Emmaus Revisited - The Journey Home

Easter Wednesday

Today's Word:
Acts 3:1-10 (Peter: "I have neither silver nor gold, but what I do have I give you: in the name of Jesus, rise and walk")
Psalm 105:1-9 (Rejoice, O hearts that seek the Lord)
Luke 24:13-35 (Emmaus Revisited: "Were not our hearts burning within us as he spoke to us on the way?")

Is it possible that it took being brought to the lowest point in my life to truly witness the presence of the unseen God?

I had lost nearly everything. I was out of work for nearly seven months; I felt too disgraced to set foot in the parish where I had served. I was contacted about a potential job opportunity 120 miles from anybody I knew; I went to be interviewed but it never panned out. (Well, not until two weeks after I accepted the position I currently hold.) Many people honestly thought I had indeed moved away. Eventually that also happened, and it had to happen quickly. Not because of anything my wife or I had done or failed to do; my original landlords had passed away and their son could not afford to keep and maintain the place, so he ultimately sold it. Sandwiched in all of this was the ultimate in personal financial disaster.

When you feel sad
Or under a curse
Your life is bad
Your prospects are worse
Your wife is crying, sighing
And your olive tree is dying
Temples are graying
Teeth are decaying
And creditors weighing your purse... (how did he know?)

Your mood and your robe
Are both a deep blue
You'd bet that Job
Had nothing on you
Don't forget that when you get to Heaven
You'll be blessed
Yes, it's all for the best

--All For The Best (excerpt) from Godspell (1970)
Stephen Schwartz

I tried getting reestablished in the parish in my neighborhood, the one I attended as a child; the one where I met Charles; the one where it all began. That wasn't working, either. What seemed to be working was Cornerstone.

Cornerstone was birthed in 1999, as two other established communities merged. For the first five years their services were held in a school gymnasium. I would take my son there, as I had no reason not to. The atmosphere was less formal, and the music was more contemporary. (Unless you're watching a hockey or baseball game, an organ seems out of place in a school gymnasium.) My son liked the upbeat music, and liked having me at his side, something I had been unable to do. Even on the occasions when I would sing (at my friend Mike's request), my son came with me and I was able to sit with him most of the time - and had him in eyesight when I was busy.

When the new building at Cornerstone was ready, a new innovation was added - multimedia. This did away with program sheets and hymnals; everything was projected on screens. This also gave Pastor Paul the ability to throw in video clips that assisted in whatever the week's theme was. I explained to my son that this was all done with computers. He had become quite familiar with what technology could do. I'm guessing that this really appealed to him; in any case he would look forward to each trip.

Meanwhile, the director at Ascension (the Catholic parish at which I now serve) contacted me early in 2001. I am surprised she found me. (In retrospect, we hadn't moved yet and our phone number hadn't changed, so I shouldn't have been so shocked.) She was looking for male singers for the choir there - and there was a stipend involved, more than I'd ever known about.Advantage:  I would be compensated. Disadvantage: church was 25 miles away, and I wasn't sure I was ready to go through all this again.

I had to think about this. I had to pray over it. And I wanted to consult with the two people that knew me best.

First, I ran this by my wife. She had never wanted me to quit everything, but to understand what was most important. She told me that I had been completely miserable over the nearly two years that I was not active. Now that my employment was stable, she said that I should go back. A part of me was always going to be attached to God through the Church and she did not want to hold that back. The compensation more than covered the expense of driving there and back. I told her the minute it should get out of hand I would quit.

Next, I talked to my friend Mike. As a paid musician himself, he didn't give it a second thought. Take it, he said. I realize now that he lived by those words.

With that, I accepted the offer. It wasn't all that simple, though. There was my son's interest at Cornerstone. It was the best chance he had at learning about community. It was also a place where people talked to him. And I was interested as well. Between Mike and Pastor Paul, I realized that here was something I didn't want to set aside thoughtlessly. So whenever my schedule allowed it, I'd take my son and head out to Cornerstone. People there were always happy to see us. They still are.

I have become a modern day "wandering minstrel."

At the present time, though, I can't think of a better place to be. I have one foot resting in the roots of holy tradition. In order to know where you are, you need to know where you've been. The other foot is resting in fresh, new ground; and the freshness of that message speaks to me as loudly as does tradition. There are some who think that could be wrong, especially among those clinging more to tradition. I politely disagree. To me, one complements the other. Our theological differences (more a stumbling block politically at the point they were made nearly 500 years ago) should not keep us apart.

I owe it to my son to give him the backdrop, the spiritual safety net he needs. In my mind, there is nothing wrong with being part of two places. If one is sincerely following God, he or she will go wherever God leads - even if it runs against the current. After all, God worked through Moses to part the Red Sea!

There will always be those who disagree. They don't know me well enough to understand that this way works; they only shake their heads and through body language state that this is something they're just not interested in doing, even once.

I've had a few lengthier conversations with Pastor Paul when opportunities arose. In one of his conversations I remember him telling me that I "got it." I make no such claim; we only get it fully when we reach the journey's end. I am not there yet; and I am not foolish enough to think that I'm even close. What I claim is that every good thing comes from God. We shouldn't balk at taking chances based on human interpretation of God's presence and/or Jesus' teaching in our lives. We must always strive to look past the naysayers and the purveyors of doom and gloom. We must take life seriously, one day at a time.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life, make the best of it. Hope is ours! We will make it to the Promised Land, to the place we're supposed to be!

Can you hear, there's a new song
Breaking out from the children of freedom
Every race and every nation
Sing it out sing a new Hallelujah

Let us sing love to the nations
Bringing hope of the grace that has freed us
Make Him known and make Him famous
Sing it out sing a new Hallelujah

Arise!
Let the church arise!
Let love reach to the other side
Alive come alive
Let the song arise

Oh yes I sing a new song
Reaching out with a new Hallelujah
Every son and every daughter
Everyone sing a new Hallelujah

Arise!
Let the song arise
Let love reach to the other side
Alive come alive
Let the song arise

Whoa whoa yeah
Let the song arise
Let the song arise yeah (2x)

(Spoken)
Let the world sing a new Hallelujah
From Africa to Australia
From Brazil to China
From New York to Chicago!

Arise!
Let the Church arise!
Let love reach to the other side!
Alive - Come alive -
Let the song arise!!

Everyone sing a new Hallelujah!! (2x)

--A New Hallelujah (2008)
Michael W. Smith

The Path to Nowhere

Ho-Ho Sanna Hey Sanna
Sanna Sanna Hosanna
Hey Sanna Ho and how
Hey JC, JC please explain to me
You had everything - where is it now?
--Andrew Lloyd Webber & Tim Rice

He's a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Doesn't have a point of view
Knows not where he's going to
Isn't he a bit like you and me?

Nowhere man, please listen
You don't know what you're missing
Nowhere man, The world is at your command

He's as blind as he can be
Just sees what he wants to see
Nowhere man, can you see me at all

Nowhere man don't worry
Take your time, no hurry
Leave it all till somebody else
Lends you a hand

Doesn't have a point of view
Knows not where he's going to
Isn't he a bit like you and me?

Nowhere man please listen
You don't know what you're missing
Nowhere man, The world is at your command

He's a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody

--Nowhere Man (1965)
John Lennon & Paul McCartney, The Beatles

Nearly every American has heard the term "March Madness." To most, it equates to the National Collegiate Athletic Association's annual basketball tournament. The term can also apply to the utter disgust we might feel over the weather, longing for lasting pleasantness to cure ourselves of cabin fever.

But to me, the endearing term is a reminder that 'the bunny rabbits IS coming'; that hippity-hoppity, Easter's on it's way. (Please forgive the apparent flippancy; it did bring a smile to my face as I typed it.) It's all the more 'maddening' when Easter falls in March or very early in April. Most years are taken in stride, without much to really get mad about. (But there's really nothing maddening about a basketball tournament, is there?)

The year 1999 was one huge exception.

The seeds were sown almost immediately after my ordination five years earlier.

The new bishop of Rockford was installed in June 1994. His first year as bishop was relatively uneventful. But as he got used to his new digs, the eventual shuffling of personnel took place. In June 1995 my pastor was reassigned and was made Vicar for Clergy and Religious. His replacement as pastor was a 60-ish priest who had no aspirations whatever to utilize me (or any other deacon for that matter - at least that's the impression he gave me in the beginning). His thoughts at the time were on retirement and how nice it would have been to retire from the parish he had just left.

As a deacon, I had not only responsibilities at the parish level, but also to the diocese. I was required to make an annual retreat. At the beginning it was just that. But everything would change. My former pastor, now supervising the clergy at large, through his own perception and with input (including some haplessly provided by yours truly), established a policy for continuing education - 20 hours of approved coursework related to ministry. Half of them could be fulfilled through the annual retreat. But the other half - well, the cart was put in front of the horse. There just wasn't a lot to pick from. Further, the new diaconate director - a deacon himself, whose day job was an educator in one of the public school districts - was no help. And if you follow the news, you'll understand that the Catholic Church is not all that keen on being innovative in the use of modern online technology. Enough of it was available in 1995 and onward that it would have done a diocese that covered the northern third of Illinois well to get connected online. But it didn't - and most likely still isn't.

It's not that I didn't want to fulfill the requirements. I wanted to do so in an efficient matter. Driving 120 miles or more every time I wanted to attend a class was not efficient. It put further demands on both time and treasure, both already under considerable stress with a tight personal economy and a special-needs child my wife and I had decided to educate at home. Nobody really cared about the talent part. And the course matter fell into the category with which I was becoming quite familiar: information that was for all practical purposes, useless.

As an example, it was also about this time that my son was to make his First Holy Communion. Mindful of the educational requirements to receive most sacraments, particulary the initiatory ones which include Holy Communion, we put our son in a Sunday School class. It would be an opportunity to determine how well he could manage in a group of his peers. He was excited at the prospect. But it only lasted two weeks. He was so excited about the goal that the catechist and her assistant couldn't cap our son's exuberance. I then went to the school's Director of Religious Education, who was sympathetic. She provided some material that could prepare him to receive Holy Communion when he was 'ready.' Unfortunately, this was too little and really too late. The way this was handled just opened another wound for my wife, and I agreed with her. At every turn it was looking like we'd have to come up with answers that fit neatly within the rules, and with no support of any kind.

More bad news. I learned very early in January 1999 that my employer had sold his business to big company competitor, who almost immediately announced that our facility would be closed. By October I would be out of work. There was no sympathy from the diocese, no offer of even extending deadlines due to the unusual circumstances I was under. With no hope on the horizon save a full-blown miracle, I was resigned to whatever fate I was handed. At the beginning of March I received a letter from the diocese. My faculties would expire on March 31; Good Friday that year. Hoping against hope, I had asked my pastor if I could at least serve out the Easter weekend. At first he agreed but reneged at the last minute.

All this hurt me deeply, but it wasn't over yet. I was torn between quietly getting back to music full time or leaving completely. Moreover, I was torn because I had tried doing what I felt was right in seeking compromise; but there would be none. I had given all I had, there was nothing left. As is, my family had been sacrificed at the altar of ministry without so much as even a sincere thank you. My wife was properly angry at all of this. I was frustrated, panicking, and at a total loss as to where to go. During the rest of 1999 I even tried to reassimilate, while hoping of finding any work that might be secure enough to survive while I got more real education. Every attempt met a dead-end.

By Thanksgiving 1999, I had lost my job as well as my desire to serve God. It was part of a chain of events that didn't turn around completely for the next three years.

Then I was inspired
Now I'm sad and tired
After all, I've tried for three years
Seems like ninety
Why then am I scared to finish what I started
What You started - I didn't start it

God - Thy will is hard
But You hold every card
I will drink your cup of poison!
Nail me to your cross and break me!
Bleed me, beat me!
Kill me! Take me now - before I change my mind!!!

I had all but lost my faith, and that was on unstable ground. I had serious questions about the practicality of it all. What I had left was my wife and son, and the love we shared. To be honest, I had taken that love for granted and I never should have done that. I grew from the experience and realized I had stretched myself too thin. Losing my job was in the end a good thing, because the institutional church had to take a back seat to it, whether or not anyone cared. We had to get this behind us if we were to have a roof over our heads and food on our table. And as this unfolded I promised myself I would keep my wife and son at the top of my priorities. In loving them and in compassion and respect for them I knew I was following God.

What also remained was my longtime friend Mike, who offered me a change of scenery on the spiritual landscape whenever I wanted it. He introduced me to another man whom I consider a friend, though I've now known him ten years and have never really called him such in person: Pastor Paul, at Cornerstone.

The story ends happily, though; and the rest of it follows in the more joyous season which we're about to enter.

The Path To Somewhere

Today's Word:
Wisdom 2:1-22 ("Let us beset the just one, for he is obnoxious to us")
Psalm 34:17-23 (The Lord is close to the brokenhearted)
John 7:1-30 (Jesus teaches openly at the Temple; "Look beneath the surface so you can judge correctly")

Looking back now, the three years I spent in lay ministry formation were probably the most pivotal of all. A lot was happening; a lot was learned; and a lot presented itself that began to cast the seeds of aspersion that would ultimately become the weeds that nearly choked me.

I learned an overview of the history of Catholicism. Granted it was from a pro-Catholic bias; still, it didn't smack of the anti-Protestantism I was fed as a child. Included was the development of the sacraments of the Church. Did you know that marriage, the sacrament of Matrimony, was not officially defined as such until roughly the 15th Century?

I picked up an interest in the way the Gospels each present a different portrait of Jesus. Mark, the first written, is short and sweet; Jesus is depicted as a man of action, and is shown to be annoyed at times with his disciples. Matthew went to great lengths quoting the Old Testament to prove to Jewish converts that Jesus was indeed the promised Messiah. Luke, the traveling companion to Paul of Tarsus, extended on Matthew, showing Jesus as Lord of all people, Gentiles and Jews alike. John, unlike the others, took his followers and readers on a wordy theological discourse - it's no surprise that much of his Gospel is read at Mass during Lent.

There were fifty people taking the various seminars in my 'class.' Of these, eleven of us were in the program as prerequisite for the diaconate. I would get to know most of these people well. One happened to be a neighbor of mine, living two blocks away and attending the parish in which I grew up and spent 13 years singing in the choir. We started carpooling, which gave us an opportunity to discuss class material, as well as the facilitators who presented it.

The first year passed without much fanfare. I noted, though, as did most of my colleagues, that the program director and many of the facilitators (who happened to be women) were all pushing for the use of gender-free ("inclusive") language when referring to God. It was distracting at best and irritating at worst. True, God can be anything God wants to be, and as humans we can't possibly fathom all of it. Yet there were two rather obvious distinctions: nobody can doubt that Jesus was male (Luke even goes as far as to mention circumcision in the infancy narratives); and Jesus often referred to God as "Father", even using the word "Abba" - an Aramaic term of endearment much like our use of "Dad", "Daddy", or "Papa." Still, most of us managed to push past this most of the time. It's interesting to note that our class of fifty was the last group this director had; she was replaced before the next group started.

During the summer hiatus between years one and two, my wife and I learned that she had become pregnant, and that we expected our child to be born the following January. But no sooner than we had become used to the idea that a child was indeed coming, we lost him. Just before class was to start up again, my wife miscarried. It was in the 19th week of pregnancy. As the baby was far enough developed, he would have to be delivered as if he had gone full term. It was a very devastating moment for us both.

When it happened, besides all the grief my wife and I experienced, there was one thing notably missing. We had asked to see Fr. B., my pastor at the time, so that my wife could receive the Sacrament of the Anointing (of the Sick). I had already posthumously baptized our child. But Fr. B. never showed up. I tried to rationalize why he couldn't have come. School was just getting started, and his presence would be needed in front of all the students. That excuse only flew so long, though. He could have even come to our house after my wife was released from the hospital, and he didn't do that either. About three weeks later I finally summoned up enough nerve to ask why he never showed up or offered to be available. He admitted he couldn't cope with the deaths of infants and children. All well and good for him, but isn't this one of the biggest areas where a minister is needed? The community of my classmates were ultimately the arm of the Church that reached out to me during the weeks following our loss. Their compassion and concern helped me, and through me, my wife.

Coming to realize that my parish had no real grief ministry, I recognized that this was something on which to focus in the second year, if at all possible. I was not disappointed. One of the sessions in the second year dealt with grief ministry. It was given by a priest I'd known from my home parish, the one in which I grew up. He had been chaplain at one of the Catholic hospitals for years; he knew his material and presented it well. I would come to rely on much of what he presented.

The other big highlight of the second year was a class that was presented in a very unique way. Ultimately, it dealt with the symbolism we have been taught, what it means to us, and more importantly, what it's supposed to mean. Forty-nine out of fifty people didn't understand what the teachable moment was. The one who 'got it?' Yours truly. Boy, did that have my buddy disgusted!

Certification in this formation process required the development and implementation of a pastoral project; a program started or enhanced at the parish on consultation with the pastor. It also required a mentor from the staff of facilitators. Through discussion with my wife I had decided to develop a bereavement ministry focusing on perinatal (pre-birth) loss. I was put in touch with a person in a neighboring diocese who had already developed some guidelines there; I used this as a model. I chose as my mentor the facilitator from the class on symbolism, the one I 'got' ahead of my classmates. It was enough to get me through. I received my certification.

The proposed project never really got implemented. By the time I was certified, our son had been born; and it could have been seen as a psychological stumbling block, ministering to people with perinatal loss with an infant child. Instead, I was moved into the broader grief ministry (which the parish didn't really have), and I began to be called upon to visit families at the funeral home and offer the wake service prayers. This was the foundation required for entrance into diaconal formation.

All in all, these were three very important years. In them, I learned all I would ever learn - from an academic perspective - about how to be an effective minister. I also learned that there are some things in life that no amount of training, no amount of foreknowledge, no degree of anticipation can adequately prepare you. In those times, all it can do is help keep you rooted in faith and hope, and in the belief that this, too, shall pass. God is with you, even when you can't see past the moment.

Back to the Past

Vernal Equinox (at 6:43 AM CDT)

Today's Word:
Hosea 14:2-10 (Come back to Me with all your heart...)
Psalm 81:6-17 (Hear My voice)
Mark 12:28-34 (Sh'ema, O Israel!; the two greatest commandments; the scribe understands; "You are not far from the Kingdom of God")

Hosanna Hey Sanna Sanna Sanna Hosanna
Hey Sanna Hosanna
Hey JC, JC won't you smile at me?
Sanna Hosanna Hey Superstar

Tell the rabble to be quiet, we anticipate a riot.
This common crowd, is much too loud.
Tell the mob who sing your song that they are fools and they are wrong.
They are a curse. They should disperse.

Hosanna Hey Sanna Sanna Sanna Hosanna
Hey Sanna Hosanna
Hey JC, JC you're alright by me
Sanna Hosanna Hey Superstar

Why waste your breath moaning at the crowd?
Nothing can be done to stop the shouting.
If every tongue were still the noise would still continue.
The rocks and stones themselves would start to sing:

Hosanna Hey Sanna Sanna Sanna Hosanna
Hey Sanna Hosanna
Hey JC, JC won't you fight for me?
Sanna Hosanna Hey Superstar

--Hosanna (excerpt) from Jesus Christ Superstar (1970)
Andrew Lloyd Webber & Tim Rice

I last left my story some 26 years ago, when I began to work with Brother Jesse. His last name begins with C, so at appropriate times Mike and I and others who worked with him referred to him as 'JC.'

I actually wrote a post in his honor in a journal two years ago. I'm going to use much of the stuff I wrote at the time and add to it here. Jesse entered eternal life about twelve years or so ago, the exact date escapes me. This coming April 5 would have been his 71st birthday. Brother Jesse played more than just a small part in my role as a wandering minstrel, and it is only fitting that I offer him some small tribute from wherever in the Great Beyond he is looking at me.

Making the decision to change parishes proved beneficial. As I posted last week, there were new faces; some younger faces, people who for the most part enjoyed being there. Yes, the folks I'd left behind liked doing what they did, too; but there was no sign of any new blood - I was one of the more recent additions, and I'd been there thirteen years! Working with Jesse opened up opportunities as this parish utilized leaders of song (known in Catholic lingo as cantors, a throwback to a similar liturgical role in Jewish synagogues). Jesse promoted getting his cantors liturgically trained; he managed to convince Fr. B. (the pastor at the time) to have the parish pay the cost of attending workshops, as many as three times year. He also managed to wriggle out a stipend for the cantors (while it was a small token, it represented something virtually unheard of in Catholic circles).

Jesse was a 3rd Order (lay) Dominican. He had taken vows with the order and was allowed to wear a habit, which he did on high occasions. He intrigued me. For that matter, it was apparent that I interested him also. It didn't take long for me to move up to roles besides singing. I soon learned that Jesse was legally blind, suffering from glaucoma due to a childhood accident. He needed assistance reading correspondence, filing, typing schedules, and so forth, all of which I was willing to do. He also recommended that I serve on the parish liturgy commission. I was interested in that as it also fed into my long-term goal of serving the Church in as high a capacity as I could.

As he was legally blind, he couldn't drive; and as he was living on a small disability pension plus whatever he made as a musician (I also learned he provided entertainment at the local VFW hall), I was occasionally pressed into service driving him to church from home (and vice-versa) and running minor errands for him. I don't think he necessarily leaned on any one person exclusively for any length of time. Jesse liked to spread himself around. It seemed there were many people who had heard of him. In fact, over the years I would learn more than perhaps I wanted to about how much and how well he was known.

Jesse was a showman. He was a minister. Somehow he managed to combine the two. He was a minister in the showplace and a showman in a place of ministry. But people didn't mind. Only Jesse could get away with playing "Pennies From Heaven" during a special collection in the church, and a triumphal rendition of the Chicago Bears' fight song as a postlude during their winning 1984-85 season. People ate it up. You either really liked him or really disliked him. Sometimes you went both ways.

As the years progressed, Jesse and I learned more about each other. He got to know my wife and introduced us to the Holy Hill shrine in Wisconsin, just beyond Milwaukee. He would make a pilgrimage there occasionally. Whenever he could get us to take him, he would pay for lunch and throw in a little extra for gas.

Through working with Jesse, I also developed a working relationship with Fr. B. My wife and I had actually met him during the planning stages for our wedding in 1981; at the time he was facilitating the marriage preparation seminars (pre-Cana conferences) in the area. My wife reminded me recently that Fr. B was an excellent theologian. That he was. I think he would have had a more fulfilling vocation as a priest had he not got caught up in administrative mumbo-jumbo. That's another story.

Back to Jesse. There is an underside to just about everybody, and Jesse had his. He practiced Santeria - what some call 'Catholic voodoo' - an out-of-the mainstream set of practices which seem to follow older Hispanic folks. These are a blend of Christian and Pagan devotions/spells/rituals, whatever you might choose to call them. That was one thing. It had strange ways of manifesting itself.

I think I'd known Jesse about five years before I understood he was gay. He knew I was married and I don't recall him ever trying to come on to me. I'm not sure if he ever had a partner. In some ways I think this was one reason he professed himself into the Dominican order. I learned through the aftermath of the clergy scandal in the Catholic Church that quite a number of gay men got themselves into the priesthood in an attempt to either shun or glamorize their lifestyle. Jesse was president of a local GLBT organization. By the time I learned this, it didn't change how I felt about him or who he was. To my best knowledge, Jesse never had any relationship at all of the kind that got trumped up in the news. He died before any news of the big scandal broke.

I also learned over time that Jesse had been director of at least two other Catholic parishes, and had subsequently left them, for who knows what reasons. Could be he pushed his envelope in any direction just a little too far. He certainly had the ability to do that. Such was the case that he abruptly left the parish to which he had brought me. The parish went through four directors after he left over a 6-7 year period. The first one, Greg, was another showman with no clue as to the real solemnity behind Catholic ritual. The second one was my friend Mike, who had worked with Jesse. He had the seemingly impossible task of cleaning up the mess Jesse had gotten away with and that Greg had gone too far in exploting. By this time, Fr.B had become more of an obsessive-compulsive administrator, and Mike couldn't deal with that and the multitude of egos that were running rampant in the music program as a result of Greg's theatrics.

Between working with Jesse and Fr. B, there was steady progress for me, and a growing sense of a calling (well, that's what I thought it was back then). I felt I could offer more; that I was supposed to do more. I discussed this at length in my own mind; with my dear wife; with Jesse; and finally, with Fr. B. I felt that, due to the dwindling number of priests, due to my desire to serve, and to my overall abilities, as well as my life situation, that I was called to become something more.

There were processes to go through, a period of formation and training that was a prerequisite for the big step, which was candidacy for ordination to the diaconate. There was a cost (not substantial) involved; surprisingly, the parish picked up half and my parents picked up the other half. And so, with high hopes, I moved into ministry formation.

I had reached a place where I could survey the landscape, as it were. God had indeed been good to me, to us. And the climb from there was not insurmountable.

When I broke the news to my wife that Jesse had died, I remember saying that only God would know what to do with him. He was certainly a rogue, a person who had to live with taking risks; and had to rely on so many. But he was also feisty and independent where he felt he could be. He was a showman, a shyster, and a minister, all wrapped in one. It was hard not to like him, even when he was manipulative. There has not been another person like him in my life, before or since. Whenever I think of him, it is with thanks and the hope that God is caring for him in the afterlife.

Secret Ambition

Friday the 13th, Part 2
(There are three of them in 2009; in February, March, and November)

Today's Word:
Genesis 37:3-4, 12-13a, 17b-28a (Poor, poor Joseph, sold to be a slave; situation's grave, hey; sold to be a slave...)
Psalm 105:16-21 (Recalling Joseph's deliverance and becoming Prime Minister in Egypt)
Matthew 21:33-46 (The parable of the vineyard; "The Kingdom of God will be taken away...and given to a people that will produce its fruit")

Something a little "old school" to start things today...

Young man, up on the hillside
Teaching new ways
Each word, winning them over
Each heart a kindled flame

Old men, watch from the outside
Guarding their prey
Threated by the voice of a paragon
Leading their lambs away
Leading them far away

Nobody knew his secret ambition
Nobody knew his claim to fame
He broke the old rules steeped in tradition
He tore the holy veil away
Questioning those in powerful positions
Running to those who called his name
But nobody knew his secret ambition
Was to give his life away

His rage, shaking the temple
His word to the wise
His hand, healing on the seventh day
His love wearing no disguise

Some say, death to the radical
He's way out of line
Some say, praised be the miracle
God sends a blessed sign
A blessed sign for troubled times

Nobody knew his secret ambition
Nobody knew his claim to fame
He broke the old rules steeped in tradition
He tore the holy veil away
Questioning those in powerful positions
Running to those who called his name
But nobody knew his secret ambition
Was to give his life away...

No no, No no
I tell you nobody knew
Until he gave his life away
No!

--Secret Ambition (1988)
Michael W. Smith

Today I resume my saga. I left off last week at the beginning of my stint as a music minister, some forty years ago. (There's that number again. Yes, it does seem like forever.)

I was a member of the choir under Charles' direction for 13 years. It was something I looked forward to; so much so that I hated when things like work got in the way of being able to attend Mass. When I was serving fries at McDonald's (at that point not quite old enough to drive) I'd walk nearly two miles from church to work. One job had me working at all sorts of weird times, but I would try to avoid working Sundays.

About eight years into this, the Catholic high school in town held an annual fund raiser - two weekends of amateur entertainment put on by each of the local parishes. Because of my known musical abilities, I was asked to be part of it.

At about the same time, I met the love of my life. She wasn't part of all I was doing at the time, but we liked each other and got along well. It took me a long time to realize that she was indeed the love of my life. I finally got the message, or at least enough of it; and in the summer of 1981 I took that love to share with forever. My wife tells me she always knew I was the one. It took me awhile, but I know now that she is the only one for me.

Though I moved out of the parish, I continued to sing in the choir. There was no reason in my head not to. When an opportunity later came to move into an apartment that friends of my parents owned, we took it. It was closer to where I was working, and as God might have wanted it, it was only blocks from the church I'd spent most of my life.

I might have stayed there forever, had it not been that the talent I had been blessed with was not going unnoticed elsewhere. One fateful day I got a phone call from the next person who would drastically change my life. There was a planned installation ceremony for a new pastor at another Catholic church in town, and extra voices were needed. Could I lend a hand? It was a one-time thing; sure!

It was the first time I met 'Brother' Jesse. (Jesse was such an individual that it takes another post just to describe him. That will come at another time.)

I don't even remember all the details of that event. It came and went without incident. But at the beginning of the next season that fall, Jesse called me again. Would I be interested in joining the choir at his church (yet another Catholic church, across town)?

I had to think about this one. And now, thinking about it, I must have had a 'secret ambition' of my own.

I had given 12 years of service to my home church, and it all seemed as if it could go on a lot longer before there would be any fresh blood. It seemed most of the other singers knew me from growing up in the grade school - they were old enough to be my parents, if not older. What would it be like elsewhere? I wouldn't know if I didn't try.

For the next nine months I played the crosstown shuffle on Sundays. Mass at the first church was at 9:00; at the second, 10:00. The first service lasted about 45 minutes; then hop in the car, cross the river and arrive at the second Mass as it was getting started.

I know I discussed this with my wife at some point. We'd spend most Sunday afternoons with her family, which for the most part kept us happy. It didn't come without some serious discussion or even arguments once in a while. I knew I would not be able to keep this up forever. I would have to choose one or the other.

I saw a lot of younger faces in the second church; faces looking closer to my own age. There was a different repertoire; a challenge because it meant something new (to me) to learn, and in musical circles I learned quickly. Jesse also managed to have someone helping him out; a fairly accomplished organist named Mike. I saw opportunity, opportunity for growth. Hard to believe in something as traditional as Roman Catholicism; but it was the 80s, and the Church was leaning a bit more liberal those days.

I discussed this with my loving wife. As always, she saw my reasoning and supported it, even if she saw something I didn't. And the decision was, in part at least, a practical one. I couldn't keep up the crosstown jumping indefinitely. Something had to change.

So after 13 years, I left Charles, a fine teacher and director who said that the only thing I should ever regret is that I didn't pursue vocal work in high school. I even went so far as to tell him why I was leaving. I didn't realize it for a long, long time, but this was the result of my ego, my talking self, taking up residence in much bigger quarters that it should have had. I had a nagging feeling for some time that I had somehow betrayed Charles. He retired maybe one, two more seasons after I left.

Thus began the next phase in my service as a music minister. During the next six years, I would lay the foundations - some good and some bad - for my rise to be all that I could be. There were lots of good things that came about in the years that followed; that will be revealed here in due time. God was there, of course. He always was, steering me as much as I would allow Him. After all, He is the ultimate boss. But some of His suggestions to me were being translated poorly by my inner talking self, and it was keen on doing whatever was necessary to get on the inside track; for there ultimately lay my ticket to heaven.

Yes, the desire to serve, coupled with the impressions my grandmother had given me for many years, had become my secret ambition, and I didn't have a clue as to how far off-track the path could potentially go. I would eventually require a serious dose of humility, several, in fact; but humility was the last thing my talking ego wanted any part of. I was coming into my thirties, and I hoped to have something to show for it. I should have wanted to grow up a little more first.

I confess to almighty God,
and to anyone reading here,
that I have sinned through my own fault
in what I have done,
and in what I have failed to do;
and I ask the Lord Jesus,
my Savior and Redeemer,
all the powers of heaven,
and anyone reading here predisposed to prayer,
to pray for me to the Lord our God.

Impressions

Today's Word:
Ezekiel 18:21-28 (Is it God's way that's unfair, or rather, are the ways of man unfair?)
Psalm 130:1-2, 3-4, 5-7a, 7bc-8 (If the Lord marks iniquities, who can stand?)
Matthew 5:20-26 (First be reconciled to one another, then bring your offering to the altar of God)

Let's start the day off with a song, shall we?

I was eight years old
When I decided to follow Jesus
I started down that road
Somebody told me that
This path that leads to Heaven
Will not be the easy way
Well I found that, too...
I found that to be true
But I also found,
Yes, I also found...
(Does anybody want to know what I found?)
I found out there's...

Okay, enough of the singing for now. We'll come back to this later, but not today.

You want to know just what I found?

Well, when I was about eight years old, I kinda decided that following Jesus was something you were supposed to do. I was a student in a Catholic elementary school; the good Religious Sisters of Mercy as well as my parents and my grandmother (mentioned a couple of days ago) all wanted it that way. My life as a Christian kid was more like the John Powers novels The Last Catholic In America and Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up? In short, they were more or less normal. There was the stigma of being among only three families in my sixty-five home subdivision that attended a parochial school. There was still the buzz that Catholic kids shouldn't hang out with “publics” because, all too often, they led to near occasions of sin.

At age eight, the last of my siblings had been born, and the first of my uncle's and aunt's brood was about to be born. I was the first born of the generation. In those days, the days when Mass was still prayed in Latin, there was also the unwritten hope, supported by Old Testament theology, that the firstborn was to be “consecrated to the Lord.” If you were male, that meant the priesthood. If you were female, that indicated life as a nun.

Good Catholic that my grandmother was, from the time I made my First Holy Communion until I was out of school she would drop hints that I should consider entering the seminary at the appropriate time. That was her duty. I think it stopped when she realized that there was literally no way it could be afforded, even if I had expressed an interest to do so. But her impression of all those years of suggestion never quite left me.

I really had no idea what I was going to do with my life. If I had thought then I'd be writing all this out now for anyone to read, I would have been ready for the mental institution that was four miles away from home. I really didn't have a career goal until the last days of high school.

I had wanted to get into music or theater. Those things attracted me, and I discovered I was good at music. But I was the oldest of six children, it was hard to arrange schedules to manage anything, money always seemed to be tight in the family. My father left me with the impression that this was too shaky a career. He was a salesman for office equipment and worked on commission. Now that was shaky to me. It was revealed to me many years after childhood that my grandmother had to assist Dad financially one year to get the tuitions paid and to have some semblance of a 'normal' Christmas holiday. Not too long after that, we transferred to public schools, and as my baby brother was finally in school, Mom landed a job as a school bus driver.

When I was in junior high school I had the opportunity to be part of a large music concert that was put on locally. One of the pieces in the program utilized a children's choir selected from the five junior high schools in the district. Being selected for that event 42 years ago changed my life forever. It was there I met the choir director of one of the district's two high schools, who also happened to volunteer his talent to the local parish and directed that choir. It happened that this was the same parish my parents attended, the one with the school where I'd spent six years being educated.

Somehow in the process of learning who we were, Charles, the director, made the connection between me and the kid who was part of that children's choir. Perhaps it was because I wasn't afraid to sing when the hymns were played at Mass. I really don't recall. But Charles found me two years later and asked me if I would be willing to join the parish choir. I did, and I never looked back.

I would never be the same again.

Even though I walked in the valley of the shadow of not knowing what I wanted to do, I had willingly put my foot in the door of ministry – though it wasn't generally called that at the time. I started paying more attention to what was being preached. In addition, I was praised for my ability to sight read well and had nearly perfect pitch. God was indeed with me, but not in the way I saw him at the time. And my grandmother's impressions were still in my mind. Maybe not as a priest; but as a respected and important part of the Church. I had to learn more, and it seemed in childlike innocence that the Church knew all there was to know about following Jesus on the road that leads to Heaven. This is what I wanted; everything else would come naturally. I was an intelligent kid, I could do this.

But every journey towards the Promised Land must come to the outskirts of Calvary. That part of my story is yet to be told. Ultimately I managed to find God in the manner He wanted; but what it cost me as well as those nearest and dearest to my heart, I wish I could have undone sooner.

Good God, forgive me of the crass stupidity of my mind. I realize I was destined for what happened because I didn't understand, nor was I willing to listen to anyone other than my inner talking self.

I have come over time to forgive myself, and I am doing my best to seek forgiveness from those I hurt through lack of reason.

Yet in all of this there's....
No better place on earth
Than the road that leads to heaven...