Application of Ash, Implication in Sin

In recent weeks I have requested that parishioners bring in the blessed palms they took home last year.

You might have put those palms behind a holy picture that you gazed upon with mingled devotion, worry, and hopefulness. Or they might have gone into your wallet or purse, where, with similar feelings, you so often reached down to conduct commerce.

Having gathered those palms—with all your hopes and fears and dreams and concerns throughout the year—we now subject the collection to a communal incineration. All that, up in smoke!

If that weren’t enough, having reduced the palms to ashes, we shall further pulverize them and put them on future foreheads next Ash Wednesday as signs and motivators of repentance. Foreheads that renew themselves, on the cellular level, every moment.

The ash administrator immerses his thumb into the mess, smushes it around to get a good coat, and crosses the spot with the reminder of dust-ness and its causes, conditions, and conquests.

Perhaps these virulent times suggest we impose ashes with a device, but we prefer flesh (oh, don’t we?). The sudden inconvenience of contact wouldn’t daunt us from fortifying people with a micro-dose of mortality. The Coronavirus does a good job of that on its own!

The touch is two-way: you get something of my thumb, I of your forehead. Something of you returns on me to the ash-heap. As I press in for another application, your prayers, works, joys, sufferings, and sins mix with the ashes that others will receive.

More concretely, my thumb takes your makeup, dirt, and sweat: all the concealer, the concealed, and the energy channeled toward concealment. Each fingerprinting identifies each recipient as “sinner,” and the sin-ink implicates the persons behind and ahead.

Afterwards I have a hard time getting the ashes off my fingers. Following a bishop’s post-Confirmation custom, I squeeze lemon quarters before washing. How they sting this chronic nail-biter! How others’ faults often exacerbate my own!

Speaking of faults, I might exclaim, “What I go through for you!” until I hear it from the Lord’s lips, or rather see it in His paschal sacrifice.

On Hashtags in General, and One in Particular

This is my first blog post of the new year, patient reader, mostly because I am undisciplined. True to form, I am publishing it on Ash Wednesday, among the busier days in a priest's year. There was a sizable window between the noon service and the 5 PM Confessions (followed by 6:30 PM Mass and subsequent Stations of the Cross) to cut-and-paste this article from the upcoming parish bulletin. 

This Lent I have chosen to refrain from social media, but I think I'll refine that to "not scrolling or checking notifications on social media," which enables me to post and scram. So be kind and decent! No lewdness, profanity, or unkindness. Contact me on messaging apps, email, phone, or in person.

Last November the outdoor parish sign declared, By Death He Trampled Death, and below it #mementomori. By now many of you know that the eight-pointed character technically called the octothorp (no relation to Jim) has in more recent years been called the number sign or the pound sign. Music calls it the sharp sign, to raise the note a half-step (as the character itself shifts). Online parlance dubs it the “hashtag” (perhaps resembling hash browns? You got me).

The hashtag is a kind of organizing tool for social media. Posting persons will share a word or phrase (characters uninterrupted either by spaces or punctuation), beginning the content with a hashtag. Then, whenever one wants to search for that sort of content elsewhere, one simply would enter or click on that hashtag and examples would appear. Hashtagged items, inside or outside the online context, tend to be considered trendy or important.

They say that death and taxes are the two universally unavoidable realities. Both merit our attention this time of year. We should pay the latter by 15 April, while the due date of the former is not known to us. We “prepare” taxes by gathering forms, receipts, and other relevant information, and entering many personal numbers into formulae that determine how much we owe Caesar. How do we “prepare” for death? What’s the schedule for debts to God?

We know God deserves worship and respect, on His terms outlined by the Church. We know our fellow human beings deserve honor and respect in relation to God, their creator and ours. “Pay to all their dues, taxes to whom taxes are due, toll to whom toll is due, respect to whom respect is due, honor to whom honor is due. Owe nothing to anyone, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law” (Romans 13:7-8). 

While we may either pay our taxes incrementally during the year based on what we know we should pay, or we may wait until the end, the debt of love is ongoing and merits attention well in advance of the accounting day.

Dying humbles us, as does aging. We find ourselves able to do less than we could before. People often transition to a point of not knowing what to do, or how to communicate. That’s the incremental tax payment. Some people unexpectedly must render life’s lump sum, when everyone might have thought there was more earning and achieving ahead. From our perspective it might look too random, and who could fault our frustrations?

One of Lent’s best purposes is to draw these realities before our eyes. If they’re already before our eyes, we don’t necessarily get a pass, but here we recall the divine economy offers various opportunities: now to assist fellow sufferers, now to be assisted. The hashtag of remembering death becomes once again the pound sign: the sign to pound the pavement in service of life.

The morbid nature of the #mementomori movement need not sour us. Some people admittedly are drawn to it more than others for how cool it looks. Maybe not cool, but authentic: the realities of death remind us to live, and to do so eagerly. The need to live is always before us, as are the needs of living. God help us to stay sharp.

Anointing of the Sick: Send for Me

The experience of illness is that of a privation (lack) of a good that ought to be present but is not, viz., wellness, integrity of body and soul. In particular areas, or even in general, we know that ”something’s not right!” Every illness is a prelude to death, the total and final dissolution of the body (CCC 1500).

What happens in the body has its inevitable effects on the soul, and vice versa. An unusually high level of attention to bodily ailments can translate into self-absorption, despair, or revolt against God, or it can promote a more mature appreciation of life’s essentials (1501). Suffering can make us bitter, or better! 

At any point on life’s journey, while we still have our faculties, we can decide in what we call “redemptive suffering” to unite our physical, emotional, and spiritual hardships with Christ’s own—which included ours and everyone else’s anyhow. It is good to make a point of connecting those hardships repeatedly and prayerfully, even when tears and shouts accompany our prayers. We can pray that someone, somewhere, somehow might be assisted by our offering, though we may never get to learn of it on earth.

One of the most noteworthy developments since the Second Vatican Council (1962-1965) occurred in the practice of the Anointing of the Sick. No longer is this sacrament intended solely for the deathbed: when a person is beset by serious illness or the frailty of old age, the time is ripe for anointing. It is also generally indicated before any serious surgery that requires general anesthesia.

Everyone used to call the Sacrament “Last Rites,” and many still do. The pedant in me sometimes gently corrects the misnomer, because I think of opportunities for instruction like a drunk drinks: never pass one up. I often hear talk of having people’s Last Rites “read to” them, as if we were police officers reading Miranda Rights to someone we’ve just arrested. It’s a curious confusion. Since the Sacrament can be repeated when illness returns or intensifies, I say it’s their “Last” Rites only when it’s the actual last time they’ve received it.

But then there’s CCC 1525, which makes a poignant comparison:

Thus, just as the sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation, and the Eucharist form a unity called “the sacraments of Christian initiation,” so too it can be said that Penance, the Anointing of the Sick and the Eucharist as viaticum constitute at the end of Christian life “the sacraments that prepare for our heavenly homeland” or the sacraments that complete the earthly pilgrimage.

Since the Church’s coup de grace (literally, “blow of mercy,” used here in that gentle sense) is said here with convincing pedigree to include Anointing, the precedent for retaining the term “Last Rites” is not bad after all.

In the case of the terminally and gravely ill, Anointing of the Sick ideally takes place alongside Confession and Viaticum (the final reception of Holy Communion). The unfortunate trend has been to wait until the patient/family member is “actively dying,” at which point he or she is often unable to make even a general Confession or ingest the Eucharistic species. While I say the sooner, the better, there is no better time than the present.

I do very much appreciate that families, especially those personally opposed or indifferent to religion, respect the religious and spiritual practices of their elders enough to request Anointing for their loved ones. It’s a spiritual work of justice, and who knows what good it will effect.

As for the Anointing of the Actively Dying, we proceed with the faith that the God Who knows and loves us better than we ever could know or love ourselves can sort out their interior state. The Communion of Saints is on high alert whenever someone “sends for the priests of the Church” (Anointing ritual; cf. James 5:14); it’s like the airing of the bat symbol that moves the Caped Crusader to a dude or damsel in distress. Yes, even at 2:17 AM.

Although the topic of death can be difficult to broach with anyone, let alone a gravely ill person, it can lead to valuable self-reflection (presuming that hasn’t been going on already) and, when necessary, interpersonal healing and reconciliation. Don’t allow fear to unduly delay this graceful activity.

“Their sins will be forgiven” (James 5:15): Anointing of the Sick does forgive venial sins when the recipient is properly disposed to that forgiveness (i.e., sorry). In this life, the forgiveness of mortal sins is reserved to the Sacrament of Penance; amid the need of that forgiveness, Confession is an appropriate complement to Anointing. Be not afraid to do the work of self-examination and to be open to the grace of repentance that Confession requires!

Year in Review: Celebrity Dying, Quotidian Living

I don't have a "Year in Review" media piece in front of me, but I can tick off the proverbial top of my head several celebrities who died in 2016. Starting from the most recent, but otherwise in no particular order: Carrie Fisher, Keith Emerson, Florence Henderson, George Michael, Prince...OK, that's all I could think of without help.

Found since the writing of the first paragraph, a rather partial list. Clockwise (from memory, starting from top left): Muhammad Ali; Alan Thicke; David Bowie; Nancy Reagan; John Glenn; Gene Wilder; Florence Henderson; Chyna; George Michael; Alan Rickman--not from memory (thanks, TLK!); Arnold Palmer; Prince; Carrie Fisher (center). Image credit: unknown and unsought.

The diversity of my Facebook friends shines forth in the varied reactions to these deaths. Nobody who posted on it was wholly indifferent (else, I suppose, they wouldn't have posted; I shared my selective share, as well).

Like much else, it moves me to wonder: maybe I care too little about people, or I just don't care about celebrities, or I consider myself "more sophisticated" (read conceited, even callous) for not caring so much about those particular people, their artistic prodigies or the fact of their deaths.

Except for the general sadness concerning death as a human institution, especially any death I consider "premature" or "before their time," my level of caring depends on my level of attentiveness and interest in their contributions to culture. It definitely is a reflection of me, for good or ill, or neither or both. For example, yesterday's death of Carrie Fisher registered lower than the death of Prince or George Michael, because I liked a few songs of the latter two persons and I care hardly at all for the Star Wars phenomenon. (Blasphemy, perhaps, but it's where I am. "Don't judge," but judge away.)

Nothing new here: Death is not going to stop. Celebrity deaths are not going to stop. The older we all get, the closer we all get to death. Pace Keith Richards, drug and alcohol abuse increase (but don't "guarantee") the likelihood of premature death. The cult of celebrity is not going to stop. The Internet is not going to stop, nor is the Internet-exacerbated tendency to react quickly and emotively to death, tragedy, and injustice.

In short: We need to renew our prescription for chill pills...and yet we must beware overdosing on chill pills, for we ought to take seriously many things, most of all our health, safety, and salvation. But we obsess over various uncontrollables to distract ourselves from the fundamental malady that includes "not being right unless we're not right" ("right" in the sense of "well"). The syndrome won't go away, though each day, please God, we can confront it--gently, yet head-on.

To retool a phrase: "The poor you always have with you" (Mt 26:11) meaning not only the material, but (here especially) the panoply of spiritual poverty that rock and roll our world. In the manner a friend once proposed a similar observation to me: we ought to keep in the front of the mind that in the back of our mind we are always seeking physical, emotional, moral, and spiritual self-destruction, aided, I now add, by the ancient enemy of genuine human fulfillment and the influence of that enemy in the culture.

One of my high school classmates, a fellow of intellectual bent and, if I recall, a fan of Jim Morrison, wrote this in his 1994 yearbook inscription to me: "Rem. [sic] your own death as often as possible." Upon first reading his esoteric entry, I concluded: whether or not I remembered my own death, I would remember him for having exhorted me thus.

One of my seminary professors, in his introductory ethics class of Fall 1997, told our class: "All philosophy is an attempt to address the problem of death." Implicit in that assertion, by virtue of their mutual service, is the inclusion of "all theology" with "all philosophy." The brevity and fragility and preciousness of life, besides being a proof for the existence of God, catalyzes the cranium for contemplation, especially that sort best supplemented by appropriate action.

I won't deny: 2016 was a difficult year for the entertainment industry and for many of its fans. Next year will be, too, I predict, if only because the celebrities of yesteryear, whose output was undeniably better than any of the drivel being released today, are dying off. (I mean, whenever, say, Tony Bennett or Betty White dies, the flag should be half-mast! When Sinatra died, I wore black all day! To explain: I was in the seminary, so I was wearing my cassock, specifically receiving my B.A. in Philosophy, which got me nowhere but wherever I am.)

"The beatings will continue until morale improves" [or, if you will, "until morals improve"--and even if they did improve, that wouldn't guarantee anything but greater disillusionment, and more grist for the atheist/anti-theist/hedonist mill]. 

But more than that: grist for the human mill. I grind with the best of 'em.

‘Some find me a sword; some
The flange and the rail; flame,
Fang, or flood’ goes Death on drum,
And storms bugle his fame.
But wé dream we are rooted in earth—Dust!	85
Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same,
Wave with the meadow, forget that there must
The sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come.

(G.M. Hopkins, "Wreck of the Deutschland," Stanza 11)

The last spoonful of mirror-directed moralizing on the matter: Excessive luxury of all sorts does not go unaddressed, whether by living or by dying. That's my takeaway from 2016. I'd like to keep it in mind every day.

Global Warning

One morning in fourth grade, I arrived at the bus stop to find that everybody in my year was carrying a social studies project that must have been due that day: balloons covered in papier-mâché and painted with the scene of a globe. Perhaps I had been in another world: either I stuffed the assignment into my subconscious because I didn't know how to make the globe, or I must have forgotten about it altogether.

We've all had the embarrassing experience of forgetting something or of showing up inadequately prepared. Such harrowing experiences moved us to pay more attention in the future, to become willing to ask for help when we needed it, or worst of all, to recoil from further action in fear of making another mistake.

The very last line from the recent weekend's Gospel was the most salient point to register in my mind from the Scripture readings: "Much will be demanded of the person entrusted with much, and still more will be demanded of the person entrusted with more.” It sounds like the scenario diocesan priests are facing!

Jesus' words resonate with the Church's recent celebration of World Youth Day, in which Pope Francis challenged the young people of the world not to be "couch potatoes," a term that originated with an older generation that needs to hear that exhortation just as much. He said our God is a God of risk. If there is to be any goodness in the world, God has often orchestrated it to depend on our initiative and follow-through.

As the first reading from Wisdom richly recounted, the people of the First Covenant knew well what it was like to profit from the Lord's saving initiative on their behalf. Ten plagues convinced Pharaoh finally to liberate them from Egypt; "and if that wasn't enough," He parted the waters of the Red Sea so they could pass through safely.

Even though Israel would go through cycles of remembering and forgetting what God had done for them, one after another saving intervention and ungrateful amnesia, Israel still counted those interventions as mercies from the Lord, without which they would not continue it to exist. Even so, our interventions on others' behalf can be the very expressions of divine mercy they need.

We just can't rest on our laurels to expect those expressions of mercy as if we deserved them, yet we certainly can be grateful for them when they occur.

What do we need in order to initiate those acts of mercy? Trust. Jesus issues an astounding assignment: "Sell everything." Don't cling frenetically to your time, talent, or treasure, else it will elude your grasp and be of no good to anyone.

The ultimate due date for our life's assignment is the day of our death, and we cannot place it on our calendar ahead of time. Therefore it will behoove us to pay attention, ask for help, and not be afraid to extend ourselves in love--in a word, to die along the way to death. That way, it won't be such a cause for alarm and disappointment.

Plaque Buildup

Readings for the Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

I am fond of browsing in collectibles stores, thrift stores, and rummage sales. As the author of Deutero-Sirach may or may not have said, "One man's trash is another man's treasure." One never knows what will turn up, and what value, sentimental or otherwise, may resonate with the seeker. A few months ago I bought a reproduction of a painting of Christ healing a sick child in the arms of her mother. In light of my new ministry, this painting has merited some meditation time.

Recently (I won't say where) I came across two used baptismal candles. What does that say about their former owners' attitude towards Baptism? For all I know, however, those persons might have died and their families thought that the new generation might profit from the candles--even though I don't know of a parish that doesn't spring for their new parishioners' baptismal candles! I "had" to buy them, lest they go to profane use.

Some years ago a small wooden plaque caught my eye. Beneath the standard Olan Mills Protestant portrait of Our Lord was the saying:

Only one life--'Twill soon be past, 

Only what's done for Christ will last.

See what I mean with Jesus?

After years of buying this and that, I've started to clean house for things I can throw away, give away, or maybe maybe use. At first, it went in the give-away pile; but the events of late Saturday morning impressed me with the significance of the plaque, perhaps convincing me to keep it a bit longer.

I was paged to attend to a dying woman in the Emergency Room (I can't say who, or which ER). It was evident that she wasn't long for this world.

A favorite quote, from this weekend's first reading, came to mind:

Why spend your money for what is not bread, your wages for what fails to satisfy?

Put another way,

Only one life--'Twill soon be past, 

Only what's done for Christ will last.

In anticipation of His Eucharistic Gift of Self, Jesus secured miraculous bread for the hungry crowd. It wasn't likely anyone's last meal, and certainly not Our Lord's. Could this ailing woman have pulled through? Only God knows, and He ain't sayin'! But one of the hospital Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion reminded me on Friday that we don't know when we'll be called home to the Lord. His own wife was a case in point!

Rather than paralyze us with fear, this thought should energize us for each day's bread of prayer and service. As He did with the bread on the mountain and with the heavenly Bread at the Last Supper, Jesus takes, blesses, breaks, and gives us, making of us more than we ever could have imagined, if we wish Him to do so.

Whatever we choose to do in a day, whatever we are forced to suffer--if we choose or accept it for love of Christ, He will make of it a bread that does not fail to satisfy. With our prayers, works, joys, and sufferings, we can nourish untold thousands!

Cookie-Cutter Grieving?

The rest of this week is sizing up to be a death march. That is to say, I will be privileged to bury parishioners on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. What do I do with the prospect of needing to put a homily together? Write a blog post, that's what I do!

I am not depressed by death in general, nor with most deaths in particular. Mind you, I am no "Fr. Spock," but I can govern and sublimate the emotions surrounding grief. I know that this...skill? coping mechanism?...comes in handy. Practically (as opposed to theoretically) surprising to some, we  priests remain human beings after ordination. "Grace builds on nature," so our human gifts and limitations all can be directed to God's glory and man's service. Now I don't confidently label my high grief threshold either a gift or a limitation; it's a fact. People experience and express sorrow differently, depending on numerous factors.

An example: My father died in 2004, when I was a couple of weeks into my first of two years teaching high school. There was the initial anxiety of the phone call I got sometime after 9pm while grading papers, and the hour-long drive home; but once I got in the door, I saw Bruno (the dog) and immediately chuckled. Dad didn't very much care for Bruno--and here Bruno, by then about age 15 or so, outlives him! I had to get to work regarding the particulars of Dad's funeral rites--the viewing, the hymns, the homily, etc. Granted, I didn't start that night...at least on paper. It all went as it was supposed to go. My mother and her siblings came together very well, in their own sweet way. Dad's side of the family, too--many of them spent more time with Mom than with their own brother/uncle!

Without many details concerning my personal relationships or my interior state, I simply want to offer some consolation to people about the nature and extent of their grieving. So often I think people are concerned that they have a hard time letting go of their loved ones. They find themselves crying at inopportune times, at seemingly strange moments "apropos of nothing." What for those who shed few or no tears? There is no right or wrong when it comes to grief, although we realize that our own lives are meant to continue and flourish in the wake of those who go before us, whether "marked with the sign of faith" or otherwise.

It may help to consider the relationship we had with the person, with the willingness to ask or grant forgiveness where applicable. Movements in forgiveness certainly ought to be as prompt as possible, ideally while both parties are conscious and cognizant; but even the occurrence of the other person's death is not too late for the sake of our own well-being. Plus, the God who turned water into wine can convey our contrition or compassion to its intended recipient.

In many respects that's how it happened with my father. It took as long as it took for me to become more aware of my failures, and when I did, I needed to get to work. A mentor suggested I visit his grave. This I still do from time to time, most recently with my mother. It helps me to see my own name and year of birth already etched on the tombstone: a stark reminder of mortality. The reminders of my occasional callousness and impatience toward my Dad don't oppress me anymore. They have become an occasion to glorify God for Dad's contributions.

And how about this: just now, as I am finishing this post in order to get over to the school for an unfortunately rare teaching engagement, I heard from a parishioner who conveys the fond memories of a former student of mine at Central. While I am tempted to write off those two years, somehow people remember me fondly. They may not remember much of what I taught them--but I've read that students tend to remember how they felt in your presence. Even there, I know I didn't convey kindness consistently; but may God repair all things in His time and manner, me included.

The Light of Laney

I must confess a tendency not to "jump on bandwagons." Even as I say this, numerous exceptions come to mind. To qualify, then: I demonstrate a grumpy-old-man resistance to popular items or causes, only to capitulate to many of them in time.

Now not all such causes or items are equally weighted. Only the most heartless would intentionally ignore the untimely illness and death of 8 year old Delaney "Laney" Brown. I had been only mildly aware of her situation by my cursory reading of the local paper. Then I began to see information about a Facebook page dedicated to her. Perhaps my alleged aversion to bandwagons stunted my interest earlier; more probably, I was consumed with my own negligible concerns. Soon, however, I "liked" the page and joined in prayer for the accomplishment of God's will in her life as well as for the patient and joyful acceptance of that will by her loved ones.

(The latent "bandwagon" undercurrent sounded something like this: "There must be hundreds or thousands of children around the world dying from disease, famine, mishap, malice, or war; so why does this girl garner such compassionate attention?" Because I put this thought out there, I know I am subjecting it to your appraisal. Be consoled to know, however, that I was the first to condemn it! Better to divert my fickle attention to one person, than to withhold it out of a semblance of respect for "the many"!)

What makes Laney so special is what makes every girl and boy so special: she is the willed result of the Creator God. As devout Christians, Laney's parents evidently related her illness and death to their faith in Divine Providence, who sees more than we can see at any given moment of human history; who, with unfathomable simplicity, sees every person's unique and unrepeatable life, with its myriad matrices of interactions, in a most complex whole. "For those who love God all things work together for the good" (Rom 8:28).

Christians recognize each person as one created in the image and likeness of the Triune God, the eternal Communion of life and love. They consider each person as a brother or sister of Jesus, who in His tragic life as God-made-man, freely and consciously offered Himself to the Eternal Father in atonement for our sins, to reconcile us with God and one another. Each person is endowed with understanding and freedom that are fully and ideally actualized in the act of faith, the merciful cleansing of baptism, and in daily participation in redemption through worship and service.

When it comes to a 7 or 8 year old person, however--one whose understanding and freedom are only beginning to develop, in whom no sane person would posit serious sin--it becomes very difficult to accept suffering and death. Pope Francis himself recently declared that, if he could obtain one miracle, it would be an end to the suffering of innocent children.

Reference to departed human beings, especially children, as angels is rather common. People have assigned that designation for God knows how long. Artists portray portray cherubs with chubby, innocent baby faces. On Christmas Day, millions watch "It's A Wonderful Life" with its reference to virtuous people "earning their wings" upon death.

Be certain of this: Angels are pure spiritual beings, of a superior intelligence and will. They are, and forever remain, distinct from human persons. Death does not graduate human persons (young or old) to the existential rank of angels. I respectfully exhort a reconsideration of this practice out of respect for the uniqueness of the human person, who, unlike an angel, is material as well as spiritual: a creature of body and soul. The body is not a hindrance to human fulfillment, even though it seems to cause people so much trouble, so soon in life.

The consummation of Laney Brown's earthly life--on Christmas Day, no less--understandably prompted thousands of angelic elevations within minutes of her passing. I understand the sentimental motivation of their words, no doubt offered in a spirit of compassion and solidarity. Angels' total consecration to the will of God, engaging them purely in divine worship, makes their connection to little children very obvious. In advocating adults' reverence for children, Jesus noted, "Their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven" (Mt 18:10). Children--and adults--have angels. "Guardian" angels, we call them. (Hence our parish name!) But they will not become angels.

The classic passage from the Letter to the Hebrews comes to mind: "To which of the angels did God ever say, 'You are my son; this day I have begotten you'?" (1:5). The sacred author emphasized this in the first segment of his letter. God took on the form of a human being, not an angel. In a sense, it wouldn't have taken much "effort" for the invisible God to assume a typically invisible entity. But it wasn't the angels who needed redemption, not even the rebellious ones; indeed redemption wasn't even possible for them, given the impossibility of their repentance. For human beings, repentance and redemption are possible, by God...and only so.

In the Incarnation Christ our God fully and authentically identified with material human existence, including the orientation to suffering and death that are courtesy of original sin. Including, too, the hesitation that human beings often experience because of our material nature. In their spiritual superiority, angels chose their "one direction" with everything in them, all at once. But we human beings employ our understanding and freedom along the space-time continuum. We can, and do, change our minds--sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Thank God for the ability, and the need, to keep making changes in our lives!

We can suppose that a young child may at some point muster enough understanding and freedom to choose in a manner displeasing to his parents, and therefore to God. Mommy or Daddy aren't happy with the child. Why--because Junior did something that the parents didn't prefer? On some level, yes, but we soon recognize the inadequacy of that motivation. Any human parent would bristle at a child's willfulness, but is quickly humbled to recognize the kernel of their own adult willfulness. Junior "offends" Mommy or Daddy, but at heart Mommy and Daddy are saddened because he is exhibiting self-will in opposition to God's wise and loving plan for his life as parents are attempting to model it for him. With patience and care parents strive to guide their children to obey their rules for the best possible reason: because to disobey them would "offend Thee, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love."

I never had the privilege of knowing Laney Brown. It's hard enough for me to get to know many of our young parishioners, I admit. But I would imagine that she may have at some point displeased her parents in some minor matter. No doubt her parents, like most others, swiftly and tenderly would have forgiven her and guided her to better choices, all in the name of change and growth. Human beings can do this. Angels can't. (Isn't it grand to be a person? A grand trial, no doubt, but a grand pleasure and distinction as well!)

Now that Laney's arduous struggle has ceased, we can be as certain as humanly possible that her parents, and above all her heavenly Father, have forgiven all things (if there was any personal sin to speak of). We have seen how bravely she accepted her sufferings and in fact galvanized the rest of us in our struggle to accept those sufferings. Whatever obscured God's loving presence in her, is caught up in God's purifying, transforming embrace. Given the grace of the Communion of Saints, Laney likely has great intercessory power in others' lives--her dear parents and all her family, her friends and schoolmates, the untold millions of people who united their thoughts and prayers with her in these short months, weeks, and days.

At the same time, let's continue to flood heaven with those kind movements of soul, as her family needs them now more than ever. We can't let this--them--become just another bandwagon.

Eternal rest grant her, O Lord, and let the perpetual light shine upon her; may she rest in peace.
May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
Amen!

She made us wonder who was supporting whom!

Bathe this child in the splendor of Your eternal kingdom of light

Reading "The Wreck," Stanza 11

11             ‘Some find me a sword; some
The flange and the rail; flame,
Fang, or flood’ goes Death on drum,
And storms bugle his fame.
But wé dream we are rooted in earth—Dust!	85
Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same,
Wave with the meadow, forget that there must
The sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come.

Our parish has had a number of deaths recently.  One of our local funeral directors mentioned that his  funeral home had thirteen calls on Christmas Day!  I am writing this entry between two funerals that I will have celebrated by day's end.  The ages of the past month's deceased range from 22 to 99.  Most were expected as the eventual end of illness or of a long life, though some were rather unexpected and unfortunate.

Hopkins is speaking here of several ways a person may die: in battle, by train derailment (separation of "the flange and the rail"), from fire or smoke inhalation, animal attack, drowning.  Hurricane Sandy was the latest "act of God" in this region, although natural and manufactured disasters occur everywhere.

Adults view young people with mixed pity, contempt, and perhaps envy.  Daredevils, they call kids--"they think they're untouchable."  Nothing will ever happen to them, in their minds, until...  We must note, however, that insouciance is not the property of youth.  It's the same spirit that motivates the demotivated to stay in bed, the gluttonous to reach for another, the lustful to...reach for another.  The risks of risky behavior are not evident, or not important.  The risk involved may only be that necessary work is left incomplete and a system's efficiency suffers.  Is anyone hurt by it? we might ask.  Only if they don't accept mediocrity, half-measures, as a way of life.  It is the old distinction between a machete slash or a pinhole, both of which will flatten a tire.

As a parish priest who deals with dying, death, funerals, and bereavement, this stanza occurs to me quite often.  "Flesh falls within sight of us"--we can't help but notice death.  The priesthood is no place for a wuss, nor for a pollyanna who'd rather not think or talk of death.  At the same time, we must avoid the temptation to trivialize death--others' or our own.  With these realities ever before us, we can grow in appreciation for life, fostering respect and reasonable care for our bodies as temples of the Holy Spirit.  Our daily choices will mean more to us.

A person's death becomes a prime opportunity to reflect (and, yes, sermonize) about the inevitability of our own death.  "We, though our flower the same," cannot forget "that there must / the sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come."  The sickle and the plowshare will clip us and gather us into the great granary.  We're gonna die, too.

The Life of (Father) Reilly

This time last week I had the privilege of playing the organ for the Mass of Christian Burial for Father Joseph Francis Reilly.  Since then I turned 36, developed Ulnar Neuritis (which is slowly healing; I couldn't type very much over the past couple of days), spoke for a few minutes to Msgr. Charles Pope about his experience as a prolifically blogging diocesan priest, and carried on each day's given labors.

Last night my Facebook news feed displayed the blog of seminary classmate Fr. J. C. Garrett, a close friend of Fr. Reilly who also attended his funeral.  Fr. Garrett wrote this insightful post in tribute to Fr. Reilly.  My decision to write about Joe feels like a case of "monkey see, monkey do," but I know in my heart it isn't.  The feelings and ideas have been stewing since Joe's death.

Joe and I graduated from Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary High School (Pottsville, PA) in 1994.  Three of us from a class of 64 students entered St. Charles Borromeo Seminary that fall.  While two of us became Catholic priests, we also have one Orthodox priest and perhaps one more on the way.  Need I mention that the NBVM classes of 1993 through 1997 provided three other Catholic and Orthodox priests besides me and Joe?  It must have been something in the water.

In reality, I would attribute these priestly vocations to: the fidelity and joy in our families; the strong religious climate in our communities; the holiness and humanity of the priests, religious, and laypersons who formed us in our parishes and schools.  Ultimately the inscrutable call of God accounts for such a bumper crop.

In a high school as small as ours, it was hard not to be associated somehow with someone.  Joe and I came from different towns and didn't participate in many of the same activities, but both of us had been well formed in the faith and were very much involved in our parishes.  Activities such as the National Catholic Youth Conference (Indianapolis, 1991) and World Youth Day (Denver, 1993) were, I believe, pivotal moments in our respective faith journeys.  We had a mutual teacher and friend in Fr. (later Msgr.) Bernie Flanagan, our sophomore and junior year theology teacher.  Joe and I were sacristans, responsible for caring for the school chapel and setting up the gymnasium for school Masses.  Proximity to the Sacred Mysteries is a tremendous benefit of Catholic education.  It is hard for me to understand how Catholic school students can become nauseated by divine things!  To be sure, neither of us was ripe for canonization, but we made it through high school relatively unscarred by the world.  As the events surrounding Joe's death have reminded me, the class of '94 is a good bunch.

Joe and I traveled together, would go to dinner together, and otherwise enjoy each other's company in our eight years together at Overbrook.  There our friendship grew beyond the confines of the high school experience, for it was enriched by what we learned, how we worshipped, how we strove to live, and how we prayed; in a word, by the Catholic faith.  Seminary was more of a fishbowl than high school.  Tensions were inevitable.  I can speak more credibly for my own defects, which never abated despite the quality of our formation ("Grace builds upon nature," said Aquinas).  In the later seminary years, Joe and I gravitated toward other classmates.  Distance especially increased when Joe's formation was extended by an additional year in a parish setting; nonetheless our interactions remained enjoyable and enriching, if less frequent.

I knew that Joe had a difficult time in his parish assignments, before and after ordination.  None of us have had an easy time, free of challenges.  I myself am no stranger to "taking things hard."  People's limitations (mine and theirs) are often difficult for me to tolerate.  Early in life I developed a very strong dependence on others' opinions of me, real or perceived; only in the past five years or so have I been making progress with that.

In the summer of 2007 Joe took time and space away from active ministry for personal growth; only months before, I had returned from the same program in which he was participating.  We would talk on the telephone and run into each other at diocesan functions--the same level of contact that many priests maintain with each other.  I knew that Joe began to feel alienated from fellow diocesan priests, and my own attempts to reach out diminished over time.  My last attempt fell around his birthday five months ago, when I met up with his dear mother and she gave me his phone number (the one I had was out of service for some time, and I didn't know whether he'd received my last couple of e-mails...or my last voicemail).


Having reviewed the footage, this Monday Morning Quarterback attributes the outcome of the final  quarter to several possibilities: misperceptions, passage of time and proliferation of responsibilities; fear of rejection; and/or practical indifference.  Now people have reminded me that the choices in a friendship "go both ways," but I render no judgment on his part.  Time has run out; eternity is another matter.


Msgr. John P. Murphy, pastor of St. Thomas More (where Fr. Reilly completed his pastoral year), preached the homily for Joe's funeral.  He offered valuable insight into Joe's struggles and hopes for a return to active ministry.  I never knew firsthand where he stood in that regard, not that it would have made any difference in my heart and mind.  Both Msgr. Murphy and Bishop Barres noted that Joe's death (of natural causes, though still quite unexpected) offers us diocesan priests the challenge to keep in touch and to offer support, especially when a brother is struggling; and who isn't at some point?

(L to R: Fr. Zelonis, Fr. Reilly, and Fr. McFadden of Phila. Rome, 2003.)

So now Joe is in the best position to know my disposition toward him, which was never unfavorable, though perhaps unexpressed.  The whole ordeal is, to use an appropriate cliche, "in God's hands."  He knows well what is in man's heart.  With his particular skill set and ill set, this much can be said for Fr. Joe Reilly: he loved the Lord Jesus and His holy Mother, loved his family, loved the holy Catholic Church, loved the priesthood; and loved people.  He wanted to do right by all of them: a worthy task for life.  Through whatever trials I have faced and may yet face, I pray that my own heart may be so purified that Joe and I may concelebrate the eternal Offering of Peace and Sacrifice of Praise.

+++++

As I receive links to other people's accounts of their friendship with Fr. Reilly, I shall post them here.  A diamond's brilliance should be appreciated from many angles.
From Robert Badger
From Fr. J. C. Garrett

Keeping the Body Together

I link the patient reader to Msgr. Charles Pope of the Archdiocese of Washington for a Q&A session on Reverence for Remains and Neglect of Sunday Mass.  Another four-bagger for one of my favorite blogging clergy.  I'd like to write like him when I grow up.

I was given the opportunity to address the matter of Sunday Mass very recently, when a penitent sought clarification because another person had misinformed that it was not a mortal sin.

A standard text in support of the gravity of Mass-missing is Hebrews 10:25, "We should not absent ourselves from the assembly, as some do, but encourage one another; and this all the more because you see that the Day draws near."  The very act of showing up brings joy and encouragement to fellow Catholics (and to priests!).  By being present to the Presence of Christ (in its various manifestations--the Eucharist, the Word, the Celebrant, and fellow members of the Assembly), we tell each other that Mass is worth Christ's sufferings and our efforts.  It is also important to hold up the neglect of Mass to the light of "the Day" that is drawing near: the "Day of the Lord" especially attested throughout the prophetic literature, when YHWH will vanquish His enemies.  While there is no official list of divine enemies, we must imagine that God is not pleased with persons who mindfully and willfully absent themselves from His Sacrificial Banquet without good reason.

My first treat to the rationale of a Synaxis-Shirker came when I was a guest CCD teacher in 2001.  A first-grader guilelessly told the class that her father didn't take the family to Sunday Mass because he works hard all week and deserves to rest on the weekends.  It took me aback.  Unfortunately I had no rapid retort to render to this deadbeat dad.  Just now (for the first time, I confess) I prayed that he may repent and return to Mass with his family in tow.  We dare hope that it has already happened.

One blogger offers a perspective on the various ways people absent themselves from the assembly, focusing mostly on "empty suits" who are nominally present for the Liturgy.

In short: How can this Sweet Mystery of Life not be worth our time and attention?!

+ + + + +

On the subject of reserved, scattered, or divided cremains: this is part of the foreseen fallout of the permission of cremation.  It has become another way for Catholics to join the mainstream population's adventures in creative disposal--to imitate their favorite celebrity by becoming a shower of shavings over Vegas or the Atlantic, or perhaps to be fired from a cannon at Gettysburg or Ringling Bros.

You may know of the proscribed practice of retaining small portions of the deceased.  Because Aunt Matilda is portioned into loverly crystal reliquaries, we must have here a preemptive canonization (already conducted in many homilies).  Soon enough, a speck will be attached to her remembrance cards.  This seems like little more than a lucrative scheme for the death industry, ever interested in giving the people what (who!) they want.

Placing the intact urn into the ground or a mausoleum niche brings closure to the bereaved, a sense of assurance that their loved one has a final resting place where he or she can await the Great Harvest, and where survivors may gather to recollect themselves in view of their own mortality.  Perhaps the most conspicuous feature of a tombstone should be a mirror.