The Journey Just Beginning

Wow! October 11 was my last blog??? That's just about half a year ago. Wha...?

Okay. So in this half-year we've been on a journey and suddenly I don't know what to say about it...

So instead I'll think about Gravity.

We all know what it is, right? I mean, gravity is the force that makes things fall down. Only, the physics people tell me we don't really know what "down" means, and the idea of force, well, that's sort of about "pushing" not "pulling". So we don't have to ask "why do things fall down?". Instead we can say "Who's pushing?"

Then I start thinking about Algebra, and how if you say something on one side of the equals sign, you can say it again on the other side, only you don't need to say it exactly the same way. In fact, you can start inventing new ways to say it without every apologizing, as long as you can show how you did it.In the language of Algebra we can certainly say that gravity "pulls toward". We can also say that gravity "pushes from" or "makes to move" or "dances on the head of a pin..." All things are equivalent, if you find the right relationships.


It isn't that some people believe God exists and some don't. We just sit on opposite sides of the equation. Some people like to say (and it's really a popular idea these days) that the universe is an empty place, that we are the only people, and that we'll be searching a long, long, time before we find real neighbors.

That's just one side of the calculation. Gravity pulling. But what if the other side is also true, that the universe is jam-packed filled to capacity bursting at the seams with life, only we just haven't found a name for it yet? Sort of like before we had a name for gravity. We saw it happening, all around us every day. Rocks fell down from mountains, bricks fell down from walls, big trees fell down in windstorms. Nothing new. We didn't have a name for it because nobody ever really thought about WHY it happened. Once we started thinking about it, we needed a name. But that didn't mean we understood it.

Right now, our relationship with God is very much like our relationship with gravity. We have a name, but not an understanding.

I just wanted to point that out, because I happen to think instead of being very empty, lonely and maybe scary, the "world is charged" with the energy--the life--of God. Like a great, big, Never-Charge battery. Full of power, full of life, ready to ignite like a beacon in the great sea of the universe.

Oh, and all this means that it doesn't change things if you believe or don't believe. Do the math. You'll see what I mean... :)

Happy returns...

We celebrated our 35th wedding anniversary on June 11th. On the 13th we made our profession as Secular Franciscans. On the 15th we went to the hospital where JoAnne underwent a total of 3 operations spread over a month, then a long, slow recover until we finally learned that she has diabetes. We're in the process of learning how to manage that right now. Not so difficult. Lots of common sense.

But that means it's been about 16 weeks since I last made an entry. In that time I lost my job, retired from teaching and found a new job doing Guest Services at the Franciscan Renwal Center. A wonderful place if you haven't heard of it.
     The real news, however, is the Franciscan journey which is both a call and a path to increasing simplicity. For example, we are having the first cool weather of fall tonight. I sat on the patio working on some notes but found myself staring off to where the sunset vanished, just me, the sky and an old tree west of our yard. Trinity. Simplicity. Full of God...
     JoAnne says I should write stories and I agree. But before I even begin, I wanted to reconnect here. Whoever you are who will read these "little stories" I thank you. Every writer needs an audience. Otherwise it just doesn't make sense.

     Oh, and that Franciscan journey? It's also about conversion, which is a journey of discovery that may very well become eternal.

God bless you,

Tom

Profession Day

June 13, 2011

This is it, the last day. We will make our Profession tonight around six o'clock. I woke up thinking about this blog.

I started it to share the journey of a Candidate. I'm not sure if I succeeded because toward the end I couldn't seem to find words to say. Also, what I wrote sounds stiff and uncertain--maybe too heady, always looking for answers, meaning and maybe not always finding any. Right now, looking at the words feels like looking at the surface of a pool, transparent, the top layer of something endlessly deep. As if I might fall in through the words and go... where? I've never had this feeling before.

I don't know if anyone read anything I wrote for a long time, except JoAnne, who likes to read my stuff. Our journey is still together, as it should be. I certainly didn't draw a crowd--probably what I was after but not necessary. I know that God reads all the words. Maybe that's the real reason for writing. Maybe God wants to know what's on my mind. Anyway, I'm no Thomas Merton.

So, the words are here, for what they're worth. The journey is complete. Step One. Today we become Franciscans and we will be Franciscans forever. I really believe Mary was behind this, since yesterday, standing in Saint Mary's for our rehearsal I realized where we ended up. She's a really cool person, still working for Jesus, still bringing people in.

How have I changed?

I'm not sure. More peaceful about stuff, certainly. More sure about God and his plan. More committed. More willing to listen to other people and find out what they need, as opposed to rushing in and dumping on them what I think they need. More willing to wait before I judge. More willing, overall. Willing to let the Holy Spirit come in and... do what the Holy Spirit does. I'm still just learning about that. More willing to share, to participate, to work as a team, to be part of other people's lives. Whatever it is God wants, whatever he is trying to accomplish by helping me to be Franciscan, that's what I'm more willing to embrace. I hope sharing words helps.

A lot happened in the days when I was quiet that will probably come out in words later. I don't know. It's not like somebody is out there beating a drum to announce me. I don't mind. I hope I am becoming like the Franciscans I've come to know. I hope that wherever I go, whatever I do, people know that I'm different. I hope they see the Franciscan things, and overlook whatever doesn't measure up.

Most of all, I hope that I will be helpful wherever I go and whatever I do. Making a difference means a lot. So it's not surprising that I keep falling in with people and groups who are doing just that, or at least trying. I've been busy, though I haven't written about it. And I'm wondering this morning what to do with this blog. Will I begin a new one, something with a different name? Or will this one become the cover for a new story, a new journey?

We took three years to get to this point. I can't remember at the moment when I began writing about it. Somewhere in the middle, I think. Whether I'll find anything to say after today I can't even guess. I'm going to spend the hours being quiet. It's like we're holding our breath until this evening. We want this so much, we can't even say...

I think most about the people we've met along the way...

Rosmarie, who took the job walking with me during candidacy and became Director of our Fraternity just last month. I'm betting I keep working for her now, whatever she asks. I'm betting she keeps walking with me forever...

Father Joe, who said to me at the very beginning when I told him we were discerning about becoming Seculars, "Why are you discerning? Just do it!" (Always with a big grin...)

Lynn, who told us at the Easter Vigil that she is entering the Franciscan convent. I don't know why it touched me so strongly, but I know it was a mighty important moment, and it has shaped my journey like nothing else. GO FOR IT, LYNN! We're with you all the way.

There is a Franciscan Secular I sat down and talked to just a week ago last Sunday. I won't mention her name because she is elderly now and her thoughts are beginning to slip into the repeating circles of old age. Most of the time she sits alone, perhaps by her own choice. All I know is how real she is, how she always smiles and is happy, how it feels to sit with her and listen as she says the same things over and over, as if they are really important, as if the most important thing is to make certain someone hears. I want to be the person who hears such words. To me they are Gospel...

There are also people we've met who are not Seculars, but they seemed to know what it means. A doctor last Sunday who is third-order Carmelite and told us if not for her Community she wouldn't have gotten through the hard times. That was important to hear.

Brother Damian, my friend from high school who is a Benedictine Monk at his home in Shawnee. He was there more years ago to introduce us to the Holy Spirit at Saint Gregory's and to share a bit of his life, long before we ever knew there was anything like the Seculars... of anything.

Brother Bob, our friend up in Santa Barbara province who knew us even before that, when we were making the first Engaged Encounter ever held in Arizona. He was working at the Franciscan Renewal Center in 1975 and had that same Franciscan wit, that same grin and same openness we meet everywhere, even then. He's always been part of the journey, in that way that can't be explained.

It all says to me that the journey will go on. We will meet new people--we ARE meeting new people, all the time, everywhere we go. The diffence is, we've got a lot we can share now, like planting seeds. Through us, God will light lamps in other people's lives, as we journey toward that "unity among all believers" that is in our prayers.

May God take the good work he has begun in our lives, and bring it to completion.

Peace and Good!

Tom

16 Days to Profession

My silence over the last several weeks was necessary, owing to the fact that I found no words. But the lessons continued.

I found quotes from both Francis and Clare in which they each speak of their "conversion". They were both Catholic at the time they embraced their vocation. How is it then that they needed to be converted...?

As we began our Franciscan journey, I was pretty well set. I thought I knew about all there was to know about being Catholic. But in these days I have experienced conversion--a deeply felt response to all the teachings of my life, and a recognition of how much more I need to learn. Becoming Franciscan is all about conversion, not from Catholic to some other faith, but from quiet waiting to life, life in abundance.

Joyce Meyers teaches that this life is approached via obedience, so obedience is a main feature of conversion. You might say we are converted to a life of obedience. And all of this preparation has been packing and saying goodbye.

We pack only what is worth taking. We learn to say goodbye to everything else. And that is what's been happening, what's kept me occupied, what's taken my voice. In some ways, conversion is as personal as the most intimate relationship. To discuss it diminishes the joy. And I think I've come to understand why Mary "treasured all these things in her heart"... She was being converted.

I know now that this is how God works, not in sweeping world-action, but one heart at a time. Because the conversion of a single heart truly is the awakening of a whole world.

Pax y Bene

Tom McNamara

It is the Third Sunday of Lent, 2011 and the story of Jesus and the Woman at the Well is a love story. "To all who did accept him he gave power to become children of God to all who believe..." Jn1:12

We all have a share in this story. It begins with a word; the news of Christ, arriving in our lives from any of countless pathways. Hearing about him we look for him. We listen to his stories, his teachings, his word and something happens; a spark in the heart, a light in the darkness. What we receive, we want more. Looking for him turns into a search, and searching for him we learn to watch, wait and listen--because he comes in the spirit, like wind that we can't trace. Suddenly, he is with us.

That's how life has been over the weeks while I've been silent. He comes unexpectedly. I crave him, yes. I am reduced some days to near-begging. Sometimes all I want is to beg: please, please, please come to me. But he comes when I'm not expecting it.

Today, he came at Mass (yeah, go figure!) After a slow start we had a lot of people. The church of Our Lady was filled, and the overflow in the lobby was full too. We didn't need the chairs outdoors, though, and that was just as well because the morning dawned cold. But I went to my station to greet people on their way in and it was a sweet balm. Though I've been very sad at home, that feeling left the way clouds lift from the mountains. Since church was full I stood in the back, in the entry beside the Font, handing song-sheets to people as they came in. There is a candle stand there, with a picture on the wall that changes from season to season. Today it was an icon of Jesus, severe (icons never smile) and suitable for Lent as we seek the Lord who judges all our deeds. Since my deeds haven't been all that saintly lately I stood quietly under his gaze, feeling not sorrowful but filled with tears, almost weeping. I thought I would have to leave, walk in the quite grounds, get myself together, but since I had no Kleenex I told myself not to cry. It was a struggle.

The other ministers handled the Communion line, so I slipped in among the others and received the Bread and Wine. This is sweet for me and nearly always peaceful, the grace of Communion flowing in like warm, calm waters. To stand then, in my own quiet company with the Lord, is my favorite time of all. I notice around me how so many more people do the same, some of them walking outside of the small church while the congregation receives. Some stand on the lawn, gazing at the mountains, others walk beneath the trees. It is a very holy place, like Lourdes. You can feel the companionship of the saints and angels there.

Then the community regathers to sing and offer praise, there are last blessings, invitations to fellowship, a final song. I get an armfull of bulletins from behind the reception desk and take my place outside the north door.

All my regular friends come out directly to the plaza for donuts and coffee and they all say hello. I give them a smile, a greeting, a good wish or a blessing, as my heart leads me, but it's good just to see them, to be there, with my family, praising and celebrating God's great gift.

"To all who did accept him he gave power to become children of God to all who believe..."

We have the power to become God's children. All he asks is that we believe. But it means a complete change of our lives. We cannot keep the things that are not proper for his children. The process of changing is called conversion and it is the birthright of every Christian. Someone told me recently (during the silence) that when a person makes this commitment they should expect the devil to redouble his efforts to distrupt, delay and deny. However, I was also told that when we pray the Rosary, the demons in hell cringe in terror. Evidently, they recognize the power of God.

I think that part of the journey to become Franciscan means facing God's power. The same power that devils fear is our great hope and consolation, for God who has all power is our Father and he loves us. That means that in times of trial we have a great strength. And nobody denies God.

So... there have been difficulties, and through these gifts I am learning to trust my Father. It's a wonderful thing and I am grateful to learn--though too many times I doubt I'm a good student. I wonder if that isn't the hardest thing for me--my own self-doubt.

But as each day passes I recognize what he is doing for me and I realize at the same time that he wants to do it for everyone. This thought helps me to be happy when there sometimes doesn't seem to be another reason. Jesus gave the woman at the well the gift of revelation. He told her who he was and what he came to do. She was so excited she left her life standing by the well and ran to gather others. I'm hoping that our profession will feel like that, and that it will work the same transformation.

Once we claim God, who else is there to follow?

Twelve Days

Twelve days, many miles. So much to say, so few words. It seems at this time when so much is happening my job is to remain quiet, or to say little. Sometimes words create a fog that makes it hard to see. Sometimes fog is good. Except when you're trying to get somewhere.

     The lessons are about trust, and I'm about as good at it as I am at ice-skating. Fortunately in Phoenix there isn't a lot of ice to deal with. Spiritually, I'm not sure what I'm dealing with. As far as we can tell, out of our original group of almost fourteen Inquirers, we are down to three remaining Candidates, and I admit I feel disappointed. It's like starting out walking to a great celebration, but day-by-day the group gets smaller until there are only a few. It seems harder to celebrate when your companions are gone. I wish everyone had kept a journal. Then we could compare notes and get a better picture of the journey. But all we have is this, and I've been distracted.
     Our daily prayer is so important. When we miss--being to busy or otherwise interrupted--I miss it. Praying is like taking a trip, a vacation. It relaxes me. Meditation comes in the evening, or in the night. We've been teaching on weekends, that's keeping us pretty busy with the planning and communicating, more to worry about. I've been changing my diet and exercising, more adjustments. It's like springtime and the garden is being overturned. I think that's God's doing as he prepares to plant new things. It makes me wonder if a garden feels naked, this time of year. I do. And as the Franciscan world opens up before us, it just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and we crave a good guide.
     So we try to support each other, our little community here at home, try to listen to the others. Our Fraternity is organizing for elections this Spring and that's distracting, everyone running around with so much to do and it's like "Waiter! Oh Waiter...!" We're not the Princesses in this story. Nobody expects us to stand in the limelight. Rather, it's time for us to take up a dishtowel and pitch in. Plenty of work for everybody.

     I've been thinking of Brother Damian lately (Benedictine Abbey, Shawnee) and how he goes to a place in the church where there is a cabinet filled with relics. He prays there, in the candelight, in the company of our family, in the quiet and peace. I guess I can be a little jealous. I have a corner in our bedroom, an old chair, and a picture of Saint Theresa. Same family...
     Peace eludes me today. There is a storm in the distance, moving away, like a trainload of sweetness that won't be stopping. Our depot is small, rarely noticed. And I'm never quite certain whether I should be grateful... I suppose it's best to keep praying. Waiting, and writing, are part of the journey too.

     I've placed it in His hands. The results will appear in their time... Still, I feel the Saints so close around me. Perhaps I have lost my eyes to see them and it is time to be led, in love. Does the Lord know that his bride is blind now, and helpless?

     There are, of course, many things God wants to give us. I've heard at least one writer describe grace as "infinite piles" largely unused. So when a person gives their heart to God, is it reasonable to expect perhaps overwhelming abundance? My favorite so far is the abundance of mercy. Only God can truly sort out our tangled hearts, and he is willing to do it. But we... oh my! The process can be overwhelming as we realize the truth in everything we've heard. I don't know which stories I prefer, but it boils down something like this...
    At about the end of the First Millenium, the identity of our Church was solidifying, emerging from the military dominance of the Roman Empire and it's necessary aftermath. There were two "schools" of theology, one in the urban centers and one in the country. Saint Augustine appealed to the urban sense of order and design. His theology was similarly ordered, with faith growing in steps and stages, largely through superhuman efforts aimed at mastering the "base urges" of our nature. The other school emerged from many sources almost simultaneously. Saint Patrick epitomizes this other perspective by rejecting his own identity as Roman and embracing the identity of the Irish, who were rooted in Celtic nature-mysticism. This second school was very human and by association saw in most human experiences a natural grace and dignity. The two schools, of course, did not integrate well and as Patrician teaching spread through the world, it came into conflict with Augustinian definitions. A choice had to be made, and the Partrician school bowed to the wishes of Roman law and order. Augustine and thinkers like him became the "rule" of Catholicism and we spent the Second Milennium under the constraints of crime and punishment, with God as the High Judge. Meanwhile, Patrician sensitivities were sublimated, imitating the relationship between male and female thinking in so many other arenas. Patrician openness and acceptance was tolerated as necessary to the promotion of the species, but expected to be burned away in the high fires of spritual perfection. This, of course, did not happen.
     It seems to me that if Augustine was black and white about faith, Patrick allowed for many shades of gray. But now we are walking into our Third Millennium, ante Deum, and what we are looking at is something like what my computer calls "millions of colors". Right now we are seeing in Egypt a rebellion driven by the desire to be truly free. That same desire, expressed with infinitely more power and urgency, will drive us beyond the artificial boundaries we have erected in the name of preserving faith. Real faith needs no such attention from us, for it originates from and is preserved by the very nature of God. What we are expecting now is the unification of millions of expressions of faith around a few key concepts. Two of these keys are found in Franciscan life: we are to live the Gospel. Consider it carefully. We are to LIVE and we are to GOSPEL.
    To live our human nature and all of it's expressions is well-within the life of Christ, for he is human! The meaning and potential of human life will find its fullest expression in Christ. United in Christ, we will finally understand the unity of our human experience. 
   To Gospel, (think of it as a verb)is also the life of Christ. For as John Paul II said, "Christ is equally present in the Gospel as in the Eucharist." That means that as we receive the life of Christ when we eat the bread he has given (eucharist) so we receive his life when we read and do his word (gospel). Every way we turn, it's about receiving and living the life of Christ--not just the saint-heros, but all of us, every day!
     The trick is to understand that none of what we do in faith is done on our sole initiative, but every act of faith is first inspired and consequently empowered by grace. And this without cost to our freedom!
    Our hope, then, and our great treasure, is that every act of human love in every expression is a sharing in the nature of God. In this way all of human life is affirmed, and no one can be diminished.
     We need, of course, to grow in our understanding. This too is a work of grace and will be accomplished in God's time. But as he said through his prophets "if today you hear his voice, harden not your heart". It makes no sense to go back to the past. God has moved forward and wants us to come with him.
     We need each other. We need each other's kindness and faith. It is our history as Church to share the Good News. We must continue in this path, but it is time to recognize that God calls his servants and witnesses from all places and times. Nobody has ownership of the Holy Spirit. We must acknowledge that "God's mind is not our mind". But we can know for certain that he loves us, and I don't know about you, but I'm beginning to understand that if he loves me, he can love anybody.

Peace and Good.

Freedom

"To live will be a great adventure..." Peter Banning in Hook.

The greatest life of all is the life God offers through Jesus Christ. So it's no surprise to understand that this life is the greatest adventure.

He has given me the means to go, and the will to do it--that is, a truly free will. Often, either from passion or from desire, we wish to fling this one gift away--what good is a will when it so often betrays us? But there is no other way across the sea that separates man from God. I am told, quite rightly, that no effort can apprehend God. There is only his will, which is to give us grace freely, and our will, which he has commanded shall be free. The trial of the waters is nothing to fear nomatter how they rage. Free will is seaworthy, it can take us home.

We go, then, by raising sail into the wind of the Spirit, not by lowering. We go by taking the helm in hand--this, which he has called "the Bread that comes down from heaven" is given to us to be taken hold of, that we might live. Acts of free will can be good, worthy and liberating, as well as false. We learn by doing.

We are meant to captain our own ships. It is God's will that we have free wills, and Jesus, our Teacher, has given us example. As he has lived, so we can live.

Someone once said, "It seems we just been dropped down in this world between good and evil, and don't none of us know why." But I know why. We are here to be truly free. We have often been, and often called ourselves, slaves to sin. But this isn't the case. Our Liberation came, and he is here now, with us. And he will be with us forever. No longer slaves, we are made free, and it is this freedom that tells us who we are, and where we belong. None of the evil matters to those who are free. To use our will--to choose life--is the greatest honor we can offer. He has given us grace to be our guarantee, and his Spirit to companion us. We accept our freedom, and we are given everything...

Stats

I just noticed. Looking over last year I averaged just a little more than one post a week. I need to do better than that. It's a far cry from one post each day. So, to make it up to you, I'll tell you about my favorite prayer place.

We have a statue of Mary on top of the television cabinet in our Family Room. It's just tall enough for me to stand with my elbows on the shelf and my face in my hands. Mary stands over me and listens. If I stand there long enough, something happens in my heart. It isn't words, only longing. And the longing grows and grows until it's almost more than I can bear. But when it comes my prayer is both simple and sincere. "I want you, God. Only you."

That's about it. But there's so much inside of such a prayer. All the possibilities of God. And though I feel too small to open up and receive almost any of it, grace is real and will get the job done. The feeling slowly ebbs--not without tears--and it's handy to have a box of tissues. I don't know what this kind of praying is called, but I think it's familiar to those who sail the sea of the Spirit. They will know, and someday one of them will tell me about it.

But for today, I will remember that I can pray there whenever the house is quiet. And I can write here, whenever the house is quiet. For these are my most quiet thoughts and they shun the ordinary noise that I surround myself with. Building time and space for being quiet into my day will be a good resolution. Hopefully, if it's built inside my heart, I can carry it with me wherever I go. That would be something.

January

It's been very busy, not all of it productive. The thing about blogging is that it's not as romantic as the movies. There aren't people "out there" holding their breaths waiting to hear the next wonderful thing you have to say.
It's more like life. You have to get people's attention, but you need a good reason because there's so much competition. And if you're a person who doesn't really know why, then what you say doesn't have much presence.

I sort of hoped there would be something in the words that meant something to somebody, but then I've always hoped that about my writing. I've hoped that all my life and I hope I'll go on hoping it. But really, when all you have to talk about is the struggles at work, the struggles at church, or the struggles at home... where's the story? Where's Jesus in all of it?

Well, I promised myself I would blog the journey at least until I get professed. That way there will be a record. But I sort of feel like the old sailor who was asked to make a map of his journies, and found out there was a lot of blank space on the paper even after he'd done his best, wrote down all he could remember. What does one do with the blank spaces? What do you say to people who might try to follow? Beyond this point, will there be monsters...?

I think the blank spaces are where you will write your stories...

So of Course You Know What Happens Next...

     I have a temper. It's not like, always out there, bashing and crashing into things. But lately it's really been making itself felt, especially in situations where I'm given a job to do and no directions. Like most everything in the Fraternity, lately. To make it more complicated, everyone in leadership is doing double and triple-duty, so it gets confused. I'm thinking we should begin every conversation with "What are we talking about...?"
     The Holy Spirit goes ahead regardless of whether or not we have our head on straight. God's work gets done and we can either be there for it, or we can stand in the corner sulking. I prefer to do it well, but that's not always how it gets done. So, as we slide into the week before Christmas we are able to duck out of the mayhem and do other things: clean house, bake cookies, decorate the Christmas Tree. Thank goodness for holidays! They get me off the front lines and let other people have a vacation from me.

     At our last Fraternity meeting we received new Candidates. A year or so ago that was us, standing up in front of the community, making a (small) promise to embrace the period of learning and formation. It was a happy day for JoAnne and I, and it was the start of wonderful things. I say that the simple discipline of daily prayer worked a great transformation. I've found strength and willingness to work on my shortcomings. I've been given a lot of insight into God's will and his Gospel, as much as I can handle, really. And I've been able to sort myself out better than any other time in my life. I think that's another Gospel effect. Looking ahead, I can see where the life of service brings much change, in our attitudes, our desires, and especially our understanding and awareness of God's presence. I love my Fraternity. It is like any family where you wouldn't trade them for the world, but sometimes you could just brain them! Well, God has his way and his purpose. Here is where I stand, so this is where I serve.
     My hope then, is to grow as a servant, putting others first, learning patience and how to see things from other people's perspective. It's not all about me, and that's a good thing, really. It gets me off the hook. But there is a temptation to let service become something on the surface, with no substance, no real giving underneath. I would say that if it isn't driving you crazy now and then, you're probably not committing yourself. I know that God loves me and from love he has given me this path to walk, and I do love it. But there are so many things I can't say, I just don't have words for. So I search among the lives of the saints, finding new friends all the time. Ours is a big, eternal family. We should get to know each other.

     So I came here today to set up a new blog, actually, a place where I can talk about my brother, Pat, maybe tell his story, share his quirky brand of goodness with others. He lives like a parable--there is much to learn from knowing him. But I want you to know that even with the busy holidays, with all the distractions, this blog is my first love and I intend to see it through. It's all about the journey, like walking to Emmaus. Out here on the road, we can expect to meet God...

Feast of Saint Lucy

     Saint Lucy is the patron saint of the blind. Her name means “light” and comes from the Latin word for “lucid”, which means “full of light, clear and understandable.” Lucy lived in Syracuse, Sicily and brought her mother Eutychia to visit the relics of Saint Agatha in Catania. While there, Eutychia was cured of a bleeding illness. When Lucy came home, she refused to marry a pagan, who exposed her as a Christian. According to one tradition the governor ordered her to be blinded, but God restored her sight. Lucy was then martyred around the year 300.

SAINT LUCY,
     Whose beautiful name
Signifies light, By the light of Faith
Which God bestowed upon you,
Increase and preserve His light in my soul,
So that I may avoid evil,
Be zealous in the performance of good works,
And abhor nothing so much as the blindness
And the darkness of evil and sin.
     Obtain for me,
By your intercession with God,
Perfect vision for my bodily eyes
And the grace to use them
For God’s greater honor and glory
And the salvation of souls.
St. Lucy, Virgin and martyr,
Hear my prayers and obtain my petitions.
Amen.

     Last night JoAnne and I celebrated Reconciliation at Our Lady of the Angels. It was a very beautiful liturgy, shared by the community, in which we acknowledged before God our own weaknesses and asked for his help to change. Speaking to the priest, I realized it was time for me to make a commitment, and I placed everything into the light of God's judgment. I told Jesus I was ready to be his disciple, to give him all that he seeks, to follow in the footsteps of Saint Francis and to live my life for him in the manner of love.
     I sat down, then, in the midst of the Community and waited. It wasn’t long before God came to me and said,
     “I accept.”

     It was December 13, the Feast of Saint Lucy. In our Catholic community we love and honor the Saints. We pray for their help and devote ourselves to imitating their virtues. It’s a way of growing stronger in faith in Jesus, who is King of all Saints. Each one of these honored people showed in some way their devotion to Christ while they lived on earth, and all of them have the common charism of living the Gospel; all of them gave themselves completely to the will of God. I’ve known this tradition all of my life. It doesn’t matter so much when one decides, but it matters to God that one decides. He waits for it, sometimes our entire lifetime, and he honors our choice because we make it freely.
     I make note of the time, place and date of this story because of its sacramental context. Cleansed and absolved of my many sins, wrapped in the loving arms of my community, filled with hope, I made my declaration and I am noting it here with the same feelings of faith, hope and love. My decision is signed and sealed with his own affirmation. On December 13, 2010, I have become a disciple and have embraced Saint Lucy as my patroness. I think it’s wonderful that she was once Sicilian, like JoAnne. And like Saint Lucy, I hope Jesus will use me to bring light into the world. For I am one who, even in love with Christ, have been blind for such a long time…

     We settle into the Advent season with quiet comfort. It has been busy around us, but not too crazy. Since we need to be frugal, many of the plans and activities that used to drain us are no longer attractive, which gives us time to clean house and pray. Both seem suited to the season. I miss the old rush, the round of parties, the late nights wrapping gifts, but it's nice to get to bed on time, rest well and enjoy the days in simple ways. Most of all, we seem to gravitate to church, taking classes, going to special liturgies, we even signed up for an "evening retreat" with a favorite teacher.
     On Sunday mornings we are hospitality ministers. We greet people as they come into church and pass out song sheets. We scan the assembly to look for empty seats so those who come a little late don't have to stand in the back. We help take up the collection. We guide the lines to Communion and after Mass we pass out bulletins. People seem to like it. One man thanked me "for being here". I wonder sometimes if people, in their everyday lives, ever hear someone say "hello".
     The Advent season has its prayers and liturgies, and it's always been a favorite of mine. But I'm not sure if I prefer Christmas or Easter. Easter is preceded by the season of Lent, during which we pray and reflect, seeking to know our weaknesses and ways to improve ourselves. During Advent we also pray and reflect, but this is in anticipation of the great Feast of Christmas. In Advent we prepare for the celebration. At Easter, we celebrate our preparations.
     They tell us that Saint Francis loved Christmas and that Christmas is a day beloved among Franciscans. But Easter somehow seems more real to me, I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because Easter celebrates the promise of our Lord's return, when all the world will be set right and peace will reign forever. Our hope is in the Lord and in his second coming. Christmas is the story of his wonderful gift of self while Easter is the promise of the fulfillment of his final promise, the one thing we still wait for. So while we live, we work to prepare for his return, and when he comes again, we will celebrate that work with him in his kingdom.
     I think that as my heart changes, my celebrations will change. Christmas, I suspect, will take on new meaning for me as the wrappings and glitter fall away. How do people celebrate when they find they are in love with God? For JoAnne and I, we go to church, and enter once again into the quiet joy, the songs and prayers, the faces and hearts around us. We take the Eucharist and once more we are made into one Body with all the others. These are truly our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers through Christ. At church, we are at home.

     And God is taking that and stretching it to fit the whole world...

Sailing the Sea of Faith

     At work during the week someone pinned a large piece of paper to the lunchroom wall. At the top of the paper they wrote "Things I Am Thankful For", and left it there, an invitation, or a challenge, perhaps, for the rest of us to contemplate and comment. It was an unexpected holiday greeting, a letter from everyone to everyone, or to be more exact, it was a letter from a few, to the rest of us.
     Just as unexpected, I am awake now wishing I could go back in the anonymity of the darkness and pin a list to that poster because in truth I found it difficult to be spontaneous. I needed to mull it over. It isn't that I find it difficult to be thankful, but that it seems too important to speak in haste. The comments that appeared during the week (there weren't many) were spoken from the surface of life: "I am thankful for my job...", "I'm thankful for my family..." and "I'm thankful that I am healthy..." All good sentiments, of course, but I didn't get the feeling anybody had lost any sleep thinking about it.
     For me, thankfulness opens the door to a great sea of understanding that we don't often risk. The ocean makes us nervous, and rightfully so, because we neither own it nor control it. It is big. To live on the sea means to go with great humility because pride embarks, but never returns. Thankfulness is like that. Pursuing it, following it, tracking it means going out among shifting waters. Our path disappears behind us. Past the horizon, we must find new signposts. We chart our course, but it is only lines on paper--looking up, there is nothing but the sea. That is the life of thankfulness. We go out into the immense heart of God and live in faith and trust.
     The journey of conversion is like making small trips. At first we stay inside the harbor learning the rigging and tackle. We practice our reckoning. We go from end to end and get our balance. We grow used to the sliding, rolling gate of the boat. But eventually we grow eager, dissatisfied, almost hungry for the sea. And so, one day, we head out of the harbor.
     Now we are in open water, but we hang close to the shore, keeping it always at our shoulder, like a walking companion. Day after day we venture farther out to sea, out on the rolling waves, still learning the wind, the currents, the heft of tides. It's a wonderful freedom but on the other side, the outside, there is vast emptiness, and it's scary. But over time cruising the shoreline loses its glamour. This boat is made for making journeys, and at last, as before, we leave the harbor well-provisioned and turn our back on the shore.
     I've never sailed, but I can imagine how it feels, pushing out directly onto the breast of the sea. Now everything is changed, everything is sea and seafaring, and though one is "green" at first, seasoning comes with time. We proceed according to our best skills and understandings and discover that while isolated we are never alone (radios are good metaphor for the connectedness of grace). All things working together bring us safely across the waters to our destination, land, always land. Nobody sails to arrive in the middle of nowhere. And the value of landfall is increased by the journey. We have crossed the open waters. We can now call ourselves sailors. But here's the catch. Once crossed, we are no longer in "our" country. The world has grown.

     I have come to understand, by sailing the sea of faith, that "catholic" is not the whole Christian world. Perhaps it's the contrast of new country, but I have found, across these waters, people who are better Christians than myself. It's not the card you carry that makes you a disciple, it's the years you spend sailing. There are storms out here, dangers and yes, sometimes loneliness. But we embrace them all for the chance to be free of the land, to stand the dancing road for a time until distance and the compass bring us someplace new. We go ashore on unsteady feet. We smell strange smells, taste new foods, listen to new stories, new angles, new perspectives and realize that we know the stories--we take out our own stories from our sea bag and swap them with those we meet and there, in a handshake or in a kiss, we recognize someone familiar. We know these people, and they are us.
     Perhaps we stay awhile, sharing. Perhaps it's just a tip of the hat and wave of the hand before we shove off to new destinations. But as we go from shore to shore across the great waters, we are stitching the many pieces of our world together in a cover that spans everything. Building the body of Christ one heart at a time. Making faith grow.

     Though most of my journeys happen right here at the keyboard of my computer, and though in most respects I have been a timid sailor, I can say this morning that I am grateful for the sea... and I am thankful for all those who have taught me how to sail.

Tom McNamara, Thanksgiving Day, 2010

     On Sunday, at our Fraternity meeting, we saw a short video about Medjogorie. I'm sorry if I haven't spelled it correctly but it's pretty new to me. I didn't know how big it is, or how long the visions have been occuring, or how the area has suffered through the wars and the visionaries and their priests and people have suffered. I didn't know that the whole town is Catholic and I didn't know that the shrine is under Franciscan stewardship. It's about Mary and about her message of God's love for all people, and that's the message Francis taught and we who would walk in his footsteps have the same vocation.
     But I also read this weekend that we are to find the way that is ours to accomplish this mission. Some teach, some proclaim the gospel, some serve, some create, some discover, some plant, some harvest. Some raise families. Some raise nations or raise the conscience of nations. Everyone is given the same message and the same job to bring it to all nations. We don't have to do big things. Sometimes small things have big results and maybe the best result is the change of a single heart.
     I have no great thoughts tonight, only the quiet hope and longing to be of service. My job as a Franciscan is to find out who I am and what I can do in this time of waiting for Christ's return. We are to wait like a bridesmaid with her lamp prepared, ready to run outside at His call. That's the nature of every Christian life. Preparation for what is certain. He will come, soon and very soon. And when he does we will all go out to meet him.

The Rock is Our Faith

     I don't know why I always think of these things at night. Maybe it's easier for the Holy Spirit to get my attention. In the day I am rushing, like a river in a hurry to get down a mountain. By night I am a single raindrop high on the peak, on a granite stone that never moves, just me, the earth, the sky, the wind which is Spirit all around and... light.
     This is a quiet place I've been searching for. I suppose I always knew where it was. Maybe I never turned inward long enough to feel the breeze on my face. But slowly, over time, Jesus has led me here, to sit on the stone and be still. There can be much life, much activity in stillness. I suppose the difference is that this isn't my activity, it's his. And so I take the time to step into the quiet and see what he is doing, and he shows me the Fraternity.
     From the visitor who enters our door for the very first time, to the oldest, most experienced member about to launch on the adventure of a lifetime, we are all desired and honored by God, each and every one of us. As is true in the full community of His own heart, nobody is without value, and our value is equal--the great blessing of his Heart. Some of us are conservative, some liberal, some in transition from one to the other and back again. All of us are on a journey, even if, for the moment, we are sitting quietly on the firm stone of his divine heart. That's what I was trying to understand. I was trying to figure out where I've found myself, why the storms swirl around me even here, how to still myself enough to hear and feel and see. The Fraternity is woven of people like myself, all of us blustered and driven by this current life--disturbed like the surface of a wind-blown pond. Yet this wind we so often seek shelter from is the breath of the Spirit, creating us new each moment. Even our quiet silence breathes with the passion of his close touch. It is all so profoundly intimate that even as we struggle and strive to touch him, we are changed.

     Outside the weather is changing. They say a large storm is coming. My daughter, traveling in Colorado, says it is already snowing. Here in the desert we might get some rain, chilly days, a freshening of the land, relief for the parched cactus, warm food indoors. Just in time for the holiday. But outward change is nothing compared to the change he brings to our hearts. From stony hearts to hearts made for loving--it is the answer to our prayer: that we might come to a place where we can see and know, beyond our individual weaknesses, the power he brings, the power to be united in faith, one Body in Christ where all are welcome, all are valued, all are loved. And every one of us can find Peace.

The Rule of Love

     It's one-thirty in the morning and I've been awake for at least an hour. I was going to catch up on sleep, but...
     I took four days off work for some surgery and recovery and thought Friday would be a quiet day back, just to get into the swing of things. Before noon I'd helped get one kid suspended and another well on his way to similar difficulties. It's not that they were little angels, of course. Like teetering rocks at the brink of a cliff they just needed a little push... and I was there to lean on them.
     So the Holy Spirit wakes me up for a little reflection time and I realize how easily I'm pushed over the edge myself, how easily a kid with an attitude sets me off. It's why I work in Special Education--my students have plenty of problems, but they don't have attitudes. So after tossing and turning and realizing sleep has fled, I came here to try and work things out.
    
     I've come to a conclusion that the difference between myself and what I consider a successful teacher must be love. I don't mean ordinary love, an affection for children and belief in their potential. I mean real, converted, Gospel love that changes everything--an avid sense of purpose and direction that engages the world proactively and makes change happen. It's the love of Christ who changed Zaccheus and Matthew and Simon and the leper. It's the love that set the thief free forever, even as he was dying on a cross. It's the love I need if I am to continue following Him...
     There's nothing sappy about this love. There is also nothing weak or timid or uncertain or confused. Even more difficult, there is nothing independent about this love, for it is never my work. It is profoundly surrendered to the will of God, and if there was any identifiable mistake in my choices and actions this long day, it was that I failed to go first to God, to seek and to know His will.
     People who are not on the journey of conversion will never understand that last sentence. I never understood, and even now I have to read it over and over again because the light is only beginning to break through. Francis and Clare's great love was the love of surrender and conversion to love itself, more than a way of life. They accepted love as identity. Like Jesus on Calvary, they became love--and it was all God's doing. Well, it was like getting married: two people deciding to do it together.

     Today was God's proposal. Francis found it when he turned to look back at the leper and "discovered a heart of mercy". Clare found it when she rejected her family's plans for her life and followed the one who occupied all her senses. Both of them found, like me, that it was a life-work. A conscious decision to be converted, with all it brings.
     There will always be difficult children at school, kids on the brink of failure at life. My challenge, I suppose, will be to patrol the edge with ropes of love, to go out and rescue, to intervene, to draw them back, to show them a path of life by the expedient of modeling love. It's not a romantic idea--that would be my weakness. "Love," I heard myself whispering in the darkness, "is patient, kind, does not put on airs." It is meek, tolerant, willing to see more than one side of an issue, slow to anger, rich in mercy, building slowly on respect, never threatened by the long haul. It gets better with age. Love converts. It walks with the truth in its hands. It brings liberty to captives. It sets prisoners free. There is no distance love cannot go, no trial it cannot endure, no burden it cannot take onto its own shoulders. I understand now why God has chosen for me to work in public education. So many opportunities to love. So many opportunities to be converted.
    
     At two a.m. on Saturday morning, I don't have a clue how I will proceed, only faith that yesterday will not be wasted, that the difficulties I experienced are no match to God's will, no match to real love. That what he sees, knows and plans for all of us will come to fulfillment. God rules. Creation follows. That's the plan. And God, Jesus tells us, is love.

     The long light of autumn slips across my porch, spangles through the curtains and spatters over the family room floor and wall. It is November now, after many days of waiting. Though we waited for it, longing for cooler days, the light brings sadness for the strength of summer is no longer in its hands. It is the Old Light, the light that remembers, and I am profoundly moved.
     In Arizona, summer can be so strong as to cause forgetfulness. Winter clothes need to be aired by the expedient measure of draping them over the backs of chairs. The furnace grill must be hosed and scrubbed, the filter washed. Our puppy, Francis Clare, can't resist the hose and drenches herself while I work. So I grab a bar of soap, rub her down, shower her off and leave her running in the still-green grass to dry in what's left of the sunlight. She's had her first bath.
     Indoors I'm at loose ends. I dislike this time of year, this slant of light, this sorry waiting for the inevitable darkness. Over and over I must remind myself that "there is a light that has overcome the darkness." Yes, I have to pray my way into November.
     But it's a good lesson when I think of all the things I get myself into only to find I must pray, usually to be rescued. I don't need to be rescued from autumn, for it is a season rich with celebrations. Today we are remembering veterans. Tommy put our flag up, stretched beneath the porch eaves, clear and shining in the platinum light of the all-too-early afternoon. I can't help thinking I need to go into the chapel and get on my knees--something I owe God, perhaps, or just a sense that I must be avidly open and ready.
    Tommy's birthday is in three days. We will go to the restaurant for sandwhiches and salad, a rare night out these days. I worked on the car, cleaning and charging the battery, shaking dust out of the filters. It's due for a day at the shop, a good going-over for all the ordinary things cars tend to need about the time one makes the last payment. Katie stopped in and is looking well and happy. She's been seeing her doctor and has made decisions with good results. It's nice to know she is well. Marie and Ann are both working and going to school, very busy, but pretty sure they will stop by on Thanksgiving. Then it will be advent and the sweetest season of all begins; the wanting, the waiting, the hoping, the fulfillment of the infinite promise.
     Is my heart ready? So many simple things, tidied up and stored away. A great longing has grown all summer, like a new tree in the garden, still young, but promising both flower and fruit. Soon, soon enough we will go down to the church to be received by the Secular Franciscan Order. The date has been set: June 13, 2011. And as we wait, as we prepare, all things are gently removed from our hands. At least in heart and soul, we hope to go naked into His arms, and live.

     A cup of coffee would be nice about now; laughter, visits from friends. Perhaps I'm just reacting to my time in the hospital, the necessary ministrations of the surgeon, the ambivalent results, the plan to watch, wait, take care, keep healthy. Growing, I suppose, never ceases. I am eager for the distractions of the holidays, but even as I confess it, I'm pretty sure I will turn from it. Because there is someone out there with something more for me. This is the year of giving, and the exchange will be mutual. Two-way. Covenant.

     I can feel him waiting somewhere, out where the wind is blowiwng and the clouds are hurrying, where the desert speaks hymns of praise and the flowers of tomorrow dream of blooming...

Theater of Creation

Not everything is sumblime. Most of life, I suppose, is as ordinary as washing dishes. But God is in everything and that sort of changes the tenor of the game. I'm wondering tonight how much we should be looking for God in what I call the "holy ordinaries..."
     Several things have been drawing together to help me with this. First is the presence of God in everything he created, like a fingerprint. There is grace in all of creation, and we can go from grace to grace simply by walking from flower to tree to stone to rainstorm. To annoint ourselves with the natural world is to bathe in grace, and a healthy spirit craves such encounters.
     Then there is the grace in all people, since we also are creatures and by the same action, God's grace is present. So we go from hand to hand, person to person, voice to voice, constantly bathed in his presence.
     But it is just as true for our interior life, for we ourselves are created and imprinted by grace. Every thought, feeling, emotion, understanding makes God present. Granted, we need faith sometimes to believe it, but it means that as long as we have breath, we have God.
     So the spirit life needs nature, community and contemplation, to say the least. But I am never content with groups of three; I always look for the fourth, the completing element. And tonight I would have to say that the one other thing that is essential is God himself. No containers, no patterns, no plans or strategies. For faith to grow there must be undefended encounter with God. Direct encounter. The Old Testament writers warned against any attempt to do such a thing, as the encounter would mean death. But our saints tell us it is possible, not only possible, but destined. If not in the daily fabric of our lives, then eventually. Thomas Merton said it well when he said "There comes a time in ever man's life when he must stand on his own two feet in the presence of God."
     What this says to us, is that God wants to be intimate with us. To touch us without any protections, any barriers or distances. I think this touch comes in infinite forms, that anyone can have it but that we'd better abandon our predictions about what it will be like. Remember, God is present to us in things, people, even in our own selves. So what are we to do the day He steps out of the theater of creation and shows himself plainly?

     I think the best plan is to live in such a way as to be able to say, "I was expecting you..."
  

Where do I find God?

Sex is not a bad thing, but God has given us boundaries because of the life that comes through intimacy. Now, that being said, it occurs to me that life comes through every kind of intimacy. Blessed are those who understand this.

A hug is a moment of intimacy that brings life.
A conversation is a moment of intimacy that brings life.
Planting a flower is a moment of intimacy.
Sharing a meal is a moment of intimacy.

It goes on, and it is a worthy experience to contemplate life in this way. All life comes through intimacy. There cannot be life, where we do not touch.

I bring this to the table because of the Gospel yesterday in which Jesus teaches us that God is the God of the living, not the dead. I saw in one commentary these words: "To God, everything is alive."
     These are profound words because they mean in every direction we turn, in every encounter, we find life. But we have to be there. There has to be vulnerability. We have to touch life and allow it to touch us.
     Now consider this: it works both ways. We can open up to life, go out to meet it, let it touch us and in the encounter we can receive intimacy. But we can also go out to life, we can touch it, and in that gift we can give intimacy. And into every one of those encounters, life comes. Not through, but into. Present. Active. Now.
     Every ringing step, every thrilling breath, every sight, sound, beat of our heart, is filled with life. We are made intimate with Creation which God made good and alive. And so, as we awaken to this truth, we are changed. We become alive too, and life is in us--the life which is God.

    I have searched for God and God is helping me to find him. But today, when I go out to get the paper, when I meet my neighbor, when I pick a stone out of the yard or admire the autumn flowers--I am having intimacy with God, and God is making life in me.
     Perhaps this is why Francis loved Mary so much.