August is a palpable time of year. Even if you were blindfolded, you would know it was August by the way it feels. You know other times of year by the way they smell or sound; weather is... personal that way. I suppose God is like that too.
Summer is the season when things slow down, fall off, relax. I tell people that neckties should be illegal this time of year, but I never wear one anyway. The Bolo--a sort of lariat with a clip--is the official Arizona alternative. But I don't own one of those either. We just muscle through the hot days and ignore pretty much everything else.
So it's almost a tradition around here that church programs fizzle out. And it's been discussed in the Fraternity that maybe we shouldn't allow that to happen. Our the training period for Candidates is being reduced from two years to eighteen months. Since we knock off June, July, August every year, we already do an eighteen month program. I imagine somebody got stuck over reducing it any more. So the talk is about how to bring life to the summer months when nobody is out moving around, except to look for a cold drink... I wonder how Jesus did summertime?
Our cohort group began two years ago with more than twelve people. Half have left. With only six actively pursuing profession, I'm feeling a little nervous. I don't like the leaky-boat feeling, but then I remember Peter shouting at Jesus across the waves. We walk on water. It's part of our charism as Christians. He walks on water so if he's out there and we want to arrange a meeting...
That's what we're doing. The Conversion Journey. Taking meetings with God, who founded his kingdom on the seas and established it on the rivers and if we're ever going to get there we're going to have to learn to trust him. That's the news at quarter to three in the morning, Friday, August 6, 2010.
In August the light changes. I call it the "heaven light". It's thick like water but transparent as glass. You can breathe the light here in the desert, and in August it grows so strong that even the city can't hide it. Everything is embroidered with detail, presence, consciousness. Trees, traffic, buildings. The light spangles through, careening from plane to plane like looking through crystals. It fills. August must be special to God because in the middle of our summer doldrums, he enters.
We are bag-packing to begin new ministry next month. Our Fraternity work of feeding the homeless has ended, and some members are shifting to catechesis for children, also a way of feeding. Enter JoAnne and Tom to fill a gap that appeared, if we can. Such doubt is not Franciscan, we are learning. God calls from out on the water and we go--out of the boat, onto the waves, like it was everyday stuff. We have this one next year to prepare and then we make our Profession. JoAnne is already planning invitations. I understand now that a year is a pretty big thing, with lots of pockets. I only wonder if it will be enough.
Before we get there, I'm going to have to face the issue of Reconcilliation--not a one-time event or even a big deal, but because it is part of the daily gift. We are a people reconciled to God through Christ. That means a relationship we must live, like our marriage. It means throwing in together, our life and God's life, sharing everything, personal, intimate, real. It's like walking in the August light, enfolded and transformed. We can't just live in God and not be changed. I've been abstaining from Reconcilliation, and it's time to feast.
The thing about conversion is that we don't do it for ourselves, but there's still so much to be done...
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
God Knows
There's more to becoming a Franciscan than I knew. Most of my friends confirm it. Even good Catholics with lots of experience don't seem to know much about Franciscans. We've had people ask questions like "Do Franciscans believe in God?" Some think we're a cult. Some think we live in monasteries. Being married and living in a house and going to work every day seems to throw them. How can you live in a religious order and still have a life? Maybe I'll spend my career in the SFO doing P.R. They could use it.
But I have to admit I was pretty much the same when I began. For instance, if you asked me to name a Franciscan saint, I could have told you one. Turns out there are lots of them. So many that there's a whole extra prayer book just to fit them in, and there seem to be new ones coming all the time. But that's not what today's blog is about. Today it's about the journey...
We bought a small TAO for our house. It's about eight inches tall and I put it on the wall over our mailbox, just outside the front door. I didn't want it to blow off the wall in a windstorm, so I used this white kind of glue that comes in a tube and you squeeze it out with a caulking gun. When I was finished JoAnne said, "Well, that's stuck on there. We're never selling this house...!"
And that seemed to sum up the changes that have been happening this summer. As soon as the TAO was up and the glue was set, our home became a Franciscan place, just like any Franciscan Mission or Retreat House or Church or any other place we've visited since our journey began. I was startled by the thought. I hadn't set out to do that; it wasn't my intent. But JoAnne was right as she always is about such things. Our house is changed. Through the Franciscan way, we have given it to God, as it should be.
How many Christians get this far? What can God do with a broken-down old joint like this? There was a big crane on the street last week. Our next-door neighbor was getting a new airconditioning unit. So of course I spent the night laying awake worrying about how long our unit will last. Tight times, you know. But we were watching the movie "Jesus of Nazareth" and there's a scene where he is teaching the disciples and he says "Don't worry about such things. Seek the things of the kingdom and everything you need will be given to you."
It's not easy, to trust I mean. Not like that. Not with full conviction of the Gospel. We start with longing to trust--we want to trust--long before we are peaceful about it. We long to walk with God, before we find peace in God. We long to turn away from sin long before we have either the strength or the courage to do so. We long to be free even before we embrace the Cross...
God knows all this. He knows the hardships of faith before he calls us to it. And one of Francis' closest companions, Saint Clare of Assissi, wrote that "God moves the soul gradually" until it wants nothing but the Lord, until it can surrender everything to have him.
We've been listening to Joyce Meyer on tapes. She's really helping us understand what boldness means in the life of faith. How boldness opens our lives up to the promises of Christ. We have to choose boldness before we feel brave. We have to throw our lives in with Christ like the apostles... before we really know him. Maybe that's why the Spirit had us put up the TAO. I was wiping the extra glue off with a wet rag when I looked at it and told JoAnne "I guess this means I'll have to be nice to salesmen from now on..."
The TAO is out in front now, like a lamp. It's easy to see from the street. People don't know what it means. It looks a little odd. But over the years I've had strangers come to the door on God's instruction, people with a message for us, people with gifts, even people with healing. Before I put up the TAO, God already knew where to find me. Before anything, before we make the first move toward Him, he has already taken us into his arms. It's time to put our faith out front...
But I have to admit I was pretty much the same when I began. For instance, if you asked me to name a Franciscan saint, I could have told you one. Turns out there are lots of them. So many that there's a whole extra prayer book just to fit them in, and there seem to be new ones coming all the time. But that's not what today's blog is about. Today it's about the journey...
We bought a small TAO for our house. It's about eight inches tall and I put it on the wall over our mailbox, just outside the front door. I didn't want it to blow off the wall in a windstorm, so I used this white kind of glue that comes in a tube and you squeeze it out with a caulking gun. When I was finished JoAnne said, "Well, that's stuck on there. We're never selling this house...!"
And that seemed to sum up the changes that have been happening this summer. As soon as the TAO was up and the glue was set, our home became a Franciscan place, just like any Franciscan Mission or Retreat House or Church or any other place we've visited since our journey began. I was startled by the thought. I hadn't set out to do that; it wasn't my intent. But JoAnne was right as she always is about such things. Our house is changed. Through the Franciscan way, we have given it to God, as it should be.
How many Christians get this far? What can God do with a broken-down old joint like this? There was a big crane on the street last week. Our next-door neighbor was getting a new airconditioning unit. So of course I spent the night laying awake worrying about how long our unit will last. Tight times, you know. But we were watching the movie "Jesus of Nazareth" and there's a scene where he is teaching the disciples and he says "Don't worry about such things. Seek the things of the kingdom and everything you need will be given to you."
It's not easy, to trust I mean. Not like that. Not with full conviction of the Gospel. We start with longing to trust--we want to trust--long before we are peaceful about it. We long to walk with God, before we find peace in God. We long to turn away from sin long before we have either the strength or the courage to do so. We long to be free even before we embrace the Cross...
God knows all this. He knows the hardships of faith before he calls us to it. And one of Francis' closest companions, Saint Clare of Assissi, wrote that "God moves the soul gradually" until it wants nothing but the Lord, until it can surrender everything to have him.
We've been listening to Joyce Meyer on tapes. She's really helping us understand what boldness means in the life of faith. How boldness opens our lives up to the promises of Christ. We have to choose boldness before we feel brave. We have to throw our lives in with Christ like the apostles... before we really know him. Maybe that's why the Spirit had us put up the TAO. I was wiping the extra glue off with a wet rag when I looked at it and told JoAnne "I guess this means I'll have to be nice to salesmen from now on..."
The TAO is out in front now, like a lamp. It's easy to see from the street. People don't know what it means. It looks a little odd. But over the years I've had strangers come to the door on God's instruction, people with a message for us, people with gifts, even people with healing. Before I put up the TAO, God already knew where to find me. Before anything, before we make the first move toward Him, he has already taken us into his arms. It's time to put our faith out front...
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Just the All of Us
Years ago, when our house was full of children, JoAnne and I used to watch a television show called "Just the Ten of Us". It was a sit-com about a Catholic family with eight children. The stories were all about the craziness of trying to get things done in a crowd, with a string of kids all different ages, you know, sort of like home. One kid was a goody-two-shoes and the next was a bit of a devil and while the oldest was on her knees saying her Rosary the next would be climbing out the bedroom window to meet her boyfriend. Har, har. As you can imagine, the show didn't last long. But while it played we enjoyed having a laugh at that oddball family and their really strange habits. Like for instance, one night when the kids were causing trouble, Mom and Dad had to escape to their bedroom just to talk to each other. They sat down on their bed to figure out what they were going to do about the latest problem. I remember sitting beside JoAnne on the couch, pointing at all the props and laughing. I remember there was a small table in the corner, with a statue of Mary and a vigil candle glowing softly.
"Ha, ha!" I was laughing. "Look at that! NOBODY does THAT anymore...!" It was like looking at a Catholic family in the Fifties, not the Eighties. We began looking more closely at the props and settings in other scenes. We found a picture of the Sacred Heart in one scene. In the dining room there was a painting of the Last Supper. Somebody was using a Holy Card. Somebody else had Holy Water inside the door of her room. "Nobody DOES that any more. Nobody does that..."
I looked around the empty walls and tables of our home. Then I looked at JoAnne.
"Why doesn't anybody do that anymore?"
We were married about ten years at that time and in our closet we had a box filled with gifts people had given us for our wedding, for anniversaries, for days our children were born. And the box was full of Catholic things: a crucifix, a statue of a saint, a bottle of holy water, a blessed candle. We got the box out and went through it remembering all of the gifts, who had given them to us, the occasions they celebrated. It was like taking a walk outdoors, full of fresh air and the scent of the desert.
JoAnne took the little treasures and found places for everything, and the habit stuck. Over the years we kept on collecting artifacts of faith, signs and symbols of the journey we have been on together all of our adult lives. Today the house resembles a bit of a museum. We have the family china closet which is a shrine to people who have gone before us marked with the sign of faith. In the space where the glass and the doorframe meet JoAnne displays holy cards and pictures from funeral homes of (so many!) friends and family who live now in Christ. Just standing there for a moment is like going with them, if only for a little while. Next to that is the entertainment cabinet, which substitutes for a fireplace with a mantel (I've even gone so far as to put on a DVD with a recording of a fireplace). The top of that cabinet is where we have our best statue of the Blessed Mother, complete with candles, flowers, many pictures of our children at all ages and stages of life. I call it my "standing altar" because I love to stand there in her presence--the prayers that come are too deep for words.
Turning from there is the big front window that looks out on the street and the front door. There is a saying from Scripture on the outside of that door (which I really should remember when I jerk the door open to chase away salesmen...) but right inside is a cross with an image of Jesus resurrected. It has been in our family longer than I can remember, from the heyday of the Renewal years when Christ was often shown in glory.
The next wall as you enter has family pictures, my mother on her wedding day, and awards the kids earned in school and beyond. It is our "wall of pride" and there is an icon of Jesus looking somber and holding his hand in a certain way as if he is saying "Remember that all victories come through faith..." The fourth wall of that family room has a bookcase, but there are no books. It is filled with family photos from generations, grandparents and great-grandparents, babies and cousins. There are little carved angels, statues from other places in the world, and a picture of Mary holding Baby Jesus. They are arranged with the oldest pictures of great-grandparents at the bottom and the news pictures of angels and babies at the top as if Family is a tree that grows from ancient roots. This is the closest thing we have to a family altar and it reminds us that we are a family in Christ, always growing, always moving toward the day where all will be gathered in Him, into his Family in Heaven. That's just the Family Room!
Other rooms are much the same. Our latest creation is the one we longed for most of our lives. It is our family chapel, inspired by other families who invited us into their homes. For years we never had the space, but recently, after clearing out boxes, we realized there was no one hanging around who needed a bed and a little privacy. The room became the place where we gather twice a day--morning and evening--to say our prayers. Like every other place in the house, the chapel must serve double and triple duty... but first and foremost it is our prayer place. In fact, the whole house has become a place of prayer.
The hallway leading down to the bedrooms is lined on both sides with icons, pictures, placques and displays of faith; images of saints and angels, collections of family pictures all jumbled together and inextricable. We walk as a family in two worlds. Our bedrooms have more signs and icons. There is a statue of Saint Francis on the bureau on our own room. Crosses or crucifixes in every room of the house. In a corner where I get out of bed there are more icons of Saints and under my pillow, a holy card. I wear the Tao around my neck. I even long to eat Christ, and so we go to Mass and join with the Eucharistic Community... sharing the Meal Christ established. Living the life. Praying. Growing. Seeking. If Jesus came to our house, would he recognize us as Believers...?
"Take all away," Emily Dickenson once wrote, "and the only thing worth larceny is left--the Immortality!"
Joyce Myers writes that there is an important difference between what we do and who we are as Christians. Our "do" is about following Jesus and living the Gospel life. It is important, yes. But our "who" is about what God has done freely, without our effort or action. The decorations, signs, symbols, memories, artifacts of faith that fill our home fill us with joyful hope while we wait for the coming of God's kingdom. But take all that away and the really important thing, the infinite and eternal thing, remains. He has already made us His Family. Nobody can take that away. Our own weakness and failure can't change it. Wherever we go, he is there ahead of us, and we celebrate what he has done by surrounding ourselves with signs and pictures and memorials.
And then we walk amid this sacred space which is our home, moving from prayer to prayer, remembering the Grace that saves us, offering ourselves in the hope of the Resurrection to the ongoing work of salvation. As weird as we may appear, people who come to our home say they can feel it: we are all God's Family...
"Ha, ha!" I was laughing. "Look at that! NOBODY does THAT anymore...!" It was like looking at a Catholic family in the Fifties, not the Eighties. We began looking more closely at the props and settings in other scenes. We found a picture of the Sacred Heart in one scene. In the dining room there was a painting of the Last Supper. Somebody was using a Holy Card. Somebody else had Holy Water inside the door of her room. "Nobody DOES that any more. Nobody does that..."
I looked around the empty walls and tables of our home. Then I looked at JoAnne.
"Why doesn't anybody do that anymore?"
We were married about ten years at that time and in our closet we had a box filled with gifts people had given us for our wedding, for anniversaries, for days our children were born. And the box was full of Catholic things: a crucifix, a statue of a saint, a bottle of holy water, a blessed candle. We got the box out and went through it remembering all of the gifts, who had given them to us, the occasions they celebrated. It was like taking a walk outdoors, full of fresh air and the scent of the desert.
JoAnne took the little treasures and found places for everything, and the habit stuck. Over the years we kept on collecting artifacts of faith, signs and symbols of the journey we have been on together all of our adult lives. Today the house resembles a bit of a museum. We have the family china closet which is a shrine to people who have gone before us marked with the sign of faith. In the space where the glass and the doorframe meet JoAnne displays holy cards and pictures from funeral homes of (so many!) friends and family who live now in Christ. Just standing there for a moment is like going with them, if only for a little while. Next to that is the entertainment cabinet, which substitutes for a fireplace with a mantel (I've even gone so far as to put on a DVD with a recording of a fireplace). The top of that cabinet is where we have our best statue of the Blessed Mother, complete with candles, flowers, many pictures of our children at all ages and stages of life. I call it my "standing altar" because I love to stand there in her presence--the prayers that come are too deep for words.
Turning from there is the big front window that looks out on the street and the front door. There is a saying from Scripture on the outside of that door (which I really should remember when I jerk the door open to chase away salesmen...) but right inside is a cross with an image of Jesus resurrected. It has been in our family longer than I can remember, from the heyday of the Renewal years when Christ was often shown in glory.
The next wall as you enter has family pictures, my mother on her wedding day, and awards the kids earned in school and beyond. It is our "wall of pride" and there is an icon of Jesus looking somber and holding his hand in a certain way as if he is saying "Remember that all victories come through faith..." The fourth wall of that family room has a bookcase, but there are no books. It is filled with family photos from generations, grandparents and great-grandparents, babies and cousins. There are little carved angels, statues from other places in the world, and a picture of Mary holding Baby Jesus. They are arranged with the oldest pictures of great-grandparents at the bottom and the news pictures of angels and babies at the top as if Family is a tree that grows from ancient roots. This is the closest thing we have to a family altar and it reminds us that we are a family in Christ, always growing, always moving toward the day where all will be gathered in Him, into his Family in Heaven. That's just the Family Room!
Other rooms are much the same. Our latest creation is the one we longed for most of our lives. It is our family chapel, inspired by other families who invited us into their homes. For years we never had the space, but recently, after clearing out boxes, we realized there was no one hanging around who needed a bed and a little privacy. The room became the place where we gather twice a day--morning and evening--to say our prayers. Like every other place in the house, the chapel must serve double and triple duty... but first and foremost it is our prayer place. In fact, the whole house has become a place of prayer.
The hallway leading down to the bedrooms is lined on both sides with icons, pictures, placques and displays of faith; images of saints and angels, collections of family pictures all jumbled together and inextricable. We walk as a family in two worlds. Our bedrooms have more signs and icons. There is a statue of Saint Francis on the bureau on our own room. Crosses or crucifixes in every room of the house. In a corner where I get out of bed there are more icons of Saints and under my pillow, a holy card. I wear the Tao around my neck. I even long to eat Christ, and so we go to Mass and join with the Eucharistic Community... sharing the Meal Christ established. Living the life. Praying. Growing. Seeking. If Jesus came to our house, would he recognize us as Believers...?
"Take all away," Emily Dickenson once wrote, "and the only thing worth larceny is left--the Immortality!"
Joyce Myers writes that there is an important difference between what we do and who we are as Christians. Our "do" is about following Jesus and living the Gospel life. It is important, yes. But our "who" is about what God has done freely, without our effort or action. The decorations, signs, symbols, memories, artifacts of faith that fill our home fill us with joyful hope while we wait for the coming of God's kingdom. But take all that away and the really important thing, the infinite and eternal thing, remains. He has already made us His Family. Nobody can take that away. Our own weakness and failure can't change it. Wherever we go, he is there ahead of us, and we celebrate what he has done by surrounding ourselves with signs and pictures and memorials.
And then we walk amid this sacred space which is our home, moving from prayer to prayer, remembering the Grace that saves us, offering ourselves in the hope of the Resurrection to the ongoing work of salvation. As weird as we may appear, people who come to our home say they can feel it: we are all God's Family...
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Sunday morning, very early...
Just "blogging in" to say hello. There isn't much happening. This time of year, in Arizona, is repetitive. The sun comes up. It gets hot. The sun goes down. It stays hot. I used to say "There are only two seasons in Arizona--Summer and dark."
Officially our summer rainy season begins in the middle of June and lasts until mid-September and along the way trees blow down, roofs get torn off, lightning sets fire to air conditioners... the usual stuff. It's all external. Spiritually I think we have similar situations. It's Summer. The grass grows. We stay in the shade and we hope God will handle things. Not much to say except the puppy has grown and loves hugs. Our prayers are a great comfort to us. And just as we wait for the rain we know will come... we wait for God's next move with great anticipation.
Officially our summer rainy season begins in the middle of June and lasts until mid-September and along the way trees blow down, roofs get torn off, lightning sets fire to air conditioners... the usual stuff. It's all external. Spiritually I think we have similar situations. It's Summer. The grass grows. We stay in the shade and we hope God will handle things. Not much to say except the puppy has grown and loves hugs. Our prayers are a great comfort to us. And just as we wait for the rain we know will come... we wait for God's next move with great anticipation.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monsoon Season
Out of bed early this morning to do my walking. I had a cold and missed several days. Not too bad. About three miles, very early. A police car slows as I cut through the park. Maybe I should wait for the other walkers to come out.
They say our "monsoon season" started yesterday. Monsoon refers to a seasonal shift in the winds, which bring a change in weather. It happens the same time evey year and while we don't wade in water up to our armpits, we've had some summers where the rain total matches some monsoons in India. I looked it up.
We are experiencing another seasonal change. It's summer break for teachers. In days gone by, this was the layoff time when teachers relaxed, got their heads back, maybe did a part-time job to earn a little cash. Those days are long gone. Now the teachers work more hours to meet the "extended school year" our administrators brag about. Meanwhile the administrators don't want to tell about our jobs next year. JoAnne has been cut to twenty hours a week. I got a letter saying "come back next year" and "we'll tell you later what you'll be doing and what we'll be paying". Heck of a way to earn a living...
So the changes include JoAnne sitting with a calculator to figure if she can earn enough from early retirement, or if working an extra year at half-wages will result in reduced retirement payments from the State of Arizona down the road. Either way it doesn't look pretty.
So I'm walking every day in anticipation of working later without a car to commute in. No matter. Simplicity is a virtue in Franciscan life. And I'm not good with money anyhow.
But I'm not so good as a teacher, either. I lack "assertiveness", which is the same as saying I won't cut somebody's throat to get ahead. I seem to be the only person around who thinks that way. I get the impression people think I'm broken or something because I rather smile at people than condemn them. Maybe I make them nervous. So I was thinking about my future as a teacher while I was out walking, and thinking about the story I've been trying to write between teaching, and thinking about how maybe I'm not suited, really, for anything else but writing. And writing could be a gift to give to God, like teaching, right?
And it doesn't matter if anyone else ever notices, either way, because it's all God's business in the end, and he keeps his books well.
So even though it feels like we've failed--at least at the things the world says are important--we don't really need to be anxious because God is still in charge. And if people aren't hearing the words I write, maybe all I need to do is to find another mountain to write from...
Happy Monsoon!
They say our "monsoon season" started yesterday. Monsoon refers to a seasonal shift in the winds, which bring a change in weather. It happens the same time evey year and while we don't wade in water up to our armpits, we've had some summers where the rain total matches some monsoons in India. I looked it up.
We are experiencing another seasonal change. It's summer break for teachers. In days gone by, this was the layoff time when teachers relaxed, got their heads back, maybe did a part-time job to earn a little cash. Those days are long gone. Now the teachers work more hours to meet the "extended school year" our administrators brag about. Meanwhile the administrators don't want to tell about our jobs next year. JoAnne has been cut to twenty hours a week. I got a letter saying "come back next year" and "we'll tell you later what you'll be doing and what we'll be paying". Heck of a way to earn a living...
So the changes include JoAnne sitting with a calculator to figure if she can earn enough from early retirement, or if working an extra year at half-wages will result in reduced retirement payments from the State of Arizona down the road. Either way it doesn't look pretty.
So I'm walking every day in anticipation of working later without a car to commute in. No matter. Simplicity is a virtue in Franciscan life. And I'm not good with money anyhow.
But I'm not so good as a teacher, either. I lack "assertiveness", which is the same as saying I won't cut somebody's throat to get ahead. I seem to be the only person around who thinks that way. I get the impression people think I'm broken or something because I rather smile at people than condemn them. Maybe I make them nervous. So I was thinking about my future as a teacher while I was out walking, and thinking about the story I've been trying to write between teaching, and thinking about how maybe I'm not suited, really, for anything else but writing. And writing could be a gift to give to God, like teaching, right?
And it doesn't matter if anyone else ever notices, either way, because it's all God's business in the end, and he keeps his books well.
So even though it feels like we've failed--at least at the things the world says are important--we don't really need to be anxious because God is still in charge. And if people aren't hearing the words I write, maybe all I need to do is to find another mountain to write from...
Happy Monsoon!
Lack of Understanding
Perhaps a Candidate starts off naïve and faces a long journey to understanding. The honey days come to an end and the real work begins with a series of jolts, like a car breaking down on the highway. One is left standing in the middle of the wilderness with nothing but wits and a long coat, and a rough trail leading away to who knows where. That’s something like how it feels today.
Friday, June 11: Our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary begins on our last day at work for the 2009-2010 school year. Chaotic is a good word. We only work half a day and then we leave, rather in a hurry, without really saying goodbye to people as is our tradition. This year JoAnne was notified that her duty would be cut in half for the coming school year. After fifteen years she will be forced to work part-time, and surrender her company benefits. We make the ride home in shock, but we saw it coming.
Besides, today we have made plans. Knowing our situation, our daughter gave us a gift of money so that we could celebrate, which we do by attending a baseball game on a truly fine night. During the game while television cameras scour the stands for couples in love, JoAnne gives me a kiss that erases the years. We are, for a moment, back at the beginning starting out all over again, the two of us and God. It was some kiss…
Saturday, June 12: After doing chores we leave to Saint Mary’s to meet our Fraternity. We want to set up the dining hall for a celebration tomorrow. Four Candidates are making their profession at the 9:00 a.m. mass, and we’ll have a nice brunch afterwards, complements of the Parish Life Committee. There are clouds in the sky and the weather is soft, on the edge of rain. It reminds me so much of San Diego that I sneak away from my chores to stand in the parking lot catching raindrops with my face. While I’m thus occupied, a homeless man wanders over to rummage through the garbage can. He finds a bag of tortilla chips somebody threw away and takes them. A minute later he has made his way around the fence that separated us.
“Can you help me out?” he asks. “Could I get a sandwich or something…?”
He’s looking at the entrance to the church basement where the ladies in the kitchen are preparing tomorrow’s banquet.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “We don’t give food here anymore…”
It’s a sad situation. After seven years of providing sandwiches to the homeless, Saint Mary’s cut orders to disband the ministry. It had gotten too popular. As the economy grew worse, more homeless people were coming. They were setting up camps in the parish plaza, unrolling sleeping bags on the steps and blocking the church entrance. As parishioners came and went, they would ask for money and food. Since several groups meet in the evenings, a lot of people were feeling alarmed, walking along the dimly lit sidewalks and paths. Meanwhile, the squatters were bringing beer and liquer to their night camps, organizing parties, dumping trash and using the gardens and buildings for outdoor bathrooms. One could smell the remains coming into church in the morning.
Our Diocese has a policy that persons seeking assistance should be referred to the Saint Vincent de Paul center downtown where they can find food, shelter, counseling, clothing and hygiene supplies. It is well-organized and well run, providing trained social workers and funded by donations from all the parishes. But even among the homeless, not everyone wants to spend time in that part of town, especially after dark. Saint Mary’s decided that the food program must end. And so I stood in the parking lot, blessed by God’s gift of rain in June, watching the homeless man walk away hungry while another across the street shouted curses at the top of his lung—toward villains only he could see…
Later that evening our daughter called asking to come over and talk. We met in the family room where she told us that her boyfriend’s mother just got thrown out of her apartment by another son. When she called the police for help gathering her belongings they told her that since the apartment lease was in the son’s name, they could do nothing to help her. Do nothing. The words stuck in my head. Then Ann asked us if we could find a spare a bed for the woman until she found a new place to live…
We said no. We’ve been down this road several times and came to the conclusion that our small home is unsuitable for sheltering the homeless. It’s not my call alone, because I live in a community, small as we are, and not everyone sees things the way I do. I am also responsible for their health and safety, and though I fail at the job often, I haven’t got the right to increase their stress just to satisfy my ego. Over and over I thought about the woman, how she now had to go find a motel, and how my daughter, who had only a day before given me money to celebrate with, would have to spend even more money for the room. Now the log that jammed in my head was drifting down to stick in my heart. I felt helpless.
But I am never helpless, even in the face of my own weakness or cowardice. I went into our chapel to pray. I took up my Rosary, which Mary once showed me can work like a sword, cutting through the gloom and illusions to let God’s like flow in. I took it in both hands and prayed like a warrior, surrounding myself with the strongest Saints and Angels I know. And I gave them instructions to fly to that hurting family and help them with the things they most needed: faith, peace and understanding. I prayed with conviction and faith—as best as I could muster. And when I prayed I felt power go out from me. I don’t need to know the result. I was praying as much for my confusion and inaction as for them. I was praying for God’s help.
Sunday, June 13. A lovely day. We get up early and do our simple chores. We’ve excused ourselves from ministering at Our Lady’s in order to attend the celebration at Saint Mary’s. We got there an hour early and helped where we could with final preparations for the banquet, but they are well organized. They have the Parish Life Committee who are all devoted to having monthly events and celebrations in order for parishioners to develop relationships beyond just attending Mass. In these economic times, I’ve already seen fruit of fellowship and compassion growing. So in a good frame of mind, I lose myself in the joy of witnessing people like us making their promise “to imitate the example of Saint Francis by living the gospel…” It’s a worthy hope.
Saint Mary’s Basillica is downtown, in the heart of Phoenix, and so it is a mixed population of cultures and economics. At Mass today one old man, not entirely “there”, prays his own prayers loudly and has to be asked not to play with a lighter in the old wood church. After Mass he takes his two bags of personal belongings and flows outside with the rest of the congregation.
We all move down to the basement social hall, which is beautifully decorated and fragrant with the aromas of coffee and banquet food. The hall fills and all the tables are taken. I flit like a hummingbird from table to table, determined to move out of my comfort zone and introduce myself to as many strangers as I can, to grow in Franciscan hospitality. Deep in my heart, I know I don’t want to go down the path of apathy and hope that my two experiences yesterday do not extend to a third.
Then a man stands behind me.
“Excuse me,” he says, “Can anybody here help me with bus fare?”
My hand flies to my pocket. There is still something left of the gift-money from Friday. We are still celebrating the wonder and joy of our sacrament. I pull out the money. I know the bus is more than a dollar, so I give him the larger bill, glad to let him have the extra. It was gift to me; I can share the gift with him.
But suddenly there are many people on their feet.
“You can’t be in here,” someone is saying. Two or three people surround the old man.
“He’s been here before,” someone says. “He knows our rules.”
“You can’t give them money,” someone else is telling me. Another face, “It isn’t permitted.”
Then, one of the Team Members sits beside me.
“You have to understand why we don’t allow it…” he says, trying to be kind. I stand up. I have to escape. Something is hurting. I suddenly don’t feel very good. I wander among the tables looking for friendly places, for eyes that didn’t see what I had just done, the offense I had just committed. Finally I find my Spiritual Companion and sit beside her.
“Please tell me,” I beg. “Tell me my mistake…”
She thinks it over for a moment.
“Here’s how it works. It’s like, if a man asks you for money to buy food, you don’t know if he’s going to really buy food. You have to be willing to go with him to a restaurant, sit down and order him something. Then you can pay for it…”
“Yeah,” I thought. “Like that’s going to happen…”
I grew angry as the day wore on, and I was glad when JoAnne said it was time to go. I wasn’t in a party mood anymore, and I wasn’t sure about the Franciscans. I know that Francis gave everything, even his clothes, to possess a heart of mercy. I also know that in the rule he gave us we are to honor the clergy and the authority of our Church. So when they say “don’t feed the hungry here” they probably have good reasons. But I don’t understand the reasons. And I don’t know why, later that day when JoAnne goes to visit a friend, I hide in the bathroom and cry.
I’m too soft for this work. If I ever earn some money, I’ll have to find someone who does it right, and give the money to them…
Monday, June 14. Walking carefully, trying not to trample the good feelings of our anniversary. We slide slowly into the routine of our summer layoff. JoAnne is researching retirement options: how much she can get from the federal government, how much from the state; how much she can earn working part-time before they say she is earning too much to be “retired”. As promised, I am taking the first, cool our of our summer days to work on the yard, which fell way behind during the school year. I also read where a man say that the principle of compounding works just as well with chores and goals as it does with money. A little bit invested regularly adds up to big accomplishments.
We don’t know what the next few weeks are really going to be like. We know that we want to continue with our Franciscan training and we both believe the honey days are over. I don’t know what my job will be like next year, though they told me on Friday they would like to have me come back. The details will have to follow in the mail as they figure out their budget. That’s the way public education works in Arizona. Meanwhile I am studying leadership and I intend to use the principle of compounding to make things happen for us, especially to make some money so that I have something to share with the poor. God will show me how and where even when to share it. It’s not the amount or even the money; God just wants to know that we are willing. And it isn’t just money he gives us, but love, talent, skill, knowledge, joy, hope, faith, shelter, food… We are the lamps he lights in the world so that others can find their way. At least one man writes that to succeed we must “…act before you are ready; you must give while your hands are still empty. Then you will see the real miracle called abundance…”
I just wish God had something sticky to fill my heart. When it broke yesterday, everything fell out. I guess he wants us to carry that emptiness, a small splinter of his Cross…
Friday, June 11: Our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary begins on our last day at work for the 2009-2010 school year. Chaotic is a good word. We only work half a day and then we leave, rather in a hurry, without really saying goodbye to people as is our tradition. This year JoAnne was notified that her duty would be cut in half for the coming school year. After fifteen years she will be forced to work part-time, and surrender her company benefits. We make the ride home in shock, but we saw it coming.
Besides, today we have made plans. Knowing our situation, our daughter gave us a gift of money so that we could celebrate, which we do by attending a baseball game on a truly fine night. During the game while television cameras scour the stands for couples in love, JoAnne gives me a kiss that erases the years. We are, for a moment, back at the beginning starting out all over again, the two of us and God. It was some kiss…
Saturday, June 12: After doing chores we leave to Saint Mary’s to meet our Fraternity. We want to set up the dining hall for a celebration tomorrow. Four Candidates are making their profession at the 9:00 a.m. mass, and we’ll have a nice brunch afterwards, complements of the Parish Life Committee. There are clouds in the sky and the weather is soft, on the edge of rain. It reminds me so much of San Diego that I sneak away from my chores to stand in the parking lot catching raindrops with my face. While I’m thus occupied, a homeless man wanders over to rummage through the garbage can. He finds a bag of tortilla chips somebody threw away and takes them. A minute later he has made his way around the fence that separated us.
“Can you help me out?” he asks. “Could I get a sandwich or something…?”
He’s looking at the entrance to the church basement where the ladies in the kitchen are preparing tomorrow’s banquet.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “We don’t give food here anymore…”
It’s a sad situation. After seven years of providing sandwiches to the homeless, Saint Mary’s cut orders to disband the ministry. It had gotten too popular. As the economy grew worse, more homeless people were coming. They were setting up camps in the parish plaza, unrolling sleeping bags on the steps and blocking the church entrance. As parishioners came and went, they would ask for money and food. Since several groups meet in the evenings, a lot of people were feeling alarmed, walking along the dimly lit sidewalks and paths. Meanwhile, the squatters were bringing beer and liquer to their night camps, organizing parties, dumping trash and using the gardens and buildings for outdoor bathrooms. One could smell the remains coming into church in the morning.
Our Diocese has a policy that persons seeking assistance should be referred to the Saint Vincent de Paul center downtown where they can find food, shelter, counseling, clothing and hygiene supplies. It is well-organized and well run, providing trained social workers and funded by donations from all the parishes. But even among the homeless, not everyone wants to spend time in that part of town, especially after dark. Saint Mary’s decided that the food program must end. And so I stood in the parking lot, blessed by God’s gift of rain in June, watching the homeless man walk away hungry while another across the street shouted curses at the top of his lung—toward villains only he could see…
Later that evening our daughter called asking to come over and talk. We met in the family room where she told us that her boyfriend’s mother just got thrown out of her apartment by another son. When she called the police for help gathering her belongings they told her that since the apartment lease was in the son’s name, they could do nothing to help her. Do nothing. The words stuck in my head. Then Ann asked us if we could find a spare a bed for the woman until she found a new place to live…
We said no. We’ve been down this road several times and came to the conclusion that our small home is unsuitable for sheltering the homeless. It’s not my call alone, because I live in a community, small as we are, and not everyone sees things the way I do. I am also responsible for their health and safety, and though I fail at the job often, I haven’t got the right to increase their stress just to satisfy my ego. Over and over I thought about the woman, how she now had to go find a motel, and how my daughter, who had only a day before given me money to celebrate with, would have to spend even more money for the room. Now the log that jammed in my head was drifting down to stick in my heart. I felt helpless.
But I am never helpless, even in the face of my own weakness or cowardice. I went into our chapel to pray. I took up my Rosary, which Mary once showed me can work like a sword, cutting through the gloom and illusions to let God’s like flow in. I took it in both hands and prayed like a warrior, surrounding myself with the strongest Saints and Angels I know. And I gave them instructions to fly to that hurting family and help them with the things they most needed: faith, peace and understanding. I prayed with conviction and faith—as best as I could muster. And when I prayed I felt power go out from me. I don’t need to know the result. I was praying as much for my confusion and inaction as for them. I was praying for God’s help.
Sunday, June 13. A lovely day. We get up early and do our simple chores. We’ve excused ourselves from ministering at Our Lady’s in order to attend the celebration at Saint Mary’s. We got there an hour early and helped where we could with final preparations for the banquet, but they are well organized. They have the Parish Life Committee who are all devoted to having monthly events and celebrations in order for parishioners to develop relationships beyond just attending Mass. In these economic times, I’ve already seen fruit of fellowship and compassion growing. So in a good frame of mind, I lose myself in the joy of witnessing people like us making their promise “to imitate the example of Saint Francis by living the gospel…” It’s a worthy hope.
Saint Mary’s Basillica is downtown, in the heart of Phoenix, and so it is a mixed population of cultures and economics. At Mass today one old man, not entirely “there”, prays his own prayers loudly and has to be asked not to play with a lighter in the old wood church. After Mass he takes his two bags of personal belongings and flows outside with the rest of the congregation.
We all move down to the basement social hall, which is beautifully decorated and fragrant with the aromas of coffee and banquet food. The hall fills and all the tables are taken. I flit like a hummingbird from table to table, determined to move out of my comfort zone and introduce myself to as many strangers as I can, to grow in Franciscan hospitality. Deep in my heart, I know I don’t want to go down the path of apathy and hope that my two experiences yesterday do not extend to a third.
Then a man stands behind me.
“Excuse me,” he says, “Can anybody here help me with bus fare?”
My hand flies to my pocket. There is still something left of the gift-money from Friday. We are still celebrating the wonder and joy of our sacrament. I pull out the money. I know the bus is more than a dollar, so I give him the larger bill, glad to let him have the extra. It was gift to me; I can share the gift with him.
But suddenly there are many people on their feet.
“You can’t be in here,” someone is saying. Two or three people surround the old man.
“He’s been here before,” someone says. “He knows our rules.”
“You can’t give them money,” someone else is telling me. Another face, “It isn’t permitted.”
Then, one of the Team Members sits beside me.
“You have to understand why we don’t allow it…” he says, trying to be kind. I stand up. I have to escape. Something is hurting. I suddenly don’t feel very good. I wander among the tables looking for friendly places, for eyes that didn’t see what I had just done, the offense I had just committed. Finally I find my Spiritual Companion and sit beside her.
“Please tell me,” I beg. “Tell me my mistake…”
She thinks it over for a moment.
“Here’s how it works. It’s like, if a man asks you for money to buy food, you don’t know if he’s going to really buy food. You have to be willing to go with him to a restaurant, sit down and order him something. Then you can pay for it…”
“Yeah,” I thought. “Like that’s going to happen…”
I grew angry as the day wore on, and I was glad when JoAnne said it was time to go. I wasn’t in a party mood anymore, and I wasn’t sure about the Franciscans. I know that Francis gave everything, even his clothes, to possess a heart of mercy. I also know that in the rule he gave us we are to honor the clergy and the authority of our Church. So when they say “don’t feed the hungry here” they probably have good reasons. But I don’t understand the reasons. And I don’t know why, later that day when JoAnne goes to visit a friend, I hide in the bathroom and cry.
I’m too soft for this work. If I ever earn some money, I’ll have to find someone who does it right, and give the money to them…
Monday, June 14. Walking carefully, trying not to trample the good feelings of our anniversary. We slide slowly into the routine of our summer layoff. JoAnne is researching retirement options: how much she can get from the federal government, how much from the state; how much she can earn working part-time before they say she is earning too much to be “retired”. As promised, I am taking the first, cool our of our summer days to work on the yard, which fell way behind during the school year. I also read where a man say that the principle of compounding works just as well with chores and goals as it does with money. A little bit invested regularly adds up to big accomplishments.
We don’t know what the next few weeks are really going to be like. We know that we want to continue with our Franciscan training and we both believe the honey days are over. I don’t know what my job will be like next year, though they told me on Friday they would like to have me come back. The details will have to follow in the mail as they figure out their budget. That’s the way public education works in Arizona. Meanwhile I am studying leadership and I intend to use the principle of compounding to make things happen for us, especially to make some money so that I have something to share with the poor. God will show me how and where even when to share it. It’s not the amount or even the money; God just wants to know that we are willing. And it isn’t just money he gives us, but love, talent, skill, knowledge, joy, hope, faith, shelter, food… We are the lamps he lights in the world so that others can find their way. At least one man writes that to succeed we must “…act before you are ready; you must give while your hands are still empty. Then you will see the real miracle called abundance…”
I just wish God had something sticky to fill my heart. When it broke yesterday, everything fell out. I guess he wants us to carry that emptiness, a small splinter of his Cross…
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Pouring Oil
There is a story about a man in ancient China who sold oil from village to village. The women brought their oil jars out to the street where he would dip a ladle into his large jar and pour the oil in a thin stream into their smaller jars, without spilling a drop. One day he came upon a group of archers bragging about their skills as marksmen. They made fun of the man's simple job. He showed them what he did for a living, then invited them to try it for themselves. None of them could do it without spilling. I forget the moral of the story. Maybe you can figure it out.
I do, however, find myself stopping in the middle of my prayers because the Psalms keep talking about fear. In the same passages--sometimes in the same line--the writers talk about the great gift of God's love and in the same breath tell us we must fear God. How do we love and fear God at the same time without becoming dysfunctional? Figuring something must have gotten lost in the translation, I looked it up at BlueLetterBible.org. Translated directly from scriptures, the Hebrew word "fear" means... fear.
Sometimes it pays to keep asking. Looking down the list of definitions I found, near the very end, another word that is sometimes use to speak of fear. It translates as "pour" in English. Pour, as in pour oil from a big bottle into a smaller bottle, without spilling.
Whenever I have to pour something, like dark red wine on a table set with crystal and white linen, or when I pour paint into a pan hanging from a stepladder over the living room carpet, or even when I pour gasoline into the little tank on my lawn mower there's always a jolt of nerves because I know the consequence of making a mistake, the disaster that comes with spilling. It's fear. I'm careful at work walking with a full cup of coffee. I nearly freeze when the cough medicine is in the spoon and the wiggling child is across the bed. And I'll probably never be a Eucharistic minister because I'm terrified of dropping the sacred bread or the cup of blessed wine. The fear of spilling is with me in every endeavor that involves transporting something important from one place to another outside of a secure container. And when you stop and think about it, there's nothing so loose-lidded as human devotion.
I haven't written for awhile because God has been "pouring it on", or perhaps I should say "pouring it in..." He has been pouring his grace into my soul through the tiny opening which is my fearful heart. I for my part must navigate the stumbling blocks of life with my eyes clamped shut and what feels like both hands in my pockets. The concordance writers explain that the kind of fear we are talking about in Scripture recognizes both the wonder of God and the impossibility of our human hearts ever being adequate to his purpose. He wants to live from our hearts. But we do everything contrary to love. We cling to everything that is opposed to His nature, and try as we might--praying and longing for transformation--we cannot grow new hearts. It has to come from him.
Fear of the Lord they say is the beginning of wisdom. All I can do is bow to the One who pours the oil.
I do, however, find myself stopping in the middle of my prayers because the Psalms keep talking about fear. In the same passages--sometimes in the same line--the writers talk about the great gift of God's love and in the same breath tell us we must fear God. How do we love and fear God at the same time without becoming dysfunctional? Figuring something must have gotten lost in the translation, I looked it up at BlueLetterBible.org. Translated directly from scriptures, the Hebrew word "fear" means... fear.
Sometimes it pays to keep asking. Looking down the list of definitions I found, near the very end, another word that is sometimes use to speak of fear. It translates as "pour" in English. Pour, as in pour oil from a big bottle into a smaller bottle, without spilling.
Whenever I have to pour something, like dark red wine on a table set with crystal and white linen, or when I pour paint into a pan hanging from a stepladder over the living room carpet, or even when I pour gasoline into the little tank on my lawn mower there's always a jolt of nerves because I know the consequence of making a mistake, the disaster that comes with spilling. It's fear. I'm careful at work walking with a full cup of coffee. I nearly freeze when the cough medicine is in the spoon and the wiggling child is across the bed. And I'll probably never be a Eucharistic minister because I'm terrified of dropping the sacred bread or the cup of blessed wine. The fear of spilling is with me in every endeavor that involves transporting something important from one place to another outside of a secure container. And when you stop and think about it, there's nothing so loose-lidded as human devotion.
I haven't written for awhile because God has been "pouring it on", or perhaps I should say "pouring it in..." He has been pouring his grace into my soul through the tiny opening which is my fearful heart. I for my part must navigate the stumbling blocks of life with my eyes clamped shut and what feels like both hands in my pockets. The concordance writers explain that the kind of fear we are talking about in Scripture recognizes both the wonder of God and the impossibility of our human hearts ever being adequate to his purpose. He wants to live from our hearts. But we do everything contrary to love. We cling to everything that is opposed to His nature, and try as we might--praying and longing for transformation--we cannot grow new hearts. It has to come from him.
Fear of the Lord they say is the beginning of wisdom. All I can do is bow to the One who pours the oil.
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