Let’s talk about my mother again. Although my mother became a Catholic her thirties, she has never quite understood well, quite a bit about Catholic culture. For example, for years she prayed the rosary, which she was sure she must do to be a good Catholic, by merely saying the words Hail Mary and Our Father on the respective beads. It was very quick and she wondered why it took me so long. The sacred heart is another thing she has never quite grasped. She always refers to this image as the heart surgery Jesus. Open heart Jesus.
Today we celebrate the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
Open heart Jesus as my mother would say, Well, perhaps that’s OK. Because what we celebrate is not an organ feast, or something so sacred that it must be piously venerated from a distance. What we celebrate here is the heart of our faith, that is, openness of God’s heart, an openness that extends to being vulnerable, vulnerable to the point of death. We see that heart that vulnerability in the fragile image of the body of Christ manifested in this host
The open heart of Jesus is a sign to us that God holds nothing back. Even the most intimate part of himself, his very life. He shows that to us in Christ, all or nothing, complete openness to God
And that openness of heart is our salvation
God proves his love for us in that
His heart is open so that our hearts, rent by the disaster of our sin, our selfishness, the pride of generations, the iniquity of Adam, the indignity of the Law, broken promises, shattered community and lost faith might be opened and renewed
His heart is open, for healing and proclaiming, announcing that we are more than what we seem, that we are a people worth fighting for, worth dying for, a beautiful people who have forgotten their own dignity and worth
His heart is open so that the reality of the human condition, a conflicted condition might be healed of pride, of ego, of petty wants and desires We are saved by his heart, by his life as St. Paul tells us.
.
His heart is open and from that heart pours out blood and water, his precious blood for the life of the world, the waters of the new Eden, the spring of life, the flood of baptism flowing out from the Jordan and cleansing a sin ravaged landscape, giving life to the deserts of our hearts.
His heart is open or we should have died, weighed down by our sins, drowning in the blood of our indifference, punished for our own offenses, cut off from the friendship of God and humanity, isolated from our true identity
But His heart is open so we might see laid bare for us the pure grace, the pure folly of the cross, the pure joy of giving up, and taste the glory of the resurrection
Brothers and sisters:The love of God has been poured out into our heartsthrough the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.
His heart is open in order to teach us that we are a vulnerable people. Wounded by our past, our lost loves, our broken dreams, our shattered childhoods. Made vulnerable by violence, by abuse, by hurts and real pains, by isolation, bigotry, prejudice, Shattered hearts and shattered lives, but his heart is open to announce flagrantly to the world that although …
We are a vulnerable people in a vulnerable world, a world wounded by the ravages of hunger, of war, of a culture of death, wounded by indifference, his heart is open and we have hope, his open heart teaches us to hope that we can be better than we are, that we can make a better world.
We are a vulnerable community, vulnerable to pains that are long in healing, by old rejections, perceived slights, generational confusions, the indignities of disability, a lack of respect for the wisdom of age, impatience, judgementalness, self love, but his heart is open to grace and reconciliation. That heart teaches us to love, to work wonders, to make miracles, to be disciples.
So must pray then through his open heart our hearts may be open, that we might love , that we might see in his wounded body the healing for our wounds, that we might see in his heart precisely who we are the BODY OF CHRIST
God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us.
And by that love alive in the Church, we come to know him
There is no Church if his heart is not open
There is no communion if his heart is not wounded, his body broken, his blood poured out
There is no me except that I am in Christ, who first suffered and died and rose for me and loved me, open hearted, without condition.
Sacred heart yes, but open heart, O yes, Again the wisdom of the mother prevails.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
O Most Holy Trinity
I had the great pleasure of preaching at the Mass of Thanksgiving for the newly ordained Fr. Peter Marshall of the Archdiocese of Indianpolis. The mass was at St. Mary's Church in downtown Indianapolis.
Last week, I had the privilege of being in Brown Country with the priests of the Diocese of Lafayette during their annual convocation.
One afternoon, one of the priests and I were chatting about various things and he mentioned that he was asked to preach at a mass of thanksgiving this Sunday of one of THEIR new priests, ordained yesterday. He recounted how when he looked at the readings and the DAY of the celebration he was dismayed.
Trinity Sunday, UGH. What am I supposed to say about the Holy Trinity?
Wait a minute, He said to me. You teach the course on the Trinity, surely you have some ideas.
Whoa, I replied. You’re a priest, surely you know something about the Holy Trinity.
He pleaded with me to give him some ideas and so I did.
First, I told him how this momentous feast comes at the end of the great dogmatic arc beginning with the onset of Lent, recreating as it does, the primordial condition of creation. The age of the Father and the breathing out of fixed time sets in motion an exhalation that culminates in the creation of mankind from the dust of the ground. Remember man that you are dust. These are the Words of the Father. Mankind, however, rebelled, in the blush of his innocence and thus the necessity of the co-eternal Son. The Son who is the refulgence of the Father’s Glory, himself perpetually engendered outside of time, stepped into the deprivation of the human condition and excepted the fate of humanity as an acceptable burden, thus setting in perichoretic motion the economy of salvation by which that Godhead formerly contained under the ethereal, Hebraic veil of the Law was made manifest once again. Ransomer became known to ransomed, not merely as a protean fact, or an historical excellence, but in the intimate terms of a fourfold presence, a dynastic resplendency, experienced as Godhead in form, in quotidian array, thus the sacramental principle of res succumbing to sacramentum and rising again in a perpetual exitus and reditus to res, and thus, became engrained in the newly rejuvenated imagination of man. In the resurrection and ascension of that resplendency, the ruah of eternity was held in check, as if hovering, dovelike, for ten days until it descended in literally, breathtaking rapidity, like tongues of fire and wind upon the apostles and the spotless mother of the redeemer, the Theotokos, on the day of Pentecost, reducing like a Phoenix to ashes the Babel of the old nature of Man, and thus coming full circle in this dogmatic arc to today’s feast.
My priest friend looked at me with open mouth and replied. I don’t think that will work in Kokomo.
Well, I said, how about this:
You can explain the Trinity in four words:
You are not alone
And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age
This is, in effect, the essence of Trinitarian theology. It is the essence of God’s love for us, which is so great that he gave his only son. You are not alone. You do not have to be alone.
And of course, it is a message that, all of us, young and old, rich and poor alike long to hear, a message that so many in our world today are desperate to hear.
A message that WE are desperate to hear, because Loneliness is epidemic
We see it in the empty eyes of the youthful victim of abuse, the victim of self-serving self sufficiency, the men and women who walk the streets of this city in search of a little dignity, a little relief from the harsh reality of the urban inferno.
We see it in the eyes of the aged and abandoned, the victim of the cult of youth, of isolation, desperation, fear, in those besieged by self-doubt, betrayal, loss.
We hear it in the cries of the poor, the homeless, the marginalized, the outcast, the voices of those who cry for bread, for acceptance, for homeland.
We hear it in the philosophy of libertarianism, of self-determination, of manifest destiny, self reference, in false and pernicious understandings of freedom, of choice.
We know it in our culture’s insistence on rugged individualism, popularism, pioneerism, so-called prophecy.
We know what loneliness is because we feel the pinch of its skeletal fingers in the very heart of our being, in the vacancy of the stare that confronts us daily in the mirrors of our self-perception.
We know what loneliness is because we, though wounded, continue to wound by turning our back on the blankness of the other’s, our neighbor’s pleading
In spite of the endless rhetoric from the cult of self sufficiency, and individualism
We still long for love
Long to feel it in the presence of others, the warm breath of human contact, human kindness.
Long to know it in our care for our brothers and sisters, in the awkward gestures of friendship and fellow feeling, of fraternal care engendered by friends, by family, even by strangers.
Long to be a part of something, to be accepted in spite of our awkwardness
And when we cannot find that place of belonging
We seek in importune places
Or we hide our loneliness in mind and spirit numbing substances.
In experiences cyberic, in the comfortability of sin.
But try as we might we cannot escape that Truth,
The truth that is written in the very marrow of our being, we need community
We need each other, we need our brothers and sisters even the jerks, the idiots and the sinners.
We yearn for company, for understanding, for love, for human affection, for warmth, for a gentle hand, a consoling smile.
We long for love, respect,
We hope for presence and So this solemnity is one of singular promise
It reminds us that the great dogmatic arc, the outcome of our faith is a single insight. God is Love. God is here.
God is community, that is his nature, communion, and love. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, infinitely present to one another.
Involved in a gracious economic outreach to a needy humanity
Engaged in a endlessly varying immanent perichoretic dance
Entangled in the mystery of persons and essences
Entrenched in the life of the world and in the beatitude of heaven
In Touch with the longing of humanity
In contact with our deepest desires
Present to us
Real presence
And we, who are created in his likeness
may also be, can also be, must also be
Involved in the lives of others
Engaged in the messiness of the human condition
Entangled in the joys and sorrows, the hopes and despairs of our fellow pilgrims.
Entrenched in life, in the pure essence of living
In Touch with the misery of the world
In contact with the skin of creation
This encounter with the Divine Reality which is also an encounter with our neighbor is an encounter with our deepest selves
Our deepest desires
Our most profound hopes
For those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God.For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear,but you received a Spirit of adoption,through whom we cry, "Abba, Father!"
It is intimate and primordial
As intimate as the bread we take, the wine we drink, the words of everlasting life whispered in our ears.
It is love given and giving.
It is as primordial as the sound of a loved one’s voice, the sudden recognition of desire, the want, the ceaseless want of friendship, fraternity.
The Father Son and the Holy Spirit, the mystery of the Trinity, the Mystery of relationship,
You are not alone.
We are not alone.
You are not you, you are we.
And Brothers and Sisters, how is this not Good News?
Today gathered here we celebrate the perpetual us. God with Us, We with God. We in one another and we discover that intimacy that only Good News can tell, that only the great evangalion can announce.
That Good News travels down from the throne of heaven, into this very sanctuary. It lights on each of us. We are not alone.
Today, we celebrate the Holy Trinity and we celebrate ourselves in the Church.
Today we also celebrate that same Divine presence alive in our brother, our son, our friend, Fr. Peter Marshall.
These last words, I will address to him, but they are words for us as well.
Fr. Peter: God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit have poured out on you the grace of this ministry. The Holy Trinity, in his love for you has given you a gift, the gift of his presence alive in the sacramental character of the priesthood. Cherish that gift, Peter. Cherish it by giving it way. You are a man that the Father has already given so many gifts, the gift of compassion, of sympathy, of intelligence, of love, of great love. Now, in this singular act of charity, the Holy Trinity gives you the opportunity to share the Good News of his presence with the whole world. Go to the world whose needs you know so well. Welcome the outcast and the sinner. Draw back the erring sheep. Give light in places that are dark. Love, Fr. Peter, love those who are unlovable, frightened, and alone. Give sight to those blinded by society’s rampant bigotries. Raise those fallen in the mire of their own confusion. Be a sign, a beacon of hope in this local Church and thus announce the splendor of God’s eternal presence.
Fr. Peter, in years to come, if you should ever wonder what you are to say about the Holy Trinity, try this. Welcome brother. Welcome sister. You are not alone.
Last week, I had the privilege of being in Brown Country with the priests of the Diocese of Lafayette during their annual convocation.
One afternoon, one of the priests and I were chatting about various things and he mentioned that he was asked to preach at a mass of thanksgiving this Sunday of one of THEIR new priests, ordained yesterday. He recounted how when he looked at the readings and the DAY of the celebration he was dismayed.
Trinity Sunday, UGH. What am I supposed to say about the Holy Trinity?
Wait a minute, He said to me. You teach the course on the Trinity, surely you have some ideas.
Whoa, I replied. You’re a priest, surely you know something about the Holy Trinity.
He pleaded with me to give him some ideas and so I did.
First, I told him how this momentous feast comes at the end of the great dogmatic arc beginning with the onset of Lent, recreating as it does, the primordial condition of creation. The age of the Father and the breathing out of fixed time sets in motion an exhalation that culminates in the creation of mankind from the dust of the ground. Remember man that you are dust. These are the Words of the Father. Mankind, however, rebelled, in the blush of his innocence and thus the necessity of the co-eternal Son. The Son who is the refulgence of the Father’s Glory, himself perpetually engendered outside of time, stepped into the deprivation of the human condition and excepted the fate of humanity as an acceptable burden, thus setting in perichoretic motion the economy of salvation by which that Godhead formerly contained under the ethereal, Hebraic veil of the Law was made manifest once again. Ransomer became known to ransomed, not merely as a protean fact, or an historical excellence, but in the intimate terms of a fourfold presence, a dynastic resplendency, experienced as Godhead in form, in quotidian array, thus the sacramental principle of res succumbing to sacramentum and rising again in a perpetual exitus and reditus to res, and thus, became engrained in the newly rejuvenated imagination of man. In the resurrection and ascension of that resplendency, the ruah of eternity was held in check, as if hovering, dovelike, for ten days until it descended in literally, breathtaking rapidity, like tongues of fire and wind upon the apostles and the spotless mother of the redeemer, the Theotokos, on the day of Pentecost, reducing like a Phoenix to ashes the Babel of the old nature of Man, and thus coming full circle in this dogmatic arc to today’s feast.
My priest friend looked at me with open mouth and replied. I don’t think that will work in Kokomo.
Well, I said, how about this:
You can explain the Trinity in four words:
You are not alone
And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age
This is, in effect, the essence of Trinitarian theology. It is the essence of God’s love for us, which is so great that he gave his only son. You are not alone. You do not have to be alone.
And of course, it is a message that, all of us, young and old, rich and poor alike long to hear, a message that so many in our world today are desperate to hear.
A message that WE are desperate to hear, because Loneliness is epidemic
We see it in the empty eyes of the youthful victim of abuse, the victim of self-serving self sufficiency, the men and women who walk the streets of this city in search of a little dignity, a little relief from the harsh reality of the urban inferno.
We see it in the eyes of the aged and abandoned, the victim of the cult of youth, of isolation, desperation, fear, in those besieged by self-doubt, betrayal, loss.
We hear it in the cries of the poor, the homeless, the marginalized, the outcast, the voices of those who cry for bread, for acceptance, for homeland.
We hear it in the philosophy of libertarianism, of self-determination, of manifest destiny, self reference, in false and pernicious understandings of freedom, of choice.
We know it in our culture’s insistence on rugged individualism, popularism, pioneerism, so-called prophecy.
We know what loneliness is because we feel the pinch of its skeletal fingers in the very heart of our being, in the vacancy of the stare that confronts us daily in the mirrors of our self-perception.
We know what loneliness is because we, though wounded, continue to wound by turning our back on the blankness of the other’s, our neighbor’s pleading
In spite of the endless rhetoric from the cult of self sufficiency, and individualism
We still long for love
Long to feel it in the presence of others, the warm breath of human contact, human kindness.
Long to know it in our care for our brothers and sisters, in the awkward gestures of friendship and fellow feeling, of fraternal care engendered by friends, by family, even by strangers.
Long to be a part of something, to be accepted in spite of our awkwardness
And when we cannot find that place of belonging
We seek in importune places
Or we hide our loneliness in mind and spirit numbing substances.
In experiences cyberic, in the comfortability of sin.
But try as we might we cannot escape that Truth,
The truth that is written in the very marrow of our being, we need community
We need each other, we need our brothers and sisters even the jerks, the idiots and the sinners.
We yearn for company, for understanding, for love, for human affection, for warmth, for a gentle hand, a consoling smile.
We long for love, respect,
We hope for presence and So this solemnity is one of singular promise
It reminds us that the great dogmatic arc, the outcome of our faith is a single insight. God is Love. God is here.
God is community, that is his nature, communion, and love. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, infinitely present to one another.
Involved in a gracious economic outreach to a needy humanity
Engaged in a endlessly varying immanent perichoretic dance
Entangled in the mystery of persons and essences
Entrenched in the life of the world and in the beatitude of heaven
In Touch with the longing of humanity
In contact with our deepest desires
Present to us
Real presence
And we, who are created in his likeness
may also be, can also be, must also be
Involved in the lives of others
Engaged in the messiness of the human condition
Entangled in the joys and sorrows, the hopes and despairs of our fellow pilgrims.
Entrenched in life, in the pure essence of living
In Touch with the misery of the world
In contact with the skin of creation
This encounter with the Divine Reality which is also an encounter with our neighbor is an encounter with our deepest selves
Our deepest desires
Our most profound hopes
For those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God.For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear,but you received a Spirit of adoption,through whom we cry, "Abba, Father!"
It is intimate and primordial
As intimate as the bread we take, the wine we drink, the words of everlasting life whispered in our ears.
It is love given and giving.
It is as primordial as the sound of a loved one’s voice, the sudden recognition of desire, the want, the ceaseless want of friendship, fraternity.
The Father Son and the Holy Spirit, the mystery of the Trinity, the Mystery of relationship,
You are not alone.
We are not alone.
You are not you, you are we.
And Brothers and Sisters, how is this not Good News?
Today gathered here we celebrate the perpetual us. God with Us, We with God. We in one another and we discover that intimacy that only Good News can tell, that only the great evangalion can announce.
That Good News travels down from the throne of heaven, into this very sanctuary. It lights on each of us. We are not alone.
Today, we celebrate the Holy Trinity and we celebrate ourselves in the Church.
Today we also celebrate that same Divine presence alive in our brother, our son, our friend, Fr. Peter Marshall.
These last words, I will address to him, but they are words for us as well.
Fr. Peter: God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit have poured out on you the grace of this ministry. The Holy Trinity, in his love for you has given you a gift, the gift of his presence alive in the sacramental character of the priesthood. Cherish that gift, Peter. Cherish it by giving it way. You are a man that the Father has already given so many gifts, the gift of compassion, of sympathy, of intelligence, of love, of great love. Now, in this singular act of charity, the Holy Trinity gives you the opportunity to share the Good News of his presence with the whole world. Go to the world whose needs you know so well. Welcome the outcast and the sinner. Draw back the erring sheep. Give light in places that are dark. Love, Fr. Peter, love those who are unlovable, frightened, and alone. Give sight to those blinded by society’s rampant bigotries. Raise those fallen in the mire of their own confusion. Be a sign, a beacon of hope in this local Church and thus announce the splendor of God’s eternal presence.
Fr. Peter, in years to come, if you should ever wonder what you are to say about the Holy Trinity, try this. Welcome brother. Welcome sister. You are not alone.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Jesus Constitutes His Church in Fire
Today, I will concelebrate and preach at the mass of thanksgiving for the newly ordained Fr. Daniel Dillard. The mass will be at Holy Name parish in Henderson, Kentucky.
It was the day of Pentecost.
They were all gathered together in one place.
Men and women of every race and language had come to Jerusalem for the feast.
Parthians, Medes, and Elamites,inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia,Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia,Egypt and the districts of Libya near Cyrene,as well as travelers from Rome,both Jews and converts to Judaism, Cretans and Arabs
The Holy Spirit came upon them in wind and fire.
How very dramatic. The whole thing, the wind, the fire, the tongues, the preaching. How very dramatic. The birthday of the Church, the constitution of the Body of Christ, the arrival of the Holy Spirit.
It was good stuff really, powerful, cinematic stuff, better than Terminator, better than Batman, better than Star Trek.
And yet, what happened?
How can such auspicious beginnings have landed us where we often are today?
Yawning
Deadly preaching (and not in the good way)
Complacency
Tedium
Low interest
Low numbers
Tired
Worn out
Boring
A fire extinguisher
Do you ever think that Church is boring?
Do you ever wonder if the whole thing is really worthwhile?
Do you ever wonder if your carcasses are getting anything out of all of this?
And if you think you are bored, you should see what we see from up here. Glazed over, head nodding, bulletin reading, watch watching, tedium.
How can it be?
How can we have the Holy Spirit, the Eucharist, the teachings of the Church, a two-thousand year tradition, a liturgical reality, the presence of the living God, the life-giving Word and still be bored?
And how can our lives seem so meaningless at times?
It is not just the Church we find tedious, its life itself, dragging ourselves zombie-like from activity to activity, striving after un-satisfying goals, wondering how everything can be in such a mess when we have modern medicine, modern technology, modern manners, modern credit, modern values?
How often do we find ourselves defined by our vices?
Immorality, impurity, lust, idolatry,sorcery, hatreds, rivalry, jealousy,outbursts of fury, acts of selfishness,dissensions, factions, occasions of envy
What is needed to give some spirit to this place, to this Church, to our world?
The Acts of the Apostles reminds us of the dramatic reality that Jesus constitutes his Church in fire.
And in the face of all of the blatant realities of the world and the Church and, perhaps the reality of ourselves, we might rightly ask, do we not need a fire?
Do we not need a fire, a Holy Spirit fire, Pentecostal fire, a purifying fire, in light of so much indifference, a cleansing fire in the face of horrors of war and the violence of school and home, a warming fire in place of the enduring chill that threatens us with the harsh pointing of the cold, skeletal finger of cynicism.
Sisters and brothers, gathered here in this Church today on this Day of Pentecost, I wonder if we are not in desperate need of a fire?
Because when faced with the stark realities of life, sometimes there is a chill in us, a lukewarm ness, a curdling of the blood, a half-heartedness.
Perhaps on this Day of Pentecost, we need a fire because we are sometimes cowards and we need to be heroes. We are sometimes tiresome and we need to be tireless, we are sometimes pitiful and we need to be passionate. Jesus says if you want to belong to me you have to stand up and be counted, taking that final, dangerous leap over the precipice of self interest and not just stand around waiting for someone else to get things going.
Jesus constitutes his Church with fire
We need a fire because
There is an iciness in us sometimes that makes us like those hapless women and men of so many places hanging around Jerusalem on that first Day of Pentecost, living on the fringes of discipleship. Half membership, half interest, half love.
For them, Jesus constituted His Church with fire and…
We need that Pentecostal fire because
Sometimes we still like our faith in small doses. We still cringe in the face of too much religion. All he can talk about is God, we say. It’s like she has no life outside of the Church. Too much religion spoils anyone.
Sometimes, we are embarrassed about prayer, by the very Holy Spirit we are supposed to be inviting daily into our lives.
Pentecost testifies to us, those apostles testify to us, the early Church testifies to us there is no religion without complete devotion, there is no life outside the Church of God.
Jesus constituted his Church in fire
Faith is not a comfort, it is a call to action. The Church is not a place for complacency. It is a rallying place for those called forth by the sound of God’s trumpet, ratified in the Holy Spirit and steeped in the blood of the lamb.
Jesus constituted his Church in fire and we need a fire in our lives because
Sometimes we like to divvy up our selves between the sacred and the secular, pick and choose Christianity is the order of the day. But take it or leave it, Christ teaches through the living teaching and spirituality of the Church. The Holy Spirit guarantees that Church, that teaching, that spirituality and our love for it.
For Catholics faith in Christ is faith in the Church. We believe that or we fall into the ultimate, insidious and damnable trap of pleasing ourselves with a second-rate, egotistical Christianity, a Church of our own making, made in our image, designed to suit us and a Church we will ultimately abandon as useless
Jesus constituted his Church in fire and brothers and sisters we are in need of a fire in our lives
A fire kindled deep down, in the recesses of our bodies, our souls, our hearts, at the heart of this community of Holy Name Church and Jesus is that fire
Jesus is that fire that burns steadily at all our bigotries, our prejudices, our hypocrisies like cotton under a magnifying glass.
His sent his spirit upon them as fire Jesus is that fire that reduces to ashes all false pride, all isolationism, all rankness, all sourness, all doubt, all boredom.
Jesus is that fire that erodes the conceits of the human imagination, that tears away at the foundations of our ideologies, our treasured opinions, that sometimes reflect not the living reality of God, but the narcissism of the human intellect.
Jesus constitutes his Church in fire and
He is that fire that instils in the hearts of all that follow him that passion that is uniquely his own, that passion that he bore with courage and perseverance along the dusty roads of Palestine.
Christ loved us so much, he cared so much that he became a slave, obediently driving the fire of his passion without compromise all the way to the windswept hill of Calvary where he laid down his life and ignited in us the fire that cannot be quenched, the fire of a man who was willing to give all for the sake of those so needy, so powerless, so frightened – abandoned as they were and are in the boredom of our own condition.
And we, brothers and sisters are the inheritors of that fire, the people of that passion, men and women of Pentecost.
Father Daniel Dillard is here today as a witness to the Holy Spirit’s Power, because he has made a radical choice and decided to turn his life over to the Church, the Body of Christ.
He knows the cost of discipleship and yet he has decided to stand up and be counted, to be a man who, through his ordination to the priesthood desires with all his heart to make a difference in an indifferent world.
Because the ordination of Fr. Dillard is not about status and power, it is not about prestige and authority. It is a new Pentecost of the Church. It is not about lording over. It is about a man whose all consuming love for God must be contagious. It must start a fire. Fr. Daniel, be that fire for us because Jesus constitutes his Church in fire.
Fr. Daniel, your ordination yesterday made you an ambassador of that fire, a man of Pentecost. Be alive, be passionate, be a fire in this diocese, in the communities that you will serve, a fire to burn throughout this town, throughout this state, throughout our world, the fire of Jesus.
On the day of Pentecost they were gathered all together in one place.
And gathered here today, we say Come Father, Come Divine Son, Come Holy Spirit, enkindle in us the fire of your love.
It was the day of Pentecost.
They were all gathered together in one place.
Men and women of every race and language had come to Jerusalem for the feast.
Parthians, Medes, and Elamites,inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia,Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia,Egypt and the districts of Libya near Cyrene,as well as travelers from Rome,both Jews and converts to Judaism, Cretans and Arabs
The Holy Spirit came upon them in wind and fire.
How very dramatic. The whole thing, the wind, the fire, the tongues, the preaching. How very dramatic. The birthday of the Church, the constitution of the Body of Christ, the arrival of the Holy Spirit.
It was good stuff really, powerful, cinematic stuff, better than Terminator, better than Batman, better than Star Trek.
And yet, what happened?
How can such auspicious beginnings have landed us where we often are today?
Yawning
Deadly preaching (and not in the good way)
Complacency
Tedium
Low interest
Low numbers
Tired
Worn out
Boring
A fire extinguisher
Do you ever think that Church is boring?
Do you ever wonder if the whole thing is really worthwhile?
Do you ever wonder if your carcasses are getting anything out of all of this?
And if you think you are bored, you should see what we see from up here. Glazed over, head nodding, bulletin reading, watch watching, tedium.
How can it be?
How can we have the Holy Spirit, the Eucharist, the teachings of the Church, a two-thousand year tradition, a liturgical reality, the presence of the living God, the life-giving Word and still be bored?
And how can our lives seem so meaningless at times?
It is not just the Church we find tedious, its life itself, dragging ourselves zombie-like from activity to activity, striving after un-satisfying goals, wondering how everything can be in such a mess when we have modern medicine, modern technology, modern manners, modern credit, modern values?
How often do we find ourselves defined by our vices?
Immorality, impurity, lust, idolatry,sorcery, hatreds, rivalry, jealousy,outbursts of fury, acts of selfishness,dissensions, factions, occasions of envy
What is needed to give some spirit to this place, to this Church, to our world?
The Acts of the Apostles reminds us of the dramatic reality that Jesus constitutes his Church in fire.
And in the face of all of the blatant realities of the world and the Church and, perhaps the reality of ourselves, we might rightly ask, do we not need a fire?
Do we not need a fire, a Holy Spirit fire, Pentecostal fire, a purifying fire, in light of so much indifference, a cleansing fire in the face of horrors of war and the violence of school and home, a warming fire in place of the enduring chill that threatens us with the harsh pointing of the cold, skeletal finger of cynicism.
Sisters and brothers, gathered here in this Church today on this Day of Pentecost, I wonder if we are not in desperate need of a fire?
Because when faced with the stark realities of life, sometimes there is a chill in us, a lukewarm ness, a curdling of the blood, a half-heartedness.
Perhaps on this Day of Pentecost, we need a fire because we are sometimes cowards and we need to be heroes. We are sometimes tiresome and we need to be tireless, we are sometimes pitiful and we need to be passionate. Jesus says if you want to belong to me you have to stand up and be counted, taking that final, dangerous leap over the precipice of self interest and not just stand around waiting for someone else to get things going.
Jesus constitutes his Church with fire
We need a fire because
There is an iciness in us sometimes that makes us like those hapless women and men of so many places hanging around Jerusalem on that first Day of Pentecost, living on the fringes of discipleship. Half membership, half interest, half love.
For them, Jesus constituted His Church with fire and…
We need that Pentecostal fire because
Sometimes we still like our faith in small doses. We still cringe in the face of too much religion. All he can talk about is God, we say. It’s like she has no life outside of the Church. Too much religion spoils anyone.
Sometimes, we are embarrassed about prayer, by the very Holy Spirit we are supposed to be inviting daily into our lives.
Pentecost testifies to us, those apostles testify to us, the early Church testifies to us there is no religion without complete devotion, there is no life outside the Church of God.
Jesus constituted his Church in fire
Faith is not a comfort, it is a call to action. The Church is not a place for complacency. It is a rallying place for those called forth by the sound of God’s trumpet, ratified in the Holy Spirit and steeped in the blood of the lamb.
Jesus constituted his Church in fire and we need a fire in our lives because
Sometimes we like to divvy up our selves between the sacred and the secular, pick and choose Christianity is the order of the day. But take it or leave it, Christ teaches through the living teaching and spirituality of the Church. The Holy Spirit guarantees that Church, that teaching, that spirituality and our love for it.
For Catholics faith in Christ is faith in the Church. We believe that or we fall into the ultimate, insidious and damnable trap of pleasing ourselves with a second-rate, egotistical Christianity, a Church of our own making, made in our image, designed to suit us and a Church we will ultimately abandon as useless
Jesus constituted his Church in fire and brothers and sisters we are in need of a fire in our lives
A fire kindled deep down, in the recesses of our bodies, our souls, our hearts, at the heart of this community of Holy Name Church and Jesus is that fire
Jesus is that fire that burns steadily at all our bigotries, our prejudices, our hypocrisies like cotton under a magnifying glass.
His sent his spirit upon them as fire Jesus is that fire that reduces to ashes all false pride, all isolationism, all rankness, all sourness, all doubt, all boredom.
Jesus is that fire that erodes the conceits of the human imagination, that tears away at the foundations of our ideologies, our treasured opinions, that sometimes reflect not the living reality of God, but the narcissism of the human intellect.
Jesus constitutes his Church in fire and
He is that fire that instils in the hearts of all that follow him that passion that is uniquely his own, that passion that he bore with courage and perseverance along the dusty roads of Palestine.
Christ loved us so much, he cared so much that he became a slave, obediently driving the fire of his passion without compromise all the way to the windswept hill of Calvary where he laid down his life and ignited in us the fire that cannot be quenched, the fire of a man who was willing to give all for the sake of those so needy, so powerless, so frightened – abandoned as they were and are in the boredom of our own condition.
And we, brothers and sisters are the inheritors of that fire, the people of that passion, men and women of Pentecost.
Father Daniel Dillard is here today as a witness to the Holy Spirit’s Power, because he has made a radical choice and decided to turn his life over to the Church, the Body of Christ.
He knows the cost of discipleship and yet he has decided to stand up and be counted, to be a man who, through his ordination to the priesthood desires with all his heart to make a difference in an indifferent world.
Because the ordination of Fr. Dillard is not about status and power, it is not about prestige and authority. It is a new Pentecost of the Church. It is not about lording over. It is about a man whose all consuming love for God must be contagious. It must start a fire. Fr. Daniel, be that fire for us because Jesus constitutes his Church in fire.
Fr. Daniel, your ordination yesterday made you an ambassador of that fire, a man of Pentecost. Be alive, be passionate, be a fire in this diocese, in the communities that you will serve, a fire to burn throughout this town, throughout this state, throughout our world, the fire of Jesus.
On the day of Pentecost they were gathered all together in one place.
And gathered here today, we say Come Father, Come Divine Son, Come Holy Spirit, enkindle in us the fire of your love.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
The Harvest is Plentiful
Ordination season has come and what a blessed season it is. In these days of May and June, we seen the fruition of years of labor, prayer and thoughtful work in preparing men for service to the Church as priests. I have been blessed to travel to places as far-flung as Cullman, Alabama, Shreveport, Louisiana, Dubuque, Iowa and Owensboro, Kentucky. The joy with which these communities welcome these new priests is palpable. There is so much energy and life in the Church it gives us hope, it strengthens us for the work of ministry.
Here is the homily preached at the Mass of Thanksgiving of Fr. Gary Mayer, a new priest of the Archdiocese of Dubuque. The homily was preached if father's hometown of Stacyville, Iowa. it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, the Solemnity of the Ascension.
It is somewhat ironic that in this season of new life in the earth, this season of planting and preparation, we should also be confronted with so many farewells. High School students are graduating and leaving home, young couples are getting married, our seminarians, particular our deacon class are faced with the inevitable sadness of parting and Jesus to says farewell to his disciples.
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
What a foolish question. After all, it is not everyday that you see a grown 33 year old man fly up into the clouds.
It must have been quite the event, and yet, for the disciples, perhaps the ascension of the Lord was just the latest in a series of surprises accustomed to which they must have been becoming.
Because Jesus was not like any other man.
He was rather that man, of whom Saint Paul spoke, who, though he was in the form of God, did not grasp at equality with God, but taking the form of our human likeness, walked among us, was on of us, ministered to us.
And the disciples were witnesses of that.
They were with him as he trod the dirt roads and the back roads of Palestine announcing Good News to often deaf ears but filled with the power of conviction
They were with him as he wrought great miracles in the lives of simple people, miracles of presence, of hope of love
They were with him as he raised the lifeless to newness of spirit, as he herald the sick and comforted the neglected and the down trodden
They were with him as he changed the bread and wine, as he gave himself fully, this is my body, this is my blood.
They were with him as he laid down his life for world, his total sacrifice for the life of all
They were with him as he rose from the depths of the human experience of death and spoke his final words to them
Do not be afraid
Trust
Hope
Peace
Preach
Love
Care
Heal
Love
Love
They knew that with Jesus the unexpected is the norm, the extraordinary the ordinary
And this is Good News
Go to the whole world and tell the Good News
The Good news that we are to announce is that God is not the God of heaven alone.
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
He is not remote. He is not away. He is not there only but he is here
Jesus is here
Jesus is here and his Holy Spirit fills the halls of power and the beleaguered barrios of the human condition
Jesus is here and his compassion touches palpably the lives of those who mourn and weep, his laughter fills the lives of those who celebrate and rejoice.
Jesus is here in the thrilling first cry of the newborn infant has he screams his way into existence and in the tear filled eyes, the joyful eyes of his parents
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
Jesus is here in first loves and lost loves, in the awkwardness of adolescent and the confidence of maturity, in playground triumphs and tragedies
Jesus is here in the hope filled faces of husbands and wives, the indifferent faces of children, in the wisdom lined faces of the elderly
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
Jesus is here in scrapped knees and class rings, in moonlit nights and heat tempered days, in season and out of season, when we need him and when we need to need him
Jesus is here as we jolt our way through the mundane tasks of life, in dead end jobs and hopeless relationships, he fills our days with this presence, his silent presence, his love, his powerful love
Jesus is here in the power of his word, his mighty word that is thunder, a word that changes hearts, that opens the eyes of the needy and shuts the mouths of the arrogant, the word whose syllables are themselves the Lion of Judah
Jesus is here in his Word that meets the conceit of men on the battlefields of the world and announces boldly and without compromise a word, peace, reconciliation,
Jesus is hear for all who need him. The threatened, the unborn, the marginalized, the outcast, the despised
Jesus is here in these grace filled days of this community of faith, in Staceyville Iowa
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
Jesus is here as we struggle with economic hardship, as we lay awake at night wondering how we will support our families, in despair and confusion, in lives tainted with cynicism
Jesus is here as we struggle and as we sin, he holds out his reconciling hand to our lack of courage and our fear
Jesus is here as we make our mistakes, make friends, cling to our sons and daughters, work and shop and live
Jesus is here in the power of this sacrament, he shows himself in the bread and wine, his presence is known to us in simple things, his majesty is cloaked in the disguise of compromise his greatness in the form of food which he offers to us, his body and blood offered for us. How more here can Jesus be than in our flesh, in our blood, in our bodies, in ours souls
Jesus is here in the Church, the apostles and preachers and evangelists the teachers, the listeners
Jesus is here in the life of this man, Fr. Gary Mayer, a man chosen and called from among you. A man who knows how to offer himself because in this community of faith, you taught him to be selfless, to be a man who can love, a man of character, a man of prayer, a man of Christ. Here in this town, you taught him to be compassion, to be a sign of hope, to be Christ and that is how he now returns to you, a witness. Fr. Gary Mayer is a man who can be a witness, because he cares. He cares about his family, he loves his friends, and he is loyal and faithful. He loves the Church, he loves the power of God witnessed daily in the small miracles he has learned to see and he has been given this mission, this message. He comes to you to announce Good News. Jesus is here
And now we have the privilege of being with him
as he treads the asphalt roads and the back roads of Iowa announcing Good News to often deaf ears but filled with the power of conviction
as he works great miracles in the lives of simple people, miracles of presence, of hope of love
as he raises the lifeless to newness of spirit, as he heralds the sick and comforts the neglected and the down trodden
as he changes the bread and wine, as he gives himself fully, this is my body, this is my blood.
as he lays down his life for world, his total sacrifice for the life of all
as he rises with us from the depths of the human experience of death and speaks words of comfort to us
Do not be afraid
Trust
Hope
Peace
Preach
Love
Care
Heal
Love
Love
In the life of Fr. Mayer and in this liturgy today we celebrate this simple message, so needed and so necessary. Jesus is here, Christ is alive. he is not in the skies, he is among us. He is here in your son, your grandson, brother, neighbor, friend. He is a priest forever and he brings us Good News. We celebrate here that message of love that we long to hear.
People of Staceyville, why do you stand here looking up into the skies? Jesus is here, even in a season of farewell.
Here is the homily preached at the Mass of Thanksgiving of Fr. Gary Mayer, a new priest of the Archdiocese of Dubuque. The homily was preached if father's hometown of Stacyville, Iowa. it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, the Solemnity of the Ascension.
It is somewhat ironic that in this season of new life in the earth, this season of planting and preparation, we should also be confronted with so many farewells. High School students are graduating and leaving home, young couples are getting married, our seminarians, particular our deacon class are faced with the inevitable sadness of parting and Jesus to says farewell to his disciples.
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
What a foolish question. After all, it is not everyday that you see a grown 33 year old man fly up into the clouds.
It must have been quite the event, and yet, for the disciples, perhaps the ascension of the Lord was just the latest in a series of surprises accustomed to which they must have been becoming.
Because Jesus was not like any other man.
He was rather that man, of whom Saint Paul spoke, who, though he was in the form of God, did not grasp at equality with God, but taking the form of our human likeness, walked among us, was on of us, ministered to us.
And the disciples were witnesses of that.
They were with him as he trod the dirt roads and the back roads of Palestine announcing Good News to often deaf ears but filled with the power of conviction
They were with him as he wrought great miracles in the lives of simple people, miracles of presence, of hope of love
They were with him as he raised the lifeless to newness of spirit, as he herald the sick and comforted the neglected and the down trodden
They were with him as he changed the bread and wine, as he gave himself fully, this is my body, this is my blood.
They were with him as he laid down his life for world, his total sacrifice for the life of all
They were with him as he rose from the depths of the human experience of death and spoke his final words to them
Do not be afraid
Trust
Hope
Peace
Preach
Love
Care
Heal
Love
Love
They knew that with Jesus the unexpected is the norm, the extraordinary the ordinary
And this is Good News
Go to the whole world and tell the Good News
The Good news that we are to announce is that God is not the God of heaven alone.
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
He is not remote. He is not away. He is not there only but he is here
Jesus is here
Jesus is here and his Holy Spirit fills the halls of power and the beleaguered barrios of the human condition
Jesus is here and his compassion touches palpably the lives of those who mourn and weep, his laughter fills the lives of those who celebrate and rejoice.
Jesus is here in the thrilling first cry of the newborn infant has he screams his way into existence and in the tear filled eyes, the joyful eyes of his parents
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
Jesus is here in first loves and lost loves, in the awkwardness of adolescent and the confidence of maturity, in playground triumphs and tragedies
Jesus is here in the hope filled faces of husbands and wives, the indifferent faces of children, in the wisdom lined faces of the elderly
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
Jesus is here in scrapped knees and class rings, in moonlit nights and heat tempered days, in season and out of season, when we need him and when we need to need him
Jesus is here as we jolt our way through the mundane tasks of life, in dead end jobs and hopeless relationships, he fills our days with this presence, his silent presence, his love, his powerful love
Jesus is here in the power of his word, his mighty word that is thunder, a word that changes hearts, that opens the eyes of the needy and shuts the mouths of the arrogant, the word whose syllables are themselves the Lion of Judah
Jesus is here in his Word that meets the conceit of men on the battlefields of the world and announces boldly and without compromise a word, peace, reconciliation,
Jesus is hear for all who need him. The threatened, the unborn, the marginalized, the outcast, the despised
Jesus is here in these grace filled days of this community of faith, in Staceyville Iowa
Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the skies?
Jesus is here as we struggle with economic hardship, as we lay awake at night wondering how we will support our families, in despair and confusion, in lives tainted with cynicism
Jesus is here as we struggle and as we sin, he holds out his reconciling hand to our lack of courage and our fear
Jesus is here as we make our mistakes, make friends, cling to our sons and daughters, work and shop and live
Jesus is here in the power of this sacrament, he shows himself in the bread and wine, his presence is known to us in simple things, his majesty is cloaked in the disguise of compromise his greatness in the form of food which he offers to us, his body and blood offered for us. How more here can Jesus be than in our flesh, in our blood, in our bodies, in ours souls
Jesus is here in the Church, the apostles and preachers and evangelists the teachers, the listeners
Jesus is here in the life of this man, Fr. Gary Mayer, a man chosen and called from among you. A man who knows how to offer himself because in this community of faith, you taught him to be selfless, to be a man who can love, a man of character, a man of prayer, a man of Christ. Here in this town, you taught him to be compassion, to be a sign of hope, to be Christ and that is how he now returns to you, a witness. Fr. Gary Mayer is a man who can be a witness, because he cares. He cares about his family, he loves his friends, and he is loyal and faithful. He loves the Church, he loves the power of God witnessed daily in the small miracles he has learned to see and he has been given this mission, this message. He comes to you to announce Good News. Jesus is here
And now we have the privilege of being with him
as he treads the asphalt roads and the back roads of Iowa announcing Good News to often deaf ears but filled with the power of conviction
as he works great miracles in the lives of simple people, miracles of presence, of hope of love
as he raises the lifeless to newness of spirit, as he heralds the sick and comforts the neglected and the down trodden
as he changes the bread and wine, as he gives himself fully, this is my body, this is my blood.
as he lays down his life for world, his total sacrifice for the life of all
as he rises with us from the depths of the human experience of death and speaks words of comfort to us
Do not be afraid
Trust
Hope
Peace
Preach
Love
Care
Heal
Love
Love
In the life of Fr. Mayer and in this liturgy today we celebrate this simple message, so needed and so necessary. Jesus is here, Christ is alive. he is not in the skies, he is among us. He is here in your son, your grandson, brother, neighbor, friend. He is a priest forever and he brings us Good News. We celebrate here that message of love that we long to hear.
People of Staceyville, why do you stand here looking up into the skies? Jesus is here, even in a season of farewell.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Graduation Weekend
This weekend we have been blessed with many family members and friends of our graduates among us. Here is the homily for graduation weekend.
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
I seldom engage in much television watching, but when the opportunity arises, I have to say that I am fairly addicted to HGTV, the House and Garden television network. Although I love the shows, Design on a Dime, Color Splash, Curb Appeal, and all the others, it is really more the concept I am attracted to, the idea of transformation. Every thirty minutes on HGTV some old hovel, or ratty front yard, or living room is utterly transformed into something stylish, beautiful and livable. I am enthralled at the way in which the various designers and workmen tear away and build up, disassemble and put back together, paint and wall paper and plant and install until the perfect product emerges for the happy couple or needy, single mother, or awe struck tenant.
In these Easter days, the air is filled with stories of transformation.
The disciples of Jesus were transformed as they endured the agony of Christ’s passion and death and the rejuvenation of the resurrection. Those men whom Jesus had chosen from backwoods towns and fishing villages, from counting houses and fields, those men so fallible and foible prone, Jesus chose them to be his followers and in the brightness of the master, under his careful tutelage their darkness was transformed. They became fearless, bold preachers of the Word, men willing to travel to the ends of the earth and lay down their lives to witness to the transformative power of the Gospel.
The disciples were transformed and by them the early Christians were transformed. Men and women from every walk of life, fierce Pharisees, God fearers and casual observers of the Law. The preaching of the apostles and the witness of the power of Christ alive in them gave the Chosen People hope for a new life, a new world, and a new cosmos. The early Christians, those Jews who had so long hoped and dreamt and prayed for the coming of Chosen One, The Messiah, The Savior of Israel were transformed by his coming to be more than they ever could have imagined under the Old Law.
But that was not enough. The early Church, our Jewish Fathers and Mothers were transformed, but that was not all. In the midst of that kerygmatic preaching, those early evangelists, those apostles heard this word:
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
And so this powerful Word burst forth from its cultural and religious confines to dawn upon a world, desperate, starving to hear the Good News proclaimed in every tongue, in every culture, in every habitation. Now the ends of the earth have witnessed the saving power of God. The Word of God raced down the corridors of time and place and insinuated itself into every nook and cranny.
In the power of his command that prophetic preaching was heard in every place and its sacred syllables reverberated against the walls of human power, human prestige, human wealth and divinized the cultures of human kind offering them a new message, the message of the Kingdom.
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
The Word of God cultivated itself among the nations, and was uttered in the dim light of the domus ecclesia, the barren vaults of basilicas, the cavernous cathedrals of the Middle Ages.
That word resounded against the walls of prejudice and discord, against the ramparts and might fortresses of reformation and enlightenment. That word suffered the indignity of ridicule and reductionism and revisionism and redundancy but it was not quieted, never muted, neither was it destroyed but rather, that word is still heard today, it trumpets today, it is experienced profoundly today …
Running feverishly by rushing brooks in the plain mountain chapels of Appalachia
Pounding to the drum beats of Indian dancing and jubilation
Calling in tribal tones across the African veldt
Crying out, clamoring against the indifference of so-called developed worldviews and false understandings of tolerance
Yodeling across the valleys of Swiss mountain ranges
Whispering in the ears of the lonely, the desperate, the outcast, the sick, the dying
Drowning out the siren cries of a social order of false freedom, false ideologies
Lilting lullaby-like on tired ears that long to hear the dulcet tones of peace in a world in which the din of war and the pulse of poverty still resound.
The Word of God is heard today in Iowa and Indiana, in Illinois and India, In Africa and Louisiana, in Texas and in Arkansas, in Korea and in Tennessee, in Alabama and in Minnesota, in towns and villages across the globe because of men like our graduates today who will serve the Church as priests, because of men and women like our graduates today who will minister to the Church as laypeople.
And everywhere that mighty word is heard there is transformation. There is change and thus the recipients of that word, the Church and its institutions, parishes, monasteries, schools become powerhouses of conversion, of development, of discipleship, of evangelization.
Saint Meinrad is just such a place of transformation, of conversion, of evangelization.
All of us have experienced it in one way of another …
We came here intimidated and afraid and in the power of his transforming word we leave here with the boldness of Elijah and the fierceness of the Lion of Judah
We came here thinking we knew everything there was to know about the mystery of God and in the power of his transforming word we met the God of infinite horizons, the sun that never sets.
We came here full of self-doubt and in the power of his transforming word we have become men and women of the promise, proclaimers of the Word, doers of the Spirit’s bidding
We came here without purpose, wavering, wandering on the way and in the transforming power of his word we have found our way, in him who is the way, we have discovered the truth, in him who is the truth, we have been given new life by the source of life itself.
We came here without hope and have heard his voice singing in our ears, the voice of Jesus crying to us:
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
We came here lost, blind, without strength, and in his amazing grace, by the power of his transforming word, we have been found, we have seen, we have been strengthened. We have been raised up in Christ.
And how have we done it: In his power, by his authority, by his witness, in his boldness, by his grace. And we have prayed, and worked, and cried, and deliberated, and discerned and laughed and studied and thought and prayed, and prayed and we have seen it all happen.
Every year on this Hill some new seminarian, or lay student, or priest trudges up this little mountain. And in the course of time, they are transformed into something new and holy, beautiful and productive for God. I am enthralled at the way in which the various formators and faculty members tear away and build up, disassemble and put back together, plant and install until the a new creation emerges for the world as a priest, a lay minister, a permanent deacon.
Unlike HGTV, however, it doesn’t happened in thirty minutes
Transformation takes time
Transformation takes patience with ourselves and others
Transformation takes heartbreak
Transformation takes tears and laughter
Transformation takes the forging of new relationships
Transformation takes the whole community
Transformation takes faith, the faith to hear his promise in the middle of all of that tearing away and building up, in disassembly and putting back together, faith to hear these words:
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
The transformative power of this place is fueled by what we celebrate here, now.
Here we celebrate transformation not only of the bread and wine, but of ourselves. We witness here the daily miracle of God’s presence that gives us the courage, strength and will to rise up and see the Glory of the transforming power of God even as we step away, even as we move from this place upward and upward to his place in heaven and all the places in between – After all, has he not promised this Good News to us?
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
I seldom engage in much television watching, but when the opportunity arises, I have to say that I am fairly addicted to HGTV, the House and Garden television network. Although I love the shows, Design on a Dime, Color Splash, Curb Appeal, and all the others, it is really more the concept I am attracted to, the idea of transformation. Every thirty minutes on HGTV some old hovel, or ratty front yard, or living room is utterly transformed into something stylish, beautiful and livable. I am enthralled at the way in which the various designers and workmen tear away and build up, disassemble and put back together, paint and wall paper and plant and install until the perfect product emerges for the happy couple or needy, single mother, or awe struck tenant.
In these Easter days, the air is filled with stories of transformation.
The disciples of Jesus were transformed as they endured the agony of Christ’s passion and death and the rejuvenation of the resurrection. Those men whom Jesus had chosen from backwoods towns and fishing villages, from counting houses and fields, those men so fallible and foible prone, Jesus chose them to be his followers and in the brightness of the master, under his careful tutelage their darkness was transformed. They became fearless, bold preachers of the Word, men willing to travel to the ends of the earth and lay down their lives to witness to the transformative power of the Gospel.
The disciples were transformed and by them the early Christians were transformed. Men and women from every walk of life, fierce Pharisees, God fearers and casual observers of the Law. The preaching of the apostles and the witness of the power of Christ alive in them gave the Chosen People hope for a new life, a new world, and a new cosmos. The early Christians, those Jews who had so long hoped and dreamt and prayed for the coming of Chosen One, The Messiah, The Savior of Israel were transformed by his coming to be more than they ever could have imagined under the Old Law.
But that was not enough. The early Church, our Jewish Fathers and Mothers were transformed, but that was not all. In the midst of that kerygmatic preaching, those early evangelists, those apostles heard this word:
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
And so this powerful Word burst forth from its cultural and religious confines to dawn upon a world, desperate, starving to hear the Good News proclaimed in every tongue, in every culture, in every habitation. Now the ends of the earth have witnessed the saving power of God. The Word of God raced down the corridors of time and place and insinuated itself into every nook and cranny.
In the power of his command that prophetic preaching was heard in every place and its sacred syllables reverberated against the walls of human power, human prestige, human wealth and divinized the cultures of human kind offering them a new message, the message of the Kingdom.
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
The Word of God cultivated itself among the nations, and was uttered in the dim light of the domus ecclesia, the barren vaults of basilicas, the cavernous cathedrals of the Middle Ages.
That word resounded against the walls of prejudice and discord, against the ramparts and might fortresses of reformation and enlightenment. That word suffered the indignity of ridicule and reductionism and revisionism and redundancy but it was not quieted, never muted, neither was it destroyed but rather, that word is still heard today, it trumpets today, it is experienced profoundly today …
Running feverishly by rushing brooks in the plain mountain chapels of Appalachia
Pounding to the drum beats of Indian dancing and jubilation
Calling in tribal tones across the African veldt
Crying out, clamoring against the indifference of so-called developed worldviews and false understandings of tolerance
Yodeling across the valleys of Swiss mountain ranges
Whispering in the ears of the lonely, the desperate, the outcast, the sick, the dying
Drowning out the siren cries of a social order of false freedom, false ideologies
Lilting lullaby-like on tired ears that long to hear the dulcet tones of peace in a world in which the din of war and the pulse of poverty still resound.
The Word of God is heard today in Iowa and Indiana, in Illinois and India, In Africa and Louisiana, in Texas and in Arkansas, in Korea and in Tennessee, in Alabama and in Minnesota, in towns and villages across the globe because of men like our graduates today who will serve the Church as priests, because of men and women like our graduates today who will minister to the Church as laypeople.
And everywhere that mighty word is heard there is transformation. There is change and thus the recipients of that word, the Church and its institutions, parishes, monasteries, schools become powerhouses of conversion, of development, of discipleship, of evangelization.
Saint Meinrad is just such a place of transformation, of conversion, of evangelization.
All of us have experienced it in one way of another …
We came here intimidated and afraid and in the power of his transforming word we leave here with the boldness of Elijah and the fierceness of the Lion of Judah
We came here thinking we knew everything there was to know about the mystery of God and in the power of his transforming word we met the God of infinite horizons, the sun that never sets.
We came here full of self-doubt and in the power of his transforming word we have become men and women of the promise, proclaimers of the Word, doers of the Spirit’s bidding
We came here without purpose, wavering, wandering on the way and in the transforming power of his word we have found our way, in him who is the way, we have discovered the truth, in him who is the truth, we have been given new life by the source of life itself.
We came here without hope and have heard his voice singing in our ears, the voice of Jesus crying to us:
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
We came here lost, blind, without strength, and in his amazing grace, by the power of his transforming word, we have been found, we have seen, we have been strengthened. We have been raised up in Christ.
And how have we done it: In his power, by his authority, by his witness, in his boldness, by his grace. And we have prayed, and worked, and cried, and deliberated, and discerned and laughed and studied and thought and prayed, and prayed and we have seen it all happen.
Every year on this Hill some new seminarian, or lay student, or priest trudges up this little mountain. And in the course of time, they are transformed into something new and holy, beautiful and productive for God. I am enthralled at the way in which the various formators and faculty members tear away and build up, disassemble and put back together, plant and install until the a new creation emerges for the world as a priest, a lay minister, a permanent deacon.
Unlike HGTV, however, it doesn’t happened in thirty minutes
Transformation takes time
Transformation takes patience with ourselves and others
Transformation takes heartbreak
Transformation takes tears and laughter
Transformation takes the forging of new relationships
Transformation takes the whole community
Transformation takes faith, the faith to hear his promise in the middle of all of that tearing away and building up, in disassembly and putting back together, faith to hear these words:
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
The transformative power of this place is fueled by what we celebrate here, now.
Here we celebrate transformation not only of the bread and wine, but of ourselves. We witness here the daily miracle of God’s presence that gives us the courage, strength and will to rise up and see the Glory of the transforming power of God even as we step away, even as we move from this place upward and upward to his place in heaven and all the places in between – After all, has he not promised this Good News to us?
If you remain in me and my words remain in you,ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Fr. Theodore - a remembrance
Our Fr. Theodore passed away this week, aged 108 years. As rector I was asked to offer a remembrance.
When I was young and innocent, I sought wisdom.
She came to me in her beauty, and until the end I will cultivate her.
As the blossoms yielded to ripening grapes, the heart's joy, My feet kept to the level path because from earliest youth I was familiar with her.
In the short time I paid heed, I met with great instruction.
Since in this way I have profited, I will give my teacher grateful praise.
I became resolutely devoted to her-- the good I persistently strove for.
I burned with desire for her, never turning back. I became preoccupied with her, never weary of extolling her. My hand opened her gate and I came to know her secrets.
For her I purified my hands; in cleanness I attained to her. At first acquaintance with her, I gained understanding such that I will never forsake her.
When I became President-Rector last year, Br. Thomas gave me a gift. It was a little prayer book, used by Saint Meinrad seminarians in the minor seminary in the early decades of the Twentieth Century. It contained prayers and devotions in Latin and English. It was well-worn, obviously thumbed through thousands of times by its owner, a young man who wrote his name in pencil on the flyleaf, Henry Heck.
When I was young and innocent, I sought wisdom.
The earliest lessons are the most profoundly learned and young Henry Heck learned his lessons well. Woodrow Wilson was the president of the United States and the country had recently joined the war in Europe when young Henry, full of expectations and dreams like so many before and after him, made his circuitous route to Saint Meinrad from the big city of Terre Haute. He came and he became one of the hordes of young men testing their vocations in this little corner of the world. He prayed, he worked, he studied and he became a man and a Benedictine. When he was young and innocent, he sought wisdom and he found it
She came to me in her beauty, and until the end I will cultivate her.
And cultivate wisdom, he did. As a frater and as a young priest, as a teacher and formator in the seminary programs, as a graduate student at Catholic University of America and then as rector for 10 years, and lest no one think there is life after being rector, as pastor of St. John Chrysostom parish for 17 years, he cultivated wisdom in his quiet, polite way.
He cultivated Wisdom with few words spoken
He cultivated wisdom with gentlemanly manners. It is said that you could have run over Fr. Theodore’s foot and his only response would be: “thank you”
He cultivated wisdom by a firm but unforced manner. He could say the most radical things with his finger on the side of his face and his effortless delivery.
He cultivated wisdom through a love of learning and a desire for God, through what appeared to us an almost effortless, practically flawless observation of monastic discipline. But he was not proud, not haughty, not self-righteous, quite the opposite.
In his last years, he cultivated wisdom as he witnessed to us patiently and without fuss, his connection with the world beginning to fade. His mobility, his hearing and it was then impossible for us to gauge the inner dialogue as he mulled over the joys and triumphs, the prayers and pains of 39,500 days. What did he remember in these later, more silent years as he sat so still, alone in his chair?
A big dignified looking family seated formally in the front yard of their home, ancient women in long Edwardian dresses, two Sisters of Providence, the stiff young men in their starched collars, looking out on a nation standing at the brink of world war and revolution?
His mother and father? Those Victorian people from yet another century?
His first sight of the sandstone towers of the Church, then only a few years old, rising above the trees and hills?
The ringing of the Church bells announcing the end of that war to end all wars?
Lines and lines of pimply young men clamoring for morning sinks, hair standing on end, presentable in 15 minutes for long prayers and masses?
Conjugations and declensions endlessly rehearsed. Amo, Amas, Amat
Study halls of row upon row of stinky boys in black wool cassocks longing for freedom but only getting Amo, Amas, Amat, verbs they would never know in the usual sense.
Tonsured young monks, burned from the razor with wide eyes and croaking voices speaking vows that would be kept for a lifetime, or shamelessly broken, or something in between? How many novices? How many solemn professions did he witness?
A young priest trussed into vestments staring at the tabernacle, the only thing he can see in front of him, his only friend, as he takes up the round host for the first time and tremblingly confects the cosmos in carefully pronounced syllables?
The shocked faces of his confreres as they huddled about a radio listening to the measured tones of FDR recounting the details of a day that lived in infamy?
The ringing of the Church bells announcing the end of that second war and the cynicism in their tone of the knowledge that there was more to come?
The rows upon rows of cassocked and surpliced boys winding their way down the highway and up that hill to the Monte Casino shrine?
The rows upon rows of men walking in procession with chasubles draped over their arms, awaiting the great dignity with the rector’s solemn benediction?
All the parents in changing costumes visiting and fretting and threatening?
The young instructor trying to keep some discipline with such a quiet manner and voice?
Seminarians standing around the master teacher, listening carefully to carefully rehearsed lessons?
Did he remember all of the little compromises he made over the years in order to be a true Christian gentleman?
The rector sitting at his desk, able to refuse any request as long as the petitioner didn’t step behind the desk?
Sharp young men with Eddie Haskell haircuts looking perky and perhaps a bit cheeky in horned rimmed glasses?
More young men with pony tails and beards and fringed clothing inundated with some unusual variety of incense? Yes.
All of those New Boston parishioners, their jobs, their marriages, the baptisms, the funerals, the weddings celebrated over 17 years?
Brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, family overflowing over visits, and card games and pictures taken and taken?
Interviews with the press? News stories? One hundred is interesting, 103 fascinating, 108, getting a bit weird.
Birthday cakes and congratulations?
Young monks with increasingly loud mouths and ungentle ways?
The talk of 1000 chapter meetings?
The opening and closing of the Second Vatican Council?
Ten popes
Nineteen presidents
Seven Abbots - The abbots seemed to have more staying power
Recording every day in the rector’s journal the particulars of the weather and little else.
The subprior and the prior, listening to young brothers or old fathers rehearse their permissions, their culpas, their complaints?
Thousands upon thousands of books on every subject carefully recorded in the card box?
Spanish verbs
Shakespeare plays
Computer commands
Vulgate psalters
Roman Rituals
Liber Usualis
Botany textbooks
Economic treatises
Educational handbooks
Atlases
Encyclopedias
Manuals of Theology
Motorcycle repair manuals
Driving manuals
The instructions on a can of soup
Did he remember all of that reading? Or did he remember faces?
Faces of priests and seminarians and monks, thousands of priests and seminarians and monks whose particular lives he cared about so much, that he kept up with so diligently.
This one died in World War Two
This one was pastor at Tell City
This one became a lawyer and a judge
This one became a husband .. 8 times
This one went to Hawaii
This one went to Canada
This one went to prison
This one is married with fourteen grandchildren
This one is next door to me in the infirmary
This one killed himself
This one is the bishop of
This one is dead
This one is dead
This one is dead
And one by one did the faces, the lives, the stories fade from his mind, that firm, quiet, polite and encyclopedic mind that remained strong nearly to the end?
Did the faces fade, the books disintegrate into dust, the presidents, the popes vanish, even the abbots evaporate, until there was nothing else?
Or was all of that trivia, the mulling over of 39, 500 days replaced by another vision, the vision of Wisdom herself?
In the end did Henry Heck, that careful, polite man burn with desire? Did he become preoccupied with Wisdom?
Did she come for him in those last hours as he reached out from his bed toward an invisible guest? In the early hours of Wednesday morning, did he embrace her? No doubt. No doubt.
I became resolutely devoted to her-- the good I persistently strove for.
I burned with desire for her, never turning back. I became preoccupied with her, never weary of extolling her.
It is almost impossible to feel sad at the passing of a 108 year old man whose life was so rich and so immensely productive. If there is poignancy in these days, perhaps it is rather in the passing of a great link, a man whose life connected us to our heritage, to the world of yesterday, to the faces, the personalities, now gone but whose remnants survive in the tapestry of community life that our fathers in this monastery have woven for us. The passing of Fr. Theodore severs our connection with all of those brothers who came before us, men that we never knew. Indeed something is gone tonight that we can never recapture. But something of Fr. Theodore is still here.
At first acquaintance with her, I gained understanding such that I will never forsake her.
The lasting perfume of his last memory, his last embrace. Wisdom. We are a better community for having this wise man among us. We are all better monks in that we profited by his example of 86 years of even temperament, good manners, learning, vision and graciousness. He never forsook wisdom and all of us are better for it. He persevered in the monastic way of life until death and left us a deathless legacy. In the end, his wheelchair became the seat of wisdom, his still warm smile that of the lover he had always been. No doubt, after such a life lived, tonight the oldest Benedictine monk in the world has settled himself, cradled himself like a new born into the arms of his maker, the gentle Jesus.
When I made my first profession in 1997, I was already old and a priest and all the bad things that a junior monks should never be. I was also Fr. Theodore’s valet, one in a long line. Of course there was very little to do. Dust the file box, unmake the bed so I could make it, rub a wet cloth over the already clean surfaces of the bathroom. Nevertheless, every week I would clean his room and after every visit, he would leave me a little note in my mailbox. In his later shaky hand, the note always said the same thing:
Thank you brother. I will pray for you.
Thank you Fr. Theodore, please never cease.
When I was young and innocent, I sought wisdom.
She came to me in her beauty, and until the end I will cultivate her.
As the blossoms yielded to ripening grapes, the heart's joy, My feet kept to the level path because from earliest youth I was familiar with her.
In the short time I paid heed, I met with great instruction.
Since in this way I have profited, I will give my teacher grateful praise.
I became resolutely devoted to her-- the good I persistently strove for.
I burned with desire for her, never turning back. I became preoccupied with her, never weary of extolling her. My hand opened her gate and I came to know her secrets.
For her I purified my hands; in cleanness I attained to her. At first acquaintance with her, I gained understanding such that I will never forsake her.
When I became President-Rector last year, Br. Thomas gave me a gift. It was a little prayer book, used by Saint Meinrad seminarians in the minor seminary in the early decades of the Twentieth Century. It contained prayers and devotions in Latin and English. It was well-worn, obviously thumbed through thousands of times by its owner, a young man who wrote his name in pencil on the flyleaf, Henry Heck.
When I was young and innocent, I sought wisdom.
The earliest lessons are the most profoundly learned and young Henry Heck learned his lessons well. Woodrow Wilson was the president of the United States and the country had recently joined the war in Europe when young Henry, full of expectations and dreams like so many before and after him, made his circuitous route to Saint Meinrad from the big city of Terre Haute. He came and he became one of the hordes of young men testing their vocations in this little corner of the world. He prayed, he worked, he studied and he became a man and a Benedictine. When he was young and innocent, he sought wisdom and he found it
She came to me in her beauty, and until the end I will cultivate her.
And cultivate wisdom, he did. As a frater and as a young priest, as a teacher and formator in the seminary programs, as a graduate student at Catholic University of America and then as rector for 10 years, and lest no one think there is life after being rector, as pastor of St. John Chrysostom parish for 17 years, he cultivated wisdom in his quiet, polite way.
He cultivated Wisdom with few words spoken
He cultivated wisdom with gentlemanly manners. It is said that you could have run over Fr. Theodore’s foot and his only response would be: “thank you”
He cultivated wisdom by a firm but unforced manner. He could say the most radical things with his finger on the side of his face and his effortless delivery.
He cultivated wisdom through a love of learning and a desire for God, through what appeared to us an almost effortless, practically flawless observation of monastic discipline. But he was not proud, not haughty, not self-righteous, quite the opposite.
In his last years, he cultivated wisdom as he witnessed to us patiently and without fuss, his connection with the world beginning to fade. His mobility, his hearing and it was then impossible for us to gauge the inner dialogue as he mulled over the joys and triumphs, the prayers and pains of 39,500 days. What did he remember in these later, more silent years as he sat so still, alone in his chair?
A big dignified looking family seated formally in the front yard of their home, ancient women in long Edwardian dresses, two Sisters of Providence, the stiff young men in their starched collars, looking out on a nation standing at the brink of world war and revolution?
His mother and father? Those Victorian people from yet another century?
His first sight of the sandstone towers of the Church, then only a few years old, rising above the trees and hills?
The ringing of the Church bells announcing the end of that war to end all wars?
Lines and lines of pimply young men clamoring for morning sinks, hair standing on end, presentable in 15 minutes for long prayers and masses?
Conjugations and declensions endlessly rehearsed. Amo, Amas, Amat
Study halls of row upon row of stinky boys in black wool cassocks longing for freedom but only getting Amo, Amas, Amat, verbs they would never know in the usual sense.
Tonsured young monks, burned from the razor with wide eyes and croaking voices speaking vows that would be kept for a lifetime, or shamelessly broken, or something in between? How many novices? How many solemn professions did he witness?
A young priest trussed into vestments staring at the tabernacle, the only thing he can see in front of him, his only friend, as he takes up the round host for the first time and tremblingly confects the cosmos in carefully pronounced syllables?
The shocked faces of his confreres as they huddled about a radio listening to the measured tones of FDR recounting the details of a day that lived in infamy?
The ringing of the Church bells announcing the end of that second war and the cynicism in their tone of the knowledge that there was more to come?
The rows upon rows of cassocked and surpliced boys winding their way down the highway and up that hill to the Monte Casino shrine?
The rows upon rows of men walking in procession with chasubles draped over their arms, awaiting the great dignity with the rector’s solemn benediction?
All the parents in changing costumes visiting and fretting and threatening?
The young instructor trying to keep some discipline with such a quiet manner and voice?
Seminarians standing around the master teacher, listening carefully to carefully rehearsed lessons?
Did he remember all of the little compromises he made over the years in order to be a true Christian gentleman?
The rector sitting at his desk, able to refuse any request as long as the petitioner didn’t step behind the desk?
Sharp young men with Eddie Haskell haircuts looking perky and perhaps a bit cheeky in horned rimmed glasses?
More young men with pony tails and beards and fringed clothing inundated with some unusual variety of incense? Yes.
All of those New Boston parishioners, their jobs, their marriages, the baptisms, the funerals, the weddings celebrated over 17 years?
Brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, family overflowing over visits, and card games and pictures taken and taken?
Interviews with the press? News stories? One hundred is interesting, 103 fascinating, 108, getting a bit weird.
Birthday cakes and congratulations?
Young monks with increasingly loud mouths and ungentle ways?
The talk of 1000 chapter meetings?
The opening and closing of the Second Vatican Council?
Ten popes
Nineteen presidents
Seven Abbots - The abbots seemed to have more staying power
Recording every day in the rector’s journal the particulars of the weather and little else.
The subprior and the prior, listening to young brothers or old fathers rehearse their permissions, their culpas, their complaints?
Thousands upon thousands of books on every subject carefully recorded in the card box?
Spanish verbs
Shakespeare plays
Computer commands
Vulgate psalters
Roman Rituals
Liber Usualis
Botany textbooks
Economic treatises
Educational handbooks
Atlases
Encyclopedias
Manuals of Theology
Motorcycle repair manuals
Driving manuals
The instructions on a can of soup
Did he remember all of that reading? Or did he remember faces?
Faces of priests and seminarians and monks, thousands of priests and seminarians and monks whose particular lives he cared about so much, that he kept up with so diligently.
This one died in World War Two
This one was pastor at Tell City
This one became a lawyer and a judge
This one became a husband .. 8 times
This one went to Hawaii
This one went to Canada
This one went to prison
This one is married with fourteen grandchildren
This one is next door to me in the infirmary
This one killed himself
This one is the bishop of
This one is dead
This one is dead
This one is dead
And one by one did the faces, the lives, the stories fade from his mind, that firm, quiet, polite and encyclopedic mind that remained strong nearly to the end?
Did the faces fade, the books disintegrate into dust, the presidents, the popes vanish, even the abbots evaporate, until there was nothing else?
Or was all of that trivia, the mulling over of 39, 500 days replaced by another vision, the vision of Wisdom herself?
In the end did Henry Heck, that careful, polite man burn with desire? Did he become preoccupied with Wisdom?
Did she come for him in those last hours as he reached out from his bed toward an invisible guest? In the early hours of Wednesday morning, did he embrace her? No doubt. No doubt.
I became resolutely devoted to her-- the good I persistently strove for.
I burned with desire for her, never turning back. I became preoccupied with her, never weary of extolling her.
It is almost impossible to feel sad at the passing of a 108 year old man whose life was so rich and so immensely productive. If there is poignancy in these days, perhaps it is rather in the passing of a great link, a man whose life connected us to our heritage, to the world of yesterday, to the faces, the personalities, now gone but whose remnants survive in the tapestry of community life that our fathers in this monastery have woven for us. The passing of Fr. Theodore severs our connection with all of those brothers who came before us, men that we never knew. Indeed something is gone tonight that we can never recapture. But something of Fr. Theodore is still here.
At first acquaintance with her, I gained understanding such that I will never forsake her.
The lasting perfume of his last memory, his last embrace. Wisdom. We are a better community for having this wise man among us. We are all better monks in that we profited by his example of 86 years of even temperament, good manners, learning, vision and graciousness. He never forsook wisdom and all of us are better for it. He persevered in the monastic way of life until death and left us a deathless legacy. In the end, his wheelchair became the seat of wisdom, his still warm smile that of the lover he had always been. No doubt, after such a life lived, tonight the oldest Benedictine monk in the world has settled himself, cradled himself like a new born into the arms of his maker, the gentle Jesus.
When I made my first profession in 1997, I was already old and a priest and all the bad things that a junior monks should never be. I was also Fr. Theodore’s valet, one in a long line. Of course there was very little to do. Dust the file box, unmake the bed so I could make it, rub a wet cloth over the already clean surfaces of the bathroom. Nevertheless, every week I would clean his room and after every visit, he would leave me a little note in my mailbox. In his later shaky hand, the note always said the same thing:
Thank you brother. I will pray for you.
Thank you Fr. Theodore, please never cease.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Priesthood Promises
Sixteen of our deacons made priesthood promises tonight.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
It is said that the rector has only two commands. The first you have all already heard. It is the invitation to be here. From the very first day of your arrival the rector said: “Be here”. It was a command, but also an invitation.
Be here and witness the power of the love of God in the ordinary workings and inner workings of this community, in the laughter and tears of your brothers, in the wonder of new discovery, in the satisfaction of hard work.
Be here and know the miracle that Christ can wrought in lives full of doubt and despair, the hope that Christ can give in men who seem to have no hope.
Be here and see the daily foibles of men slouching toward Jerusalem in fits and starts until they are finally able to run the race with grace and dignity.
Be here and witness the annual joy of work completed, prayers answered, lives fulfilled in ordination, insights gained, spiritual realties revealed in the horizons of faith that are ever expanding, ever broadening, ever deepening.
The first command of the rector is to be here. Obey him. Or rather obey God.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
The second command you have also heard and tonight I repeat it to our brothers who are publically proclaiming their priesthood promises. Now at the end of your sojourn on this Hill the rector says: “Get out”. It is a command, but also an invitation.
Get out and confront the Body of Christ in all of its personal grandeur and depravity. See in the eyes of your brothers and sisters, men and women and children who long for the human dignity so often denied them in the quotidian commerce of the world.
Get out and observe in your trembling hand the host, the chalice, the contents of a universe, the Lord and Master of All, in what appears to be bread and wine. See in those simple things the miracle that nothing is what it seems to be, not bread and wine, not the world, not the parish, not brothers and sisters, even the nasty ones.
Get out so you can realize that you are called to another place and when you have arrived at the other place, be there. Give your lives there; pour out your blood there. Give that place where you will be for three weeks, three months, or three years, everything you have. Hold nothing back because the Body of Christ deserves good priests, they deserve the best priests.
Get out and be aware perhaps for the first time of the skills and knowledge you have gained here. And be aware perhaps for the first time of what you do not know, cannot know without the living witness of the Body to inform you.
Get out and realize that you hold in your hand, in the promises you make tonight your passport. These promises are food for a hungry world. They are hope. They are the promise that men and women are still free, that it is still possible to make a commitment for life, that it is still possible to sacrifice and love in the sacrifice, that it is still possible to profess faith in something greater than the ephemeral, passing interests of popular culture, that it is still possible to give your life to something greater than your tastes, your opinions, your momentary whims.
For the one whom God sent speaks the words of God.He does not ration his gift of the Spirit.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
You will make these promises tonight in the presence of this community, but you make them in light of those other communities, in towns and pit stops from here to Iowa, to Louisiana, to Minnesota, to Kentucky, to Ohio, to Switzerland, to Alabama, to Indiana, to India, to the farthest corners of the world. You make them for men and women, for people you have never met, for the thousands upon thousands of people whose lives you will touch in your decades of priesthood, you make these promises for them and for us.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
Now, I also want you to make some additional promises tonight. I want you to make some promises to us as you prepare to leave us, leave this Hill, and leave Saint Meinrad.
Promise us that in the twilight of some evening wherever you may be, when you are downcast and distressed you will see in some glimmer, in some golden glow off a surface, the golden sandstone of these walls in the spring evening and be comforted.
Promise us that when you are crying, when you are feeling sorry for yourself, when you are sad, you will remember some stupid joke, some turn of phrase that made you laugh in these echoing halls so long ago and be consoled.
Promise us that in all of the difficult places that life will take you in the coming years, you will occasionally remember the Unstable, and cheap beer and the best pizza in Southern Indiana, and the prosthetic nose of an elk.
Promise us that as you traverse the classrooms of your future ministries, the numerous schools, you will remember B106 (which will somehow remain forever B106) and those tables lined up and the order in which everyone sat.
Promise us that when you think of your alma mater you will think of the laughter not the tears.
Promise us that when you can no longer kneel because of your knee replacement you will remember days of prayer in this chapel, and on this Hill.
Promise us that you will remember all the characters that were here and stayed or were here and left in vivid detail.
Promise us that you will remember the old monks who have devoted their lives, every ounce of their lives to the formation of men like you.
Promise us that your will remember the bells, those irritating bells when you need to be called back to sanity and reality.
Promise us that your will remember those sandstone crosses and their vigil candles on a blustery November night, every time you bury the dead.
Promise us that every time you pass a Wendy’s on the streets of towns in Iowa or Louisiana you will feel the exhilaration of escape and remember moaning and complaining in the drive through of the most inefficient fast food joint in the Americas.
Promise us that you will remember the Holly Tree, and chant, and roadtrips and unread books and indifferent food and black napkins and caramel macchiatos and the scholar shop and the Celtic cross and the stained glass glow of these windows at 8:00 in the morning and Esther’s voice and eggs and Easter and the Angelus.
Promise us that whenever you are awake at 2:30 in the morning worrying about the finances of the parish, or drafting a difficult letter for the third time you will remember the old rector of your seminary who may be sitting at that very hour in his room, head in hands, praying for his lost sheep.
Promise us that every year in the early autumn you will take a moment to remember the now faceless, nameless men who will climb this hill with their hearts full of fear and hope and joy and expectation and will hear some future rector say to them: “Be here” and promise us that you will pray for them as so many faceless, nameless alumni of this sacred place have remembered each of your journeys and feared and hoped and rejoiced and expected again to be revived in an invitation to promise their lives for the good of the Church and the world.
Now for the last time: Obey the rector. Or rather, obey God.
Because we are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
It is said that the rector has only two commands. The first you have all already heard. It is the invitation to be here. From the very first day of your arrival the rector said: “Be here”. It was a command, but also an invitation.
Be here and witness the power of the love of God in the ordinary workings and inner workings of this community, in the laughter and tears of your brothers, in the wonder of new discovery, in the satisfaction of hard work.
Be here and know the miracle that Christ can wrought in lives full of doubt and despair, the hope that Christ can give in men who seem to have no hope.
Be here and see the daily foibles of men slouching toward Jerusalem in fits and starts until they are finally able to run the race with grace and dignity.
Be here and witness the annual joy of work completed, prayers answered, lives fulfilled in ordination, insights gained, spiritual realties revealed in the horizons of faith that are ever expanding, ever broadening, ever deepening.
The first command of the rector is to be here. Obey him. Or rather obey God.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
The second command you have also heard and tonight I repeat it to our brothers who are publically proclaiming their priesthood promises. Now at the end of your sojourn on this Hill the rector says: “Get out”. It is a command, but also an invitation.
Get out and confront the Body of Christ in all of its personal grandeur and depravity. See in the eyes of your brothers and sisters, men and women and children who long for the human dignity so often denied them in the quotidian commerce of the world.
Get out and observe in your trembling hand the host, the chalice, the contents of a universe, the Lord and Master of All, in what appears to be bread and wine. See in those simple things the miracle that nothing is what it seems to be, not bread and wine, not the world, not the parish, not brothers and sisters, even the nasty ones.
Get out so you can realize that you are called to another place and when you have arrived at the other place, be there. Give your lives there; pour out your blood there. Give that place where you will be for three weeks, three months, or three years, everything you have. Hold nothing back because the Body of Christ deserves good priests, they deserve the best priests.
Get out and be aware perhaps for the first time of the skills and knowledge you have gained here. And be aware perhaps for the first time of what you do not know, cannot know without the living witness of the Body to inform you.
Get out and realize that you hold in your hand, in the promises you make tonight your passport. These promises are food for a hungry world. They are hope. They are the promise that men and women are still free, that it is still possible to make a commitment for life, that it is still possible to sacrifice and love in the sacrifice, that it is still possible to profess faith in something greater than the ephemeral, passing interests of popular culture, that it is still possible to give your life to something greater than your tastes, your opinions, your momentary whims.
For the one whom God sent speaks the words of God.He does not ration his gift of the Spirit.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
You will make these promises tonight in the presence of this community, but you make them in light of those other communities, in towns and pit stops from here to Iowa, to Louisiana, to Minnesota, to Kentucky, to Ohio, to Switzerland, to Alabama, to Indiana, to India, to the farthest corners of the world. You make them for men and women, for people you have never met, for the thousands upon thousands of people whose lives you will touch in your decades of priesthood, you make these promises for them and for us.
We are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
Now, I also want you to make some additional promises tonight. I want you to make some promises to us as you prepare to leave us, leave this Hill, and leave Saint Meinrad.
Promise us that in the twilight of some evening wherever you may be, when you are downcast and distressed you will see in some glimmer, in some golden glow off a surface, the golden sandstone of these walls in the spring evening and be comforted.
Promise us that when you are crying, when you are feeling sorry for yourself, when you are sad, you will remember some stupid joke, some turn of phrase that made you laugh in these echoing halls so long ago and be consoled.
Promise us that in all of the difficult places that life will take you in the coming years, you will occasionally remember the Unstable, and cheap beer and the best pizza in Southern Indiana, and the prosthetic nose of an elk.
Promise us that as you traverse the classrooms of your future ministries, the numerous schools, you will remember B106 (which will somehow remain forever B106) and those tables lined up and the order in which everyone sat.
Promise us that when you think of your alma mater you will think of the laughter not the tears.
Promise us that when you can no longer kneel because of your knee replacement you will remember days of prayer in this chapel, and on this Hill.
Promise us that you will remember all the characters that were here and stayed or were here and left in vivid detail.
Promise us that you will remember the old monks who have devoted their lives, every ounce of their lives to the formation of men like you.
Promise us that your will remember the bells, those irritating bells when you need to be called back to sanity and reality.
Promise us that your will remember those sandstone crosses and their vigil candles on a blustery November night, every time you bury the dead.
Promise us that every time you pass a Wendy’s on the streets of towns in Iowa or Louisiana you will feel the exhilaration of escape and remember moaning and complaining in the drive through of the most inefficient fast food joint in the Americas.
Promise us that you will remember the Holly Tree, and chant, and roadtrips and unread books and indifferent food and black napkins and caramel macchiatos and the scholar shop and the Celtic cross and the stained glass glow of these windows at 8:00 in the morning and Esther’s voice and eggs and Easter and the Angelus.
Promise us that whenever you are awake at 2:30 in the morning worrying about the finances of the parish, or drafting a difficult letter for the third time you will remember the old rector of your seminary who may be sitting at that very hour in his room, head in hands, praying for his lost sheep.
Promise us that every year in the early autumn you will take a moment to remember the now faceless, nameless men who will climb this hill with their hearts full of fear and hope and joy and expectation and will hear some future rector say to them: “Be here” and promise us that you will pray for them as so many faceless, nameless alumni of this sacred place have remembered each of your journeys and feared and hoped and rejoiced and expected again to be revived in an invitation to promise their lives for the good of the Church and the world.
Now for the last time: Obey the rector. Or rather, obey God.
Because we are witnesses of these things,as is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.
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