Easter Monday, 2011
The Feast of Saint Mark, Evangelist
Easter Monday is a full holiday in many parts of the world. Here in the USA it's back to work from the Good Friday and Easter celebrations, if you were fortunate not to have to work either or both days. (Yes, I'm sure there are many people who had to work both days.)
I arranged to take today off to transition from service mode (seven events between Thursday evening and Sunday morning) back to working mode. While people are encouraged to reflect during the Lenten season now behind us, I tend to look at the sequence of short-term past events and use it as a springboard to see what direction my life is taking and what I should (or shouldn't) do.
Previously in this chronicle I posted that I lost two members of my extended family in March, less than two weeks apart. There were also three funerals in my Catholic community (the last of which is actually tomorrow). These serve as reminders to me that life patterns are not meant to be static or stagnant. Even behind the scenes, there is still movement and direction.
At the funeral of my wife's uncle, I vested as a deacon and served in that function for the first time in six years. One of the things I noted about this occasion was the utter simplicity in which I was able to 'get back on the bicycle.' Today that is followed by the thought that being liturgically present as a deacon set a prayerful example for those who witnessed it. At least I pray it so. I have managed for the most part to maintain the discipline of daily prayer of the Divine Office, and kept my daily schedule routine enough to catch daily Mass on the radio while driving to work. Trust me, I need these reminders. I once complained about what I saw as a lack of Catholic presence in modern media sources, but that has caught up. I now believe that Catholics have a larger presence among social media (internet, radio, and television) than any other mainstream Christian denomination, save only the independent evangelical movement.
The services in which I participated this year all had new spins placed upon them, given this is the first year under new pastors in both my Catholic and Methodist communities. One of those differences allowed my son and I to participate in the Good Friday service in the Methodist community. The rest of the weekend, my son took a more than passive interest in the high church liturgies on EWTN, the Catholic cable TV channel. I didn't miss much myself as the time difference between Rome and Chicago allowed me to watch significant parts of "church on TV" including a sung proclamation of the Passion according to John, 'performed' in Latin by two deacons, a priest, and a full a capella choir. It is always impressive. I asked him if he'd like to see high liturgy in person, if it were possible, and he said yes, he'd like that.
Meanwhile, my wife is continuing to work on the family ancestry, a 'song that never ends' sort of thing. Just when you think you have run all the lines to the point where there is no longer any reliable or verifiable information, those little 'leaves' pop-up with all kinds of new suggestions where none existed only a day or two earlier. What was originally thought to be a two or three week project is now in its third month! An interesting theory has come up as a result of all the research she has done and what she has uncovered about our collected ancestry. For openers, a significant portion of my wife's lineage figured in the settling of Quebec in the early 17th century. Some were involved in the building of the cathedral of St. Anne du Beaupre in Montreal, and other churches in the French colony. After more research, it was learned that my lineage on my mother's side held high positions in many churches in England in the pre-reformation period. Ironically, these churches were named after (St.) Mary, the mother of Jesus. St. Mary was the church I was active in during the years leading up to my ordination as as deacon in 1994 and for the five years I served actively in parish diaconal ministry. (You can now start humming the theme music to The Twilight Zone.) Strange as it seems, that whole thing about personality traits, the stuff of the soft occultism of astrology and past lives, may have its real basis in the building blocks of life, the DNA molecules that determine what color hair and eyes we have. That there is a spiritual dimension to DNA should not startle anyone, but it is one of those areas few on either the side of science or the Church dare to cross.
The fast of Lenten discipline over, my wife prepared a lavish (understated) Easter dinner. In years long past we would spend Easter with extended family. Over the last few years it has become necessary for many reasons to redefine how much extended family can gather at one place for one banquet. It's not that we wouldn't like to be present; but it's challenging to figure out how to seat everybody, and it gets really hard to host such an affair when the guest list increases exponentially. The only person I know who handled that easily was Jesus himself. Needless to say, the planned meal here exceeded all expectations. My wife worked very hard timing all the cooking and preparation, and she is indeed a blessed woman to be able to pull it off.
After all that, the two of us are exhausted and, wanting to spend a few minutes quietly with each other, went to our room to stretch out for a few minutes. But once there, the conversation took a quick turn I didn't anticipate.
Would I consider returning to the active diaconate?
That's the question my dear wife asked me. She told me she had been prompted by my service at her uncle's funeral, and seeing how much connection to church I seem to have inherited through what we have uncovered in my family's roots.
While I had not deeply considered the question, it had also come to me as a result of serving at that funeral. Add to that the dimension I believe I bring into ministry at present as a musician. I am perhaps the only cantor at an Easter Vigil service who is ordained, as opposed to an ordained deacon assuming the role of a cantor for one portion of a specific rite. Not that I am perfect, or that I want to sound my own horn here, but I have observed how seriously I take this, putting as much of myself in these moments as a minister as I'm able to allow. So the question, while something of a momentary surprise, was not unexpected.
Where I would probably have jumped eagerly to this question had it been asked twelve years ago, I'm not able to answer the question just now. Something about the character of the soul because I have been ordained compels me to address it. It's not simply a matter of 'hey, I missed you, so I'm back' - or even like the return of the prodigal son. It's something like an estranged relationship that is going to require steps to restore and maintain. Then there's the question of what to do about the relationships I have cultivated over the last twelve years - why I cultivated them, and why they're important today. On top of that, there are two larger issues that require resolution before anything else. First, we have outgrown our current dwellings, and want to find a new place to live. The advantages we have here are being eclipsed by the higher cost of living and other disadvantages of living in the same county as Chicago. There's also the question of being closer to my parents. The situation is awkward at best; my dad tells me not to feel guilty about not having time to see them - but that comes off making me feel guiltier. Just the same, I know that the issue is not whether to move, but where to move; and it has to be answered first.
Then, it looks like the bicycle and the horse I fell from twelve years ago is looking for its rider. The problem is, when I last rode them at length, I had no idea where they would take me. God is asking me to go through this again; because I said I could all those years ago. But can I willingly do it all - and all that goes with it - again?
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
And Yet Another Passing
When William Shakespeare - whom, I am learning, is a distant ancestor of my wife's - wrote, "A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March" (Julius Caesar, Act 1, scene 2, 19), he was setting up the backdrop for the Roman Emperor's assassination which took place on March 15, 44 BCE. It would seem in that particular setting, March that year was a rather busy and fateful month.
For me, some twenty and a half centuries later, this particular March has been personally busy and fateful as well. A week ago I related here that my wife's 83-year-old uncle passed away, and all that we as a family went through to pay our respects and mourn his loss. The next morning (this past Monday) we learned of the death of her brother-in-law, of cancer, at the more youthful age of 44.
The first thought was whether or not any of us would attend services for him. He lived over two hours away from us, and we had to consider the number of potential (or lack of) restroom stops we might have to make. The trip out there would be during the day, but the return trip would be at night, with fewer options as far as being able to stop. Then there was the fact that he was brother-in-law through a divorced marriage. But in her great wisdom, my wife reminded us both that we are godparents to two of his three children from that marriage; they would definitely appreciate having family around, and it was very unlikely that anyone else would be able to make the trip, especially on a weeknight and so soon after the last family gathering. So we agreed that I would go.
Sure enough, I met up with my sister-in-law and her two sons, as well as her present husband, who was about as lost in the room as I. We spent a good deal of time keeping each other company. Having lived out there a number of years, my sister-in-law and her boys had plenty of folks to talk to. A lot of people turned out for the visitation and the memorial service; so many that the funeral director had to bring out more chairs to seat everyone.
I had not necessarily known my brother-in-law to be all that much of a church-going man. My godchildren were baptized at a Catholic church in Chicago one summer when he was working there. (He worked for a traveling carnival back then and must have worked some mojo with the pastor at the time.) His mother and aunts were also Catholic. Toward the end of his life, my brother-in-law (or at least his second wife) was attending an evangelical church in the area, so the pastor there was going to lead the service, while his aunts would lead the Rosary later. Nobody left between the two rites of prayer.
It was weird listening to the pastor speak of what a good, caring person my brother-in-law had been, noting in my mind that he had, after all, deserted his first marriage, leaving his first wife and their three children in a rather bad way. And from all my upbringing and education in the Catholic faith, I know he must answer to God for that, with whatever consequences are deemed fitting. Still, to see how the boys and their mother accepted this, and spoke as did others about how the pain and suffering of his last days was now gone, reminded me that no matter what happened in life, the best thing anyone can do is to put aside whatever ill feelings we might have and pray for the repose of his soul.
I thought of that during the long drive home. I have many occasions where I am ministering to the family of someone who has died, none of whom I really know. It is easy enough to pray for them because I don't know the background, and it is not important that I know. When the scene shifts as it will more and more to people with whom I am related or colleagues of mine, I really have to lay down all thoughts of the things I knew about the person, and commend this soul to God. All of us struggle and stumble through life. I think I can apply that across the board, if you will. In the end, where it really matters, is where I hope I can see forgiveness and mercy. It was clear that on this cold March evening, the two were found in this out-of-the way place. I pray not to lose sight of this as life somehow gets back to its regular patterns.
For me, some twenty and a half centuries later, this particular March has been personally busy and fateful as well. A week ago I related here that my wife's 83-year-old uncle passed away, and all that we as a family went through to pay our respects and mourn his loss. The next morning (this past Monday) we learned of the death of her brother-in-law, of cancer, at the more youthful age of 44.
The first thought was whether or not any of us would attend services for him. He lived over two hours away from us, and we had to consider the number of potential (or lack of) restroom stops we might have to make. The trip out there would be during the day, but the return trip would be at night, with fewer options as far as being able to stop. Then there was the fact that he was brother-in-law through a divorced marriage. But in her great wisdom, my wife reminded us both that we are godparents to two of his three children from that marriage; they would definitely appreciate having family around, and it was very unlikely that anyone else would be able to make the trip, especially on a weeknight and so soon after the last family gathering. So we agreed that I would go.
Sure enough, I met up with my sister-in-law and her two sons, as well as her present husband, who was about as lost in the room as I. We spent a good deal of time keeping each other company. Having lived out there a number of years, my sister-in-law and her boys had plenty of folks to talk to. A lot of people turned out for the visitation and the memorial service; so many that the funeral director had to bring out more chairs to seat everyone.
I had not necessarily known my brother-in-law to be all that much of a church-going man. My godchildren were baptized at a Catholic church in Chicago one summer when he was working there. (He worked for a traveling carnival back then and must have worked some mojo with the pastor at the time.) His mother and aunts were also Catholic. Toward the end of his life, my brother-in-law (or at least his second wife) was attending an evangelical church in the area, so the pastor there was going to lead the service, while his aunts would lead the Rosary later. Nobody left between the two rites of prayer.
It was weird listening to the pastor speak of what a good, caring person my brother-in-law had been, noting in my mind that he had, after all, deserted his first marriage, leaving his first wife and their three children in a rather bad way. And from all my upbringing and education in the Catholic faith, I know he must answer to God for that, with whatever consequences are deemed fitting. Still, to see how the boys and their mother accepted this, and spoke as did others about how the pain and suffering of his last days was now gone, reminded me that no matter what happened in life, the best thing anyone can do is to put aside whatever ill feelings we might have and pray for the repose of his soul.
I thought of that during the long drive home. I have many occasions where I am ministering to the family of someone who has died, none of whom I really know. It is easy enough to pray for them because I don't know the background, and it is not important that I know. When the scene shifts as it will more and more to people with whom I am related or colleagues of mine, I really have to lay down all thoughts of the things I knew about the person, and commend this soul to God. All of us struggle and stumble through life. I think I can apply that across the board, if you will. In the end, where it really matters, is where I hope I can see forgiveness and mercy. It was clear that on this cold March evening, the two were found in this out-of-the way place. I pray not to lose sight of this as life somehow gets back to its regular patterns.
Some Sort of 'Lude'
(Note: I actually wrote this post four weeks ago, when I had a bit of time and not much else to do. Put in the context of what has happened in these last four weeks, a few lines here seem almost prophetic.)
What does one do when you have a limited amount of so-called ‘free’ time, but you’re not in a place where much can be done effectively? One such example of this is if you travel by airplane, and you have to change flights in mid-course. You most likely have a layover at the terminal where you change flights. Chances are you can’t go anywhere, save the bar at the airport. People caught in that scenario are usually thoughtful enough to bring along a book or something else to do to occupy their time. In these modern days of cell phones and wi-fi connections, some people take to their phones and/or laptops and attempt to be productive that way.
I am in a similar situation this Sunday morning. I am serving as cantor at all three scheduled Masses, and there is a layover between each of them. Too long to sit and do nothing, too short to really do anything. On occasions like this I usually take a quick drive to the cemetery where many of my (and my wife’s) immediate ancestors are buried; it is only a five-minute drive away. But it is late February, and the grounds are covered with a fresh layer of snow; and if it weren’t it would likely be too saturated to walk on without getting muddy, so that is out. (However, I am thinking of them in prayer as I write.)
I might have considered calling home. My wife is going through an elaborate family tree research project. It started out as trying to trace her mother’s side of her family back a few generations, but didn’t get too far. When she moved to her father’s side, though, she got caught up in much detail, particularly her paternal grandmother’s French roots, which she’s managed to trace back five centuries and shows no signs of an end just yet. In all of that she’s found out that a great number of her ancestors figured in the settlement of Quebec in Canada, though that is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
But I digress. I said I might call her – only I left my cell phone at home. Plus, she doesn’t need interruptions that aren’t important while she does all this research. So, I thought, bring the laptop along. I might get some work done; at the very least I’d have the internet to keep me company. But, as my Catholic parish has an expansive land footprint between the church, the parish center, and the parking lot, there is no wireless signal close enough for me on which to get attached. So, now what??
I’ve had time to think about the last few weeks, along with the next few, and how I am being of service to God and to others. I can’t say I haven’t been busy. I don’t want to toot my horn too much, for I would be quickly reminded that I am not nearly as generous in my situation as I’ve known others to be in theirs. But in my relatively unique position of straddling the fence between a Catholic and a Methodist congregation, I indeed have a bit to reflect upon.
It’s relatively quiet in my Catholic community. Easter is still two months away; Lent hasn’t even started yet. The new pastor here is slowly changing things; a little here, a bit there, nothing to get excited about. Over in the land of the Methodists, on the other hand, things are jumping. They are at a crossroads as a congregation, not only with the change in pastors there (and the new one a woman, my first experience as such), but with the realization that they have to work off a $3 million debt put on by expanding their facilities and building classrooms, meeting rooms, and a youth center.
A couple of weeks back I was asked if I would be willing to volunteer some time contacting members of the congregation, asking them to raise awareness in prayer for their stewardship campaign. Among the goals of this campaign is the elimination of the debt over the next three years. I thought for nearly a week as to whether or not I should really do this. I am probably the least likely to represent the achievement of the goals. I openly admit that I straddle two diverse and markedly different congregations, one out of tradition and where I am compensated for my talent, which keeps us financially solvent and for which I am thankful to God. The other, more contemporary, putting a fresh and more vibrant spin on being a disciple of Christ; and one where I am considered a member even though I am not, formally.
Now throw on top of this today’s Gospel passage from the pen of the evangelist Matthew:
Jesus said: 24 “No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will be devoted to one and despise the other. You can’t serve both God and Mammon” (Matthew 6:24).
Hmmm…this begs a couple of questions. Am I trying to serve God, or myself? And I have to be careful, because as a musician the ministry can become self-serving instead of God and community-serving rather quickly. So, to volunteer more than just getting up in front of others to sing, even if it’s just to sing – that extra time spent calling others to prayer is a proper and good thing to do.
But what about the fence straddling? Is it possible to serve God from two seemingly different perspectives? From a lofty, hierarchical approach, men would generally say no, I can’t. But I don’t know that I can choose one or the other. I am invested in the one because of my office as well as the compensation. I am invested in the other because of my son’s interest and attachment there. I have had several friends there and made others over the course of time. Further, it doesn’t seem that I am the only person who is affected in such a way. No, it is good for me to understand Christianity from more than one perspective or experience. Tradition cannot be ignored, nor should it; for we don’t know where we are without understanding where we’ve been. Putting that into a contemporary context is welcome provided it is not self-serving, but fosters a true extension of God’s will into the modern world; a practice of Christ’s Great Commission to his disciples. Some congregations are able to pool resources, especially in urban areas; but when you’re a standout, you have to stand out. I’ve seen this in a very real and demonstrative way among the Methodist congregation, and I pray fervently that it doesn’t die in the wake of pastoral change, aging congregants no longer able to attend worship on Sunday, or concern about a massive debt. So it is apparent that I have a vested interest there for my own sake as well as that of my son. Are we not all family in the same, the one Christ underneath the skin of denominational doctrine?
In that same passage, Jesus reminds his disciples to seek first the kingdom of God…and He will see to all your needs; in short, not to worry needlessly, because God’s omnipresence knows what we need even without having to ask. So the real question all of Scripture should call on us to ask of ourselves, and in our prayer to God, is two-fold. One, as so gracefully and artistically put by an instructor of mine, is So what?? What does this have to do with me? And the answer is: it has everything to do with me, who I am, where I’ve been and where I am going. It is not an easy path, but it seems to be immeasurably easier than a path where this first question is never asked.
The second question follows almost immediately on the heels of the first: Lord, what is it you want of me? What is your will for me? I will watch, listen, and observe as You guide me.
It seems the best response at these crossroads comes from the founder of Methodism, John Wesley. The Methodist Covenant Prayer is a reminder to me that God may not have big plans for me, but he does have a Plan and in order to best discern how I fit in it, I must yield myself to whatever it is – and whatever it is not – I am supposed to do.
And so, when those times come along when I think I have nothing to do but wait…are the best times to be with God in the place where I am, and let Him turn me in the direction I should go.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Spiritual Stupor
Once upon a time, some years ago when I was serving in diaconal ministry, the pastor under whom I served at the time had given a homily in which he said something to the effect that people guided in the spiritual way of life often had periods of difficulty in managing everyday, mundane affairs. It is perhaps the one thing I remember him saying that had special meaning for me.
While my biggest role in ministry has been as a church musician, it has often been eclipsed by the role just below it, that of a minister of consolation at a time of loss. While in formation for the ministry over 20 years ago, my wife and I suffered the loss of our first child in the 19th week of my wife's pregnancy. The ensuing weeks following this sad event opened my eyes to the level of grief that can be experienced when tragedy occurs. I believe that through this process God pointed the way to a level of service I would carry out, and I desired to do so to honor my lost child's memory for as long as God would allow me.
When my active diaconal service came to an end, the door to this ministry did not close completely. It was not long before I was asked if I could be available for singing at funeral services, which I have been able to accept most of the time. On the occasions when I serve in this capacity I do my best to leave my ego far removed from my duties; to be simply present and let God work through me.
There have been four other occasions when the role took on a significance outside what I might consider normal, if there is such a thing when death occurs. These four have all involved members of my extended family. The first was when my father-in-law passed, just over seven years ago. He was never much of a church-goer, so it was no stretch of any rule to officiate at his rites of passage. That safe passage to the next life being our hope is almost universally accepted; so it becomes a matter of celebrating the good moments and experiences we shared in this life.
Having said that, it's still not simple. The target audience - the living survivors and friends of the family - know who you are, so it can be difficult to put into the best words what hope and consolation I am consigned to convey. Further, as a minister, those closest to you know the pattern of your life both during and apart from service. I have to put the situation at hand in the best possible and meaningful light on one hand; and on the other, take out the trash, wash the laundry, and do my best at my secular day job. Somehow I manage.
My grandmother passed six years ago this month. Being a devout Catholic, her funeral was set according to the formal rites of the Church. This is kept pretty well with regards to the Mass itself; but the elements apart from it vary depending on the local parish and the communication between the parish staff and the family of the deceased. My grandmother knew the Rosary and the verse about the angels meeting her and taking her to Paradise; neither of which were mentioned at either the wake or the funeral Mass. When my father and uncle finally let it be known I was a minister, I was asked if I wouldn't mind leading prayers at the cemetery where she was to be buried. I agreed to do it, and at that moment I knew what I had to do. I had to invoke those things she would have expected to hear and had not.
Three years ago, the father-in-law of my wife's sister passed away. At the time, I had already contracted to sing at another funeral Mass in my parish of service, but I agreed to meet the family at the cemetery and lead prayers there. I had the fortune to catch up with them toward the end of the Mass, so I was able to talk at length with my brother-in-law (the procession to the cemetery being another long drive). I really wanted to convey hope and consolation to him, because his life was changing in a way which could prove out harmful to his loved ones and himself if left unchecked. Something tells me he is still struggling with this loss, as well as that of his mother a couple of years earlier.
The most recent of the four happened just this last week, when my wife's uncle passed away. There was the usual wait to discover the arrangements, and another wait to determine what, if anything, anyone wanted me to do. Complicating matters was the ongoing recovery my wife was enduring from an injury she sustained late last fall. Between aches and pains and the winter weather, she had not been out of our home since just before Christmas. She was determined, however, that she was going to make it to see the family. She had been close to her uncle during childhood.
Before the time came for the wake service, I still didn't know exactly what I was supposed to be doing; only that I was going to do something. And at the appropriate time, we prepared to leave to attend the wake, only to discover that the moment my wife put any shoes on her feet, she lost her sense of stability and couldn't move without pain and uncertainty. Not knowing what to do, and having no time to explore an alternative, I had to attend the wake alone. I know my wife was heartsick, and so was I. However, she was going to explore potential solutions and if anything was possible, she would contact me.
Contact me she did. A department store chain with a store in the area carried ballet-style slippers. Just enough of a sole to protect the feet from pebbles and such, but with the give she needed to have the near-barefoot feeling she had while walking about the house. I was able to find a pair in her size which did the trick. At least now she would be able to attend the Mass and see those in the family who would be there.
At the same time, I also discovered what it was I would do for the funeral. I would serve as a deacon at Mass, something I had not done in twelve years. I weighed on this for some time. I felt this was appropriate as my wife's uncle, a devout Catholic himself, had offered his home to us on the day I was ordained to celebrate the event. I would also lead prayers at the cemetery, which I'd done before.
Even though I knew what I was to do, and did it without difficulty, I have had this strange feeling of wandering around in something of a daze; it's been around since the wake Thursday night and still hasn't quite cleared up. Part of it can be rationalized away, I suppose. It's a busy time for me; I've had to step in and do more since my wife's injury which takes away from time spent on other intellectual pursuits (not complaining at all; it simply is). But there was something about vesting again after twelve years, something I can't put into words. For some reason, time is turning faster right now. Life in general, which had been more or less quiet, has become busy. I've not been able to sleep well for some time, but I manage to do what is needed. I have much over which to pray and often find myself unable to focus on prayer itself; this disturbs me a little. At the same time, my wife and I are still very much happy and in love with each other for who we are.
I sincerely hope and pray that whatever the destiny of my life is as I grow older, that I am granted the strength, perseverance, and love to endure it.
While my biggest role in ministry has been as a church musician, it has often been eclipsed by the role just below it, that of a minister of consolation at a time of loss. While in formation for the ministry over 20 years ago, my wife and I suffered the loss of our first child in the 19th week of my wife's pregnancy. The ensuing weeks following this sad event opened my eyes to the level of grief that can be experienced when tragedy occurs. I believe that through this process God pointed the way to a level of service I would carry out, and I desired to do so to honor my lost child's memory for as long as God would allow me.
When my active diaconal service came to an end, the door to this ministry did not close completely. It was not long before I was asked if I could be available for singing at funeral services, which I have been able to accept most of the time. On the occasions when I serve in this capacity I do my best to leave my ego far removed from my duties; to be simply present and let God work through me.
There have been four other occasions when the role took on a significance outside what I might consider normal, if there is such a thing when death occurs. These four have all involved members of my extended family. The first was when my father-in-law passed, just over seven years ago. He was never much of a church-goer, so it was no stretch of any rule to officiate at his rites of passage. That safe passage to the next life being our hope is almost universally accepted; so it becomes a matter of celebrating the good moments and experiences we shared in this life.
Having said that, it's still not simple. The target audience - the living survivors and friends of the family - know who you are, so it can be difficult to put into the best words what hope and consolation I am consigned to convey. Further, as a minister, those closest to you know the pattern of your life both during and apart from service. I have to put the situation at hand in the best possible and meaningful light on one hand; and on the other, take out the trash, wash the laundry, and do my best at my secular day job. Somehow I manage.
My grandmother passed six years ago this month. Being a devout Catholic, her funeral was set according to the formal rites of the Church. This is kept pretty well with regards to the Mass itself; but the elements apart from it vary depending on the local parish and the communication between the parish staff and the family of the deceased. My grandmother knew the Rosary and the verse about the angels meeting her and taking her to Paradise; neither of which were mentioned at either the wake or the funeral Mass. When my father and uncle finally let it be known I was a minister, I was asked if I wouldn't mind leading prayers at the cemetery where she was to be buried. I agreed to do it, and at that moment I knew what I had to do. I had to invoke those things she would have expected to hear and had not.
Three years ago, the father-in-law of my wife's sister passed away. At the time, I had already contracted to sing at another funeral Mass in my parish of service, but I agreed to meet the family at the cemetery and lead prayers there. I had the fortune to catch up with them toward the end of the Mass, so I was able to talk at length with my brother-in-law (the procession to the cemetery being another long drive). I really wanted to convey hope and consolation to him, because his life was changing in a way which could prove out harmful to his loved ones and himself if left unchecked. Something tells me he is still struggling with this loss, as well as that of his mother a couple of years earlier.
The most recent of the four happened just this last week, when my wife's uncle passed away. There was the usual wait to discover the arrangements, and another wait to determine what, if anything, anyone wanted me to do. Complicating matters was the ongoing recovery my wife was enduring from an injury she sustained late last fall. Between aches and pains and the winter weather, she had not been out of our home since just before Christmas. She was determined, however, that she was going to make it to see the family. She had been close to her uncle during childhood.
Before the time came for the wake service, I still didn't know exactly what I was supposed to be doing; only that I was going to do something. And at the appropriate time, we prepared to leave to attend the wake, only to discover that the moment my wife put any shoes on her feet, she lost her sense of stability and couldn't move without pain and uncertainty. Not knowing what to do, and having no time to explore an alternative, I had to attend the wake alone. I know my wife was heartsick, and so was I. However, she was going to explore potential solutions and if anything was possible, she would contact me.
Contact me she did. A department store chain with a store in the area carried ballet-style slippers. Just enough of a sole to protect the feet from pebbles and such, but with the give she needed to have the near-barefoot feeling she had while walking about the house. I was able to find a pair in her size which did the trick. At least now she would be able to attend the Mass and see those in the family who would be there.
At the same time, I also discovered what it was I would do for the funeral. I would serve as a deacon at Mass, something I had not done in twelve years. I weighed on this for some time. I felt this was appropriate as my wife's uncle, a devout Catholic himself, had offered his home to us on the day I was ordained to celebrate the event. I would also lead prayers at the cemetery, which I'd done before.
Even though I knew what I was to do, and did it without difficulty, I have had this strange feeling of wandering around in something of a daze; it's been around since the wake Thursday night and still hasn't quite cleared up. Part of it can be rationalized away, I suppose. It's a busy time for me; I've had to step in and do more since my wife's injury which takes away from time spent on other intellectual pursuits (not complaining at all; it simply is). But there was something about vesting again after twelve years, something I can't put into words. For some reason, time is turning faster right now. Life in general, which had been more or less quiet, has become busy. I've not been able to sleep well for some time, but I manage to do what is needed. I have much over which to pray and often find myself unable to focus on prayer itself; this disturbs me a little. At the same time, my wife and I are still very much happy and in love with each other for who we are.
I sincerely hope and pray that whatever the destiny of my life is as I grow older, that I am granted the strength, perseverance, and love to endure it.
Monday, February 21, 2011
When You Know A Child 'Gets It'
I've got to give credit to my autistic teenage son.
He may not come across as the sharpest tool in the shed. In fact, there are times when my wife and I both wonder what planet he is on. (For that matter, we've shared that same question about ourselves in comparison to other people close to us.)
But God is able to work through him. Sometimes I think that this is the blessing in such an affliction; that the mind is unaffected by focus on mundane concerns so as to be 'in the moment' compassionately when others are in need. In spite of the hindrances I have placed on my son by being who I am, he still manages - and in a positive and enthusiastic way - to contribute to the needs of others. It's happened twice now in the last six months, and has me rethinking how much I should consider doing to support people doing charitable humanitarian works.
The first opportunity came up last September. A group of volunteers were sought at Cornerstone to spend a couple of hours packing food packages for the children of Haiti and other impoverished countries. My son saw this as an 'EVENT' of great magnitude and, as there was an opportunity for learning and for performing charitable service, I got us both signed up. He was happy, enthusiastic, and diligent throughout the session. When we got home he talked Mom's ear off attempting to explain his experiences. He hoped to do this again someday - we are keeping our eyes open for whenever that opportunity surfaces.
This past weekend while attending services at Cornerstone, he learned about the church's Mission of the Month. The organization, Nothing But Nets, is a cooperative effort between the United Nations Foundation, the National Basketball Association, Sports Illustrated magazine, and the United Methodist Church. The charity raises money to buy mosquito netting to provide to families in Africa who must sleep at night among the threat of malaria mosquitoes.
I watched the promotional video twice (since, as musicians, we participated in both scheduled worship services), looking for what might possibly have attracted my son's attention. Since the NBA is involved in the project, the 'nets' could have been symbolized by those used in basketball hoops. Only they weren't. As we're not full members of the congregation, I'm often unprepared to donate on the spot - but whenever there's a website involved, my son will lock that address in his brain until he can get to his computer to check it out.
He decided he wanted to send in a donation from the allowance he has been earning. Ordinarily the 'savings' build up until he has enough to buy the next video game he wants. Understanding that this would mean holding off a potential purchase until his next 'pay day' did not seem to phase him in the least. So today he and I took his investment and paid a donation to the charity.
In all of this, my son is being motivated to do something to help someone else. He's doing this because of his sporadic attendance (due to me) at Cornerstone, a place that seems to go out of its way to welcome people and minister to them, in spite of a massive debt due to a building expansion and at a crossroads due to the change in pastors last summer.
Up to now I have seen my participation at Cornerstone part of the wandering minstrel that I am. A missionary, as it were; or quite possibly a spiritual 'mugwump' - which, if you recall American history, is someone whose 'mug' sits on one side of a fence while his 'wump' sits on the other. My son's willingness to be even a small part of things has had me apologizing - more than once - that I am not necessarily a member of the congregation.
Three weeks ago, I was tapped by a colleague at the church, asking if I would consider volunteering my time to call other families in the congregation to do no more than raise awareness in prayer over the three-year capital pledge drive campaign that is beginning to move forward. I had to think about this seriously, and I prayed over it myself before deciding accept the invitation. In all of this I've come to understand that where it matters, my son and I are considered part of the family.
I don't have to wonder if God isn't at work in my life. All I have to do is witness the generosity of someone whom 99% of people I know could probably not consider at all. This is the work of love.
He may not come across as the sharpest tool in the shed. In fact, there are times when my wife and I both wonder what planet he is on. (For that matter, we've shared that same question about ourselves in comparison to other people close to us.)
But God is able to work through him. Sometimes I think that this is the blessing in such an affliction; that the mind is unaffected by focus on mundane concerns so as to be 'in the moment' compassionately when others are in need. In spite of the hindrances I have placed on my son by being who I am, he still manages - and in a positive and enthusiastic way - to contribute to the needs of others. It's happened twice now in the last six months, and has me rethinking how much I should consider doing to support people doing charitable humanitarian works.
The first opportunity came up last September. A group of volunteers were sought at Cornerstone to spend a couple of hours packing food packages for the children of Haiti and other impoverished countries. My son saw this as an 'EVENT' of great magnitude and, as there was an opportunity for learning and for performing charitable service, I got us both signed up. He was happy, enthusiastic, and diligent throughout the session. When we got home he talked Mom's ear off attempting to explain his experiences. He hoped to do this again someday - we are keeping our eyes open for whenever that opportunity surfaces.
This past weekend while attending services at Cornerstone, he learned about the church's Mission of the Month. The organization, Nothing But Nets, is a cooperative effort between the United Nations Foundation, the National Basketball Association, Sports Illustrated magazine, and the United Methodist Church. The charity raises money to buy mosquito netting to provide to families in Africa who must sleep at night among the threat of malaria mosquitoes.
I watched the promotional video twice (since, as musicians, we participated in both scheduled worship services), looking for what might possibly have attracted my son's attention. Since the NBA is involved in the project, the 'nets' could have been symbolized by those used in basketball hoops. Only they weren't. As we're not full members of the congregation, I'm often unprepared to donate on the spot - but whenever there's a website involved, my son will lock that address in his brain until he can get to his computer to check it out.
He decided he wanted to send in a donation from the allowance he has been earning. Ordinarily the 'savings' build up until he has enough to buy the next video game he wants. Understanding that this would mean holding off a potential purchase until his next 'pay day' did not seem to phase him in the least. So today he and I took his investment and paid a donation to the charity.
In all of this, my son is being motivated to do something to help someone else. He's doing this because of his sporadic attendance (due to me) at Cornerstone, a place that seems to go out of its way to welcome people and minister to them, in spite of a massive debt due to a building expansion and at a crossroads due to the change in pastors last summer.
Up to now I have seen my participation at Cornerstone part of the wandering minstrel that I am. A missionary, as it were; or quite possibly a spiritual 'mugwump' - which, if you recall American history, is someone whose 'mug' sits on one side of a fence while his 'wump' sits on the other. My son's willingness to be even a small part of things has had me apologizing - more than once - that I am not necessarily a member of the congregation.
Three weeks ago, I was tapped by a colleague at the church, asking if I would consider volunteering my time to call other families in the congregation to do no more than raise awareness in prayer over the three-year capital pledge drive campaign that is beginning to move forward. I had to think about this seriously, and I prayed over it myself before deciding accept the invitation. In all of this I've come to understand that where it matters, my son and I are considered part of the family.
I don't have to wonder if God isn't at work in my life. All I have to do is witness the generosity of someone whom 99% of people I know could probably not consider at all. This is the work of love.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
It's Not Nice to Fool (Around With) Mother Nature
February 2, 2011
(Groundhog Day)
It's been quite some time - too long - since I blogged anything. I have a few reasons for my lack of presence:
And, there's nothing better to disrupt the routine than when God invites Mother Nature to remind us Earth-dwellers just who is still in charge.
As I write, I am on the backside of what people are calling "The Great Storm", "Snowmageddon", "Snowpocalypse", and "The (Groundhog Day) Blizzard of 2011." I noted this morning on my Facebook page that I had been invited to the "Blizzard" event, and I had even RSVP'd; but I later posted a status update, apologizing that I could not attend due to the 4-1/2 foot snow drifts keeping me inside my third-floor apartment.
My wife really dislikes all the hype that occurs "every time grey clouds come within 40 miles of Lake Michigan," as she puts it. Winter storm forecasting generally sends out warnings and advisories over a much larger area because, unlike rain, snow tends to hang around for awhile; and a shift of as little as 50 miles in the storm center's path determines whether you get snow, rain, or something in between that is even less liked than the snow.
What I sense is that all the pre-storm hype is geared to remind the more sheep-like among people is that Nature - and Nature's God - are to be feared, as we can never really fully control the elements. (At least not with any immediate consequence. We're only beginning to understand how we interact as part of Nature plays a significant role in how Nature behaves, but the impact isn't generally known for long periods of time.) That we have to be brought into line through fear perpetrated by "Snowstradamus" (a moniker I overheard the other day referring to some meteorologists) is a sign of how far away we still remain from the kind of relationship God wants with us. Of course, 60 mile-an-hour winds and driving snow moving horizontally outside your window will do that without a forecast. Notwithstanding, it is respect for Nature and our part in it is what God wants.
It's enough to have awakened in me the desire to put thoughts into words once more. Right or wrong, good or ...well, not as good, I find myself longing to tackle more than the trivialities of the calendar.
And that time I went and said goodbye
Now I'm back and not ashamed to cry
Oooh, baby, here I am
Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours
If you're reading this, I hope you'll stick around.
(Groundhog Day)
It's been quite some time - too long - since I blogged anything. I have a few reasons for my lack of presence:
- I've been working on a software implementation team. The project has taken much more time than anyone thought it would. It's in the semi-final stage of testing now. I have become the functional/navigational 'go-to' guy, and people at upper levels of management are taking notice.
- When I'm not working, I've had work around the house to keep me busy. While that in itself doesn't take a lot of time, I also tend to want to be present and available to attend to my wife and son. They come first.
- When I wrote at length a couple of years back, I had a lot to say. I seem to have run out of ideas. Some of the best times unfortunately come at times when I am least able to translate to sentences and paragraphs.
- To be honest, a certain degree of laziness has also crept in over time. I have nobody to blame.
And, there's nothing better to disrupt the routine than when God invites Mother Nature to remind us Earth-dwellers just who is still in charge.
As I write, I am on the backside of what people are calling "The Great Storm", "Snowmageddon", "Snowpocalypse", and "The (Groundhog Day) Blizzard of 2011." I noted this morning on my Facebook page that I had been invited to the "Blizzard" event, and I had even RSVP'd; but I later posted a status update, apologizing that I could not attend due to the 4-1/2 foot snow drifts keeping me inside my third-floor apartment.
My wife really dislikes all the hype that occurs "every time grey clouds come within 40 miles of Lake Michigan," as she puts it. Winter storm forecasting generally sends out warnings and advisories over a much larger area because, unlike rain, snow tends to hang around for awhile; and a shift of as little as 50 miles in the storm center's path determines whether you get snow, rain, or something in between that is even less liked than the snow.
What I sense is that all the pre-storm hype is geared to remind the more sheep-like among people is that Nature - and Nature's God - are to be feared, as we can never really fully control the elements. (At least not with any immediate consequence. We're only beginning to understand how we interact as part of Nature plays a significant role in how Nature behaves, but the impact isn't generally known for long periods of time.) That we have to be brought into line through fear perpetrated by "Snowstradamus" (a moniker I overheard the other day referring to some meteorologists) is a sign of how far away we still remain from the kind of relationship God wants with us. Of course, 60 mile-an-hour winds and driving snow moving horizontally outside your window will do that without a forecast. Notwithstanding, it is respect for Nature and our part in it is what God wants.
It's enough to have awakened in me the desire to put thoughts into words once more. Right or wrong, good or ...well, not as good, I find myself longing to tackle more than the trivialities of the calendar.
And that time I went and said goodbye
Now I'm back and not ashamed to cry
Oooh, baby, here I am
Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours
If you're reading this, I hope you'll stick around.
Monday, December 6, 2010
We Need A Little Christmas Now
The Feast of Saint Nicholas,
4th Century Bishop
Today's observance is one that should not be overlooked.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
The passage of time may have obscured his life into legend, but the most important thing to remember today is that Nicholas, the archetype of our present-day iconic Santa Claus, was indeed a real person who walked the earth.
Wilson's Almanac is an online reference source I use when it comes to the lesser observed celebrations of the Season of Light. Here we find the following - and I've included just a few 'tip of the iceberg' tidbits:
Nicholas (Nikolaus) (c. 270 - 345/352) became a Bishop of Myra in Lycia, Asia Minor (modern day Turkey) when quite young. Among Christians, he is known as the 'Wonderworker'. Several acts of kindness and miracles are attributed to him. He has always been a very popular saint: in England at least 372 churches are named in his honor.
Nicholas's early activities as a priest are said to have occurred during the reign of co-ruling Roman Emperors Diocletian (reigned 284 - 305) and Maximian (reigned 286 - 305) from which comes the estimation of his age. Diocletian issued an edict in 303 authorizing the systematic persecution of Christians across the Empire. Following the abdication of the two Emperors on May 1, 305, the policies of their successors towards Christians were different. In the Western part of the Empire, Constantius Chlorus (reigned 305 - 306) put an end to the systematic persecution upon receiving the throne. In the Eastern part, Galerius (reigned 305 - 311) continued the persecution until 311 when, from his deathbed, he issued a general edict of toleration. The persecution of 303 - 311 is considered to be the longest in the history of the Empire. Nicholas survived this period, although his activities at the time are uncertain. He was present at the Council of Nicaea (325) and it is said that he punched Arius on the jaw. (Arius was the promulgator of the Arian heresy, which was condemned during that council session.)
Enemy of the old religion
The destruction of several pagan temples is also attributed to him, among them one temple of Artemis (also known as Diana). Arguing that the celebration of Diana's birth is on December 6, some authors have speculated that this date was deliberately chosen for Nicholas's feast day to overshadow or replace the pagan celebrations.
Nicholas is also known for coming to the defence of the falsely accused, often preventing them from being executed, and for his prayers on behalf of sailors and other travellers. The popular worshipping of Nicholas as a saint seems to have started relatively early considering that Justinian I, Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire (reigned 527 - 565) is reported to have built a temple in Nicholas's honour in Constantinople, the Roman capital of the time.
But early in the reign of Alexius I Comnenus (reigned 1081 - 1118), Myra was overtaken by Islamic invaders. Taking advantage of the confusion, sailors from Bari, Italy, seized the remains of the saint over the objections of the Orthodox monks then caring for them. Returning to Bari they brought the remains with them on May 9, 1087. Some observers reported seeing myrrh exude from these relics, and 30 people were cured of diseases; ever since, the tomb of Nicholas has been a favorite of pilgrims.
He compelled thieves to restore some stolen goods to their owners, so became patron of thieves. Saint Nikolaus or St Nicholas is celebrated in several Western European countries. His reputation for gift giving comes partly from a story of three young women who were too poor to afford a dowry for their marriages:
Legend of the 3 dowries
A nobleman of Patara had three daughters; he was so poor he couldn't provide their dowries and they were going to have to go into prostitution. St Nick had inherited a large fortune, and he resolved to help, but secretly. As he went to their house at night, wondering how to do this, the moon came out from behind a cloud and lit up a window through which he threw a bag of gold, which fell at the girls' father's feet. This enable him to provide a dowry for his first daughter. The next night, St Nicholas threw another in, and thus procured a dowry for the second daughter. The father wanted to see the benefactor, so on the third night he saw St Nick coming and grabbed his cloak, saying "O Nicholas! servant of God! why seek to hide thyself?" The saint made him promise not to tell any one. From this came the custom on St Nicholas's eve of putting out presents for children. (This may also be where the custom of gifts placed in stockings originated.) For his helping the poor, St Nicholas is the patron saint of pawnbrokers; the three gold balls traditionally hung outside a pawnshop are symbolic of the three sacks of gold.
Legend of the evil innkeeper (The Pickled Boys)
A gentleman of Asia sent his two sons to Athens for education, and had them stop to see the holy Archbishop of Myra, St Nick. They stayed in an inn where the keeper chopped them up and salted them down like bacon. St Nick was warned of this in a terrible vision and went and charged the landlord with the crime. He confessed with contrition and asked the forgiveness of Heaven. Nick did this and also restored the boys. In art, St Nick is often shown next to a tub with naked children in it.
The leap between sainthood and legend, between Sinterklaas (as St. Nicholas is called in The Netherlands) and Santa Claus, should be celebrated as part of our accumulated tradition. It takes nothing away from the observance of Christmas, especially when we realize that Nicholas was indeed a real person, and he embodied that which we are called to do. Sadly, it is often those who believe it is a duty to "keep Christ in Christmas" who lament that Santa Claus is part of the problem that we deal with this time of year. On the contrary - the beloved Jolly One in the Red Suit belongs here as he's based on a real-life person who did many things to be light and peace, and comfort and joy to people who really needed it. Doesn't that reflect what Jesus did? Isn't that what we who profess to be Christian are supposed to do? (Okay, maybe taking out those who spread untruths and tearing down pagan temples is a bit beyond where we are. On the other hand, how strong a stand do we take when injustice is blatantly promoted by the high and mighty?)
Just make sure you check your shoes and socks before putting them on later today or tomorrow. There could be a surprise there for you.
4th Century Bishop
Today's observance is one that should not be overlooked.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
The passage of time may have obscured his life into legend, but the most important thing to remember today is that Nicholas, the archetype of our present-day iconic Santa Claus, was indeed a real person who walked the earth.
Wilson's Almanac is an online reference source I use when it comes to the lesser observed celebrations of the Season of Light. Here we find the following - and I've included just a few 'tip of the iceberg' tidbits:
Nicholas (Nikolaus) (c. 270 - 345/352) became a Bishop of Myra in Lycia, Asia Minor (modern day Turkey) when quite young. Among Christians, he is known as the 'Wonderworker'. Several acts of kindness and miracles are attributed to him. He has always been a very popular saint: in England at least 372 churches are named in his honor.
Nicholas's early activities as a priest are said to have occurred during the reign of co-ruling Roman Emperors Diocletian (reigned 284 - 305) and Maximian (reigned 286 - 305) from which comes the estimation of his age. Diocletian issued an edict in 303 authorizing the systematic persecution of Christians across the Empire. Following the abdication of the two Emperors on May 1, 305, the policies of their successors towards Christians were different. In the Western part of the Empire, Constantius Chlorus (reigned 305 - 306) put an end to the systematic persecution upon receiving the throne. In the Eastern part, Galerius (reigned 305 - 311) continued the persecution until 311 when, from his deathbed, he issued a general edict of toleration. The persecution of 303 - 311 is considered to be the longest in the history of the Empire. Nicholas survived this period, although his activities at the time are uncertain. He was present at the Council of Nicaea (325) and it is said that he punched Arius on the jaw. (Arius was the promulgator of the Arian heresy, which was condemned during that council session.)
Enemy of the old religion
The destruction of several pagan temples is also attributed to him, among them one temple of Artemis (also known as Diana). Arguing that the celebration of Diana's birth is on December 6, some authors have speculated that this date was deliberately chosen for Nicholas's feast day to overshadow or replace the pagan celebrations.
Nicholas is also known for coming to the defence of the falsely accused, often preventing them from being executed, and for his prayers on behalf of sailors and other travellers. The popular worshipping of Nicholas as a saint seems to have started relatively early considering that Justinian I, Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire (reigned 527 - 565) is reported to have built a temple in Nicholas's honour in Constantinople, the Roman capital of the time.
But early in the reign of Alexius I Comnenus (reigned 1081 - 1118), Myra was overtaken by Islamic invaders. Taking advantage of the confusion, sailors from Bari, Italy, seized the remains of the saint over the objections of the Orthodox monks then caring for them. Returning to Bari they brought the remains with them on May 9, 1087. Some observers reported seeing myrrh exude from these relics, and 30 people were cured of diseases; ever since, the tomb of Nicholas has been a favorite of pilgrims.
He compelled thieves to restore some stolen goods to their owners, so became patron of thieves. Saint Nikolaus or St Nicholas is celebrated in several Western European countries. His reputation for gift giving comes partly from a story of three young women who were too poor to afford a dowry for their marriages:
Legend of the 3 dowries
A nobleman of Patara had three daughters; he was so poor he couldn't provide their dowries and they were going to have to go into prostitution. St Nick had inherited a large fortune, and he resolved to help, but secretly. As he went to their house at night, wondering how to do this, the moon came out from behind a cloud and lit up a window through which he threw a bag of gold, which fell at the girls' father's feet. This enable him to provide a dowry for his first daughter. The next night, St Nicholas threw another in, and thus procured a dowry for the second daughter. The father wanted to see the benefactor, so on the third night he saw St Nick coming and grabbed his cloak, saying "O Nicholas! servant of God! why seek to hide thyself?" The saint made him promise not to tell any one. From this came the custom on St Nicholas's eve of putting out presents for children. (This may also be where the custom of gifts placed in stockings originated.) For his helping the poor, St Nicholas is the patron saint of pawnbrokers; the three gold balls traditionally hung outside a pawnshop are symbolic of the three sacks of gold.
Legend of the evil innkeeper (The Pickled Boys)
A gentleman of Asia sent his two sons to Athens for education, and had them stop to see the holy Archbishop of Myra, St Nick. They stayed in an inn where the keeper chopped them up and salted them down like bacon. St Nick was warned of this in a terrible vision and went and charged the landlord with the crime. He confessed with contrition and asked the forgiveness of Heaven. Nick did this and also restored the boys. In art, St Nick is often shown next to a tub with naked children in it.
The leap between sainthood and legend, between Sinterklaas (as St. Nicholas is called in The Netherlands) and Santa Claus, should be celebrated as part of our accumulated tradition. It takes nothing away from the observance of Christmas, especially when we realize that Nicholas was indeed a real person, and he embodied that which we are called to do. Sadly, it is often those who believe it is a duty to "keep Christ in Christmas" who lament that Santa Claus is part of the problem that we deal with this time of year. On the contrary - the beloved Jolly One in the Red Suit belongs here as he's based on a real-life person who did many things to be light and peace, and comfort and joy to people who really needed it. Doesn't that reflect what Jesus did? Isn't that what we who profess to be Christian are supposed to do? (Okay, maybe taking out those who spread untruths and tearing down pagan temples is a bit beyond where we are. On the other hand, how strong a stand do we take when injustice is blatantly promoted by the high and mighty?)
Just make sure you check your shoes and socks before putting them on later today or tomorrow. There could be a surprise there for you.
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