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.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
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.
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.
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