers, etc, and they could feel free to write a nice Christmas sentiment on them. I did three of Anna’s 5 bags because she’s slow as molasses and I wanted to leave early. And then she showedme her long-awaited 2nd bag (how could it have taken so long?) and her sweet message simply said, “God is love.” Those three words brought me so much joy. She gets it. She’s been paying attention. And she’s sharing that simple message with a stranger. And with me.
Now that’s a testament to patience. For both mother and daughter. And granddad, too. Anna is in high school now, and she’s still slow but patient (especially with granddad) and she lives in the moment. She challenges me to try (again) for patience during Advent and to embrace my waiting. Even if it means an occasional foot tapping.
I am often discouraged by the divisions in our church, in our local community, in our country, and in our world. At times it seems the chasms cannot be traversed. We stand at odds. There can be no compromises. No one wins.
Last weekend two of our granddaughters received sacraments of our Church, Eucharist and Confirmation respectively. Special days with special graces granted to these two beautiful children of God. Promises of a life with Christ; a life with a community of believers; a life everlasting. And yet, a shadow of division hangs over our heads. During this most sacred time we are reminded by some in our Church that women and girls are not equal to the task of preaching and ministering to others. What are we asking of our daughters and granddaughters? Blind obedience to a patriarchy that seems woefully out of touch?
This week (again) the political circus in our nation is on display. The right and left seem hell-bent on destroying one another and possibly democracy in the process. Abortion rights and the possible reversal of Roe vs. Wade is dominating our airwaves and social media. The ongoing January 6th Investigation paints many of our elected officials as little more that pawns in some power play for political dominance. Where are our statesmen and stateswomen? What example are we setting for our daughters and sons; our granddaughters and grandsons? Blind obedience to political affiliation at all costs?
Last week I was watching my grandson’s little league team playing baseball on a rainy, cool evening. The boys were struggling with the weather and it was certainly not their best performance to-date. But they were undaunted. They kept swinging. They left the game as losers but their spirits were not diminished. And they remained good sports and respectful rivals. Once again, I was reminded of what Jesus said: “Let the children come to me, and do not prevent them; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
So there remains hope. I have a dear friend who is working to help immigrants that have recently arrived in our community. He doesn’t ask how they got here. He doesn’t judge their worthiness. He is not expecting them to share his political views. He is simply being the eyes, the hands, and the feet of Christ.
And I have another friend who is arranging for housing for a young woman who is homeless with a baby. She doesn’t ask how she found herself in this situation. She doesn’t judge her decisions. Instead she offers love, kindness and generosity. She too, is being the eyes, the hands and the feet of Christ.
My friends have overcome the weariness many of us (me) possess with our dysfunctional political processes and lack of understanding by those “in charge”. They are like my grandson and his team mates. Facing what might seem like insurmountable odds, they just keep swinging. In the process they are helping heal the divisions in our church, in our local community, in our country, and in our world.
On Holy Thursday during his homily one of the priests of our parish made it clear that women have no place in the priesthood. He stated that Jesus gave us a “model” to follow. Jesus gathered 12 men for dinner – no women were invited. Although I would guess that there were women serving the meal. This particular priest seems committed to the exclusion of women from ordained ministry. The irony is that at Holy Thursday services this priest had to wash the feet of several women and girls. I pray that washing their feet humbled him. I don’t know if he’s afraid of women or just insecure in his own vocation. Either way, in my opinion this is his great loss. As the father of a daughter and the grandfather of four granddaughters, I am often troubled by the idea that women (girls) must continue to take a backseat in our Church.
But Jesus also gave us another “model”.
Father James Martin, a Jesuit Priest, wrote this today:Today’s Gospel reminds us that in the time between her encounter with the Risen Christ and when she shared the news of the Resurrection with the other disciples, Mary Magdalene was, in a sense, the church on earth (John 20). Because only to her had been revealed the full Paschal Mystery. Only she, for a time, was able to understand the suffering, death and rising of Jesus Christ.Any discussion of women’s roles in the church must begin with these two facts: First, it was to a woman, not a man, to whom the Risen Christ first chose to appear. And second, it was a woman who, for a time, was the sole recipient, carrier and proclaimer, of the Good News of the Resurrection.
I reflect on my own spirituality. It was my mother who first taught me how to pray. It was her model of faith that I continue to follow to this day. It was my Godmother whose hand I held on my way to receive Jesus at my First Holy Communion. It was my three Aunts, who were Sisters of the Most Precious Blood, who modeled compassion for those in need and service to God through service to others. It is my wife who models patience, love and social awareness. It is my daughter who teaches me to show kindness to children by her example as a Catholic Educator. And it is my granddaughters who model unconditional love by loving me, a cranky, opinionated, old feminist. These women and girls proclaim The Good News to me each day. They don’t need vestments or ordination to prove their worth, regardless of how deserving they may be.
For millions of Catholics and other Christians, Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent. In observance of Christ’s death and resurrection, forty days are set aside in the Church calendar. During these forty days, many people make personal sacrifices as part of their Lenten journey.
Some folks feel tremendous pressure to “give up” something to honor Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice. Or to “do something” honorable or charitable or extra-holy. It doesn’t do me much good to have ashes smeared on my forehead at mass and then act like a complete asshole in the church parking lot. I must admit that I have struggled with Lenten sacrifices through years. Sometimes the sacrifice has had the effect of putting me in a foul mood.
That year without caffeine was painful and probably unhealthy. I was hardly honoring Jesus by snapping at someone because I wanted their coffee and wanted them to shut the hell up. So, I think it might be time to relent and give myself a break. If my Lenten sacrifice falls short of my expectations, I can forgive myself and try something else. Besides, my bad behavior or bad habits or good behavior or good habits will not change the fact that Jesus died for my sins. His gift of love is not earned by my worthiness. Likewise, it is not withheld because of my lack of fortitude.
Again, this year I will try to follow the example of friends and family members who, by their quiet example of love and devotion to God, are models of Christianity. I am thankful for a wife who always shows me how to live a Christ-like life. Deb is never afraid to express her outrage at injustice or display her affection publicly. She loves completely. I’m not her equal when it comes to kindness. I’m polite; she’s loving. I’m accepting; she’s forgiving. I try; she does.
I will try again this year to be kinder, listen better, remain calmer, forgive more, judge less, care more, and love more deeply. And not just for these forty days; for the whole year. I suppose that I could give up cursing for Lent.
Journeying & Journaling 