Firm

2nd Sunday of Lent

2012-03-04T12:10:00.002-08:00

When the apostles were dazzled with the brilliance of Jesus, they probably still saw someone who was also drenched in his sweat, someone who had sore feet, and someone who really could use some cool water.  The difference now was not Jesus, but their vision.  Such a switch is not confined to ancient miracles.  It happens when we are amazed at another’s pluck in the way she moves through adversity without self-pity.  It is to see friends as they have always been when we detect their complete disregard for needing others’ approval.  


We see a glimpse of others’ divinity when we, unannounced, see them have genuine joy in sharing in another’s’ happiness.  It happens when we encounter someone for whom we had little patience or respect, and suddenly we see them suffer, and we finally feel a kindred spirit.  All we know now is that what was superficial has become layered, nuanced, and more alive.  They are the same; we have been pulled into a depth, and can not ever return to the flippant, incomplete, overly self-referential visions that had enclosed our world.   In religious language, we are approaching seeing creation as God sees it.  


It is then we accept that people do not become more radiant or luminous the longer we know them; they were always that way, and now our attention is more focused, undistracted, calmed.  We no longer suffer from the great tragedy of all human interactions, of seeing others as we want them to be.  What is left is who they are, who they have always been, but we have been blind from


 wrapping them in our own image and hopes.  Such thinking has only led to distance.  But now we are dazzled.  It is happens not because we deny their flaws or failings.  It is to see them as carriers of some message, because that is what we experience:  a message to rouse our empathy, to confront our timidity, to be attentive to the stories of redemption.  So we see them now as they really have always been: ordinary individuals who carry divine light.  


Madeleine L’Engle wrote, “This is how he was --is--from the beginning, and we cannot bear it.  So he manned himself, came manifest to us…We all know that if we really see him we die.  But isn’t that what is required of us?  Then, perhaps, we will see each other, too.”

newsletter: the miserere

2012-03-03T03:27:00.000-08:00

A Lenten Prayer,
based on Psalm 51, (traditionally called King David’s Lament.)

In your abundant compassion,
give me strength when focused on pettiness.
Blot out my babble, my snobbery, my stiffness.

Thoroughly wash away my grudges;
and cleanse me from replaying what is past.

For I know my easy irritations; my impatience is always before me.

and let that awareness give me a gentler view of the struggling souls around me.

Against you, you alone have I sinned;
but I have a habit of taking it out on closer, less threatening targets.

Behold, I was born yakking away for what I want rightnow,

And my ways have not changed too much.

Behold, you secretly teach me wisdom.

So make me less dense when your senders come
disguised as those I dismiss or avoid.

Cleanse me with moments of unplanned humility
that I may wise up, and laugh at my self-imposed importance.

You will let me hear gladness and joy;

And guide me in being less stingy in taking delight inothers’ feats.

The bones that were crushed will rejoice.
So let thankfulness ooze from every marrow of my being.

Turn away your face from my sins; and nudge me
to show that same decency when tempted to note others’ impurities.

A clean heart create for me, God;

And give me the resolve to cleanup my own mess.

Renew within me a steadfast spirit,
so I may quit the drama with the normal ebbs and flows of life.

Rescue us from violent bloodshed,God,
because we seem far too comfortable with ignoring and tolerating it.

Lord, you will open my lips; but onlydo so
when what comes out is helpful, kind, truthful, or healing.

You do not desire sacrifice. So get me over seeing faith
as dogma or duty, more as holy friendship.

Fr Pat

Lent 1: cleansed

2012-02-26T12:57:00.003-08:00

Genesis 9: 8-15

1 Peter 3: 18-22

Mark 1: 12-15

There are times when our only language is sorrow. This is when we cannot shake an abidingsense of frustration or grief or edginess. We can function, we can be engaging, but the lingering details and concernsin our head are where our passion lies right then. It is when no matter what is going aroundus—friendly chatter, crazy cheers from a one-second, one-shot win, we can’thelp but see it through the prism of pain. We don’t want to be downer to others, so we are not obvious about it--we’rerespectful, attentive, but there are times when anguish is our only truth; everythingwe hear around us is mediated through that heaviness.

There are times when all around us can be amazing, and serene, and yet we cannot,against our efforts a vision of bleakness. And no matter the spaciousness other grant to us, we feel cramped, andannoying. It is the sort of sorrow orworry or frustration or pain that makes us long to start over. It is when prayergets real, though not because we are deepening into a mystical space, but becausewe tired , and to be anything but direct sounds too exhausting.

Such a perspective is when the story of the deluge in theBook of Genesis takes root in our weary soul. We get it when the only reality is a flood of tears. For whatever reason those tears are overwhelming,uncontrollable, and envelope everything we hold dear.

The ancient Hebrews knew better than we do that stories capture these truths ofourselves and our longings far more reliably than any facts. To speak of human struggle is a truth bestconveys with images, but it remains a story that is not all that remarkable. This ancient story of a deluge has atwist. What inspired Jesus and whatinspired the writers of the New testament is that they saw this story spoke ofa Creator who is as tired as is a weary humanity.

They knew the human hunger to start over--to move on from mistakes and toughstories of the past--is the groan of all creation. It does not matter whether the cry is a gut-wrenchingscream or a barely audible prayer for peace. It is a cry that must reach beyond human ears, to One who cries with us.

Maybe these ancient persevering people just wanted tocommunicate that we get in trouble when we fail to see how much our arrogancecan hurt us. They just wanted to pass onthe wisdom in ways that generations after them—us—would remember the basicideas:

-stay together
-stayhumble

-travel withtrust in God
-focus ona future that brings out your best.

These basic points give more than safe passage; They givebirth to a holy covenant.
It is knowing there is an unshakeable bond with a small group of people withwhom we will weep and grow, and get impatient, and with the One who brought ustogether. This covenant offers no shieldagainst more tears or anguish,. It only offersan abiding presence of a love than cannot ever be prove with facts.

It is a covenant that that says when we stick together, one of the naturalincarnations is we will feel compelled to care for all that is fragile and wondrouson this creation. That is not easy, and notalways possible. God does not really care; She knew what she was doing when webrought into this cosmos.

Andif we need a kick-start to get in gear to pass this convent way of life with asmuch gusto and creativity as a holy people did 3000 years ago, then we are ingood company. “After John had been arrested,Jesus came to Galilee proclaiming the gospel of God.“

Maybethe only truth for Jesus right then was profound sorrow, no matter how manyangels ministered to him. Maybe it was arage seeing too many good people get the raw deals in life. Maybe Jesus knew that John the Baptist got itabout repentance. He knew the call to repentnot a tool of judgment, but one to wake us up to see what is wearing usout.

Whatever caused Jesus after his 40 days to be bold, to be outfront with passing on a covenant way of life, it is within our human experienceas well. May these 40 days be the sameprep for us. May this season be a timeto have a holy kick to make this ancient story our story--to move beyond anysorrows, any anguish, andallow this creator to create clean hearts. So we see this same creation with new horizons, and a new passion to pass on stories of a God who refuses to leave.

Patrick Malone, SJ

February 26, 2012

newsletter: the theme this Lent

2012-02-25T11:24:00.003-08:00

There is an orphanage in Guadalajara, Mexico, with about 170boys and a staff of 7. If you have asmaller number moving about in your household, that ratio may look loony,possibly deadly. The reality was less dramatic,but far more remarkable. Those whocalled the place home included able bodied lads—except following rough games offútbal—tothose immobile except when transported about on another boy’s back. Many had families unable to raise anotherchild. A few were deposited alone on theorphanage’s doors as infants.

Adoptions were rare; most of the residents had too old manyyears, too many medical concerns, or too much unknown about their past be primecandidates for a welcome into a new family. What was common was sustaining a culture of tutoring. Older residents would regularly pass onlessons and skills to younger ones, ranging from math problems, to soapcarving, to ball handling. The informalsystem was chaotic, and left many gaps, but it was good-natured, respectful,and made all a bit wiser beyond their years.

On a Saturday when most of the residents and staff had fledto be fans for a local team, the more disabled stayed behind to avoid getting trampledin the stadium’s mayhem. Tómas,a quiet eight year old who mastered the art of getting up with crutches afterfalling down, was giving me Spanish lessons when a distraught man and womanfrom Canada arrived. They saw the spireof the orphanage’s chapel, and mistook the place for a church. They needed to pray, as they just discoveredtheir multi- year effort at adopting was a sham; the photos, the contracts, theletterheads were all fake.

Tómas,thinking they came for him, bolted across the room, and clung to this unsuspectedcouple. Both parties felt they hadencountered an angel. What they had encounteredwas their new family. Tómas,after another year of red-tape, eventually headed to Canada, no doubt to learnhow to get up with crutches in the snow.

The idea of covenant always hovers about in scripture, inour faith, in any understanding of community. And when we witness covenant as a way of life, we get glimpses of theKingdom. The orphanage was an overloadwith that vision. Covenant is the unavoidabletheme in this year’s Lenten readings. May they seek out prayer in the most unusual of places, and see the Paschalmystery, whose message is that we can get up from terrible struggles, andembrace new life.

Fr Pat

7th Sunday on OT: getting pushy

2012-02-19T06:56:00.000-08:00

Wendell Berry wrote: "It may be that when we no longer knowwhat to do, we have come to our real work. And that when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our realjourney.” It may be that the four menwho ruined a person’s roof and in the process, endangered their weak companion,had no longer known what to do, had no longer known which way to go. Perhaps all that they had left, after theirsweat and exasperation, was their faith. Perhaps they had reached an uncomfortable point that all that remainedwas not passion, nor delight nor clarity.

What was left bringing their mess to God, because sometimes ourconfusion or our pain, like our joy or our amazement, needs to go beyond humanears. This point usually happens notfrom an awe of how well things have gone, but from a faith that wonders whythere is such unfairness in the world. It comes from wondering why is that many can go where they want whenthey want, and others must be carried everywhere on cheap mats.

It is a faith we come tonot by knowing all the marvelous things we can do. It arrives when we pushed and shoved and mustface our limits. It is a somber, quietfaith that knows that the trials and burdens we carry require us to be close toGod. This is not the sort of faith thatcan move mountains. It is the sort offaith that asks for the strength to begin climbing, even when we do not knowwhere the journey will lead, or if we will collapse through. It is a faith that does not always want ananswer. It just wants to feel that ourcares, our efforts for others matter, however small they may seem to thisworld. This sort of faith is not flashyor noisy or very widespread today. It isa faith that somehow wants to include ones who are so easily forgotten, theones whose burdens seem too distant, too overwhelming.

Mayour brief time on this earth empty us of the desire to push ourselvesfirst. May it empty us of the urge to crowd out and forget those are too tired,too confused, too helpless. May it giveus the wisdom to know we can carry more than we think.

newsletter: Ash Wednesday

2012-02-18T11:03:00.000-08:00

Wordsfor Ash Wednesday,

revisedtranslation

-Rememberthey are dust, and to dust they will return. So embrace them, be patientwith them. See a holiness waiting to bust out of them. Give sincerity to them.

-Besent, and be alive with the gospel. Go with neither worry or regret. Go with an abiding trust that some wild grace brought you this far, sowhat's ahead, whatever the journey, will bless you, invite you to plant goodnews in obscure places.

-Breakyour hearts, but not your spirits, says the Lord. So your empathy remains strong, and yourstrength is revealed in kindness.

-Bemerciful, O Lord, for we have sinned. Now let the hard lessons move us from judging to listening; from self-focusto attentiveness; from trying to impress to trying to improve; from fretfulnessto calm.

-Evennow, says the Lord, turn towards those who emanate goodness, and resolve to learnfrom them with your whole heart.

-Proclaima fast--from pettiness, from envy, from whininess.

-Callan assembly—your friends in the Lord. And surprise of a few in need with gestures of tenderness.

-Notifythe congregation—that they give you hope. Then pray for as many as you can name.

-Assemblewith the elders—and make life easier for them.

-Gatherthe children and the infants—and sacrifice for their future.

-When you give alms, be grateful. When you pray, be honest. When you fast, be bountiful.

YourFather who sees what is hidden will repay you. But your Mother, who has eyes in the back of her head, knows exactlywhen you have cut corners, and expect more of you. So do the right thing, even when no one islooking.

FrPat

newsletter: cleansing

2012-02-11T09:54:00.001-08:00

When serving in Senegal, Africa, the high school students Itaught asked to share tea with members of a community of lepers. The school did not require a service trip, butthey did. They wanted to become acquaintedand mix with individuals who were often feared. It was exciting to work daily with any youthwho reveal such kindness and maturity, though these were not the typicaladolescents. They were part of an ethnicand religious minority (Catholic), and encountered their own share of snubbing. They had natural instincts to be determinedand thoughtful, so no one was surprised-- neither the Dominican missionary whoran the alternative high school or his teacher--when the youth began planningtheir excursion to the isolated and rarely visited village where people withleprosy were confined.

From their meager resources the students collected enough francsAfricaines to purchasethe essentials for any serious gatheringamong friends: tea, charcoal, and sugar. On the scheduled Saturday, the crew packed into the missionary’s pick-upthat seemed held together with duck tape and his statue of Mary on a crumblingdashboard, and bumped our way to a dingy town far from good plumping or shadetrees. Like most of us in the West, thetravelling crew had images that those with leprosy are of a certain age,usually well beyond their youth.

REMBRANDT

The first shock was encountering that the hosts for this social were teens themselves. If there were any eye contact from the groupin the pick-up to those who stood around, they would have seen that those callingthis community their home were too tired to fake it. They were as worn as their shirt that had severalprevious owners. The differences betweenthe two groups of youth were obvious and awkward. No one was feeling cozy, and the two groupstightly kept to themselves. The onlywarmth was the scorching desert sun making it easy to sweat and impossible toplay soccer.

But not music. Afteran clumsy hour mostly of silence, one of the visitors took from his backpack a MichaelJackson tape, inserted a slow song into a borrowed boom box, and asked one fromthe host community to dance. Her lack offingers did deter him, nor did her face shrouded in wraps intimidate him. He insisted they connect hand-to-hand. He may have been the first person torecognize she was born not to struggle, but to dance. His simple gesture was all it took for othersto break out of comfort zones, to break taboos, and get close with those who hadbeen labeled unclean.

Once the batteries ran low and the tea was sipped, everyoneexchanged embraces and visitors piled back onto the pick-up that seemed to ageby the minute. The visitors left wonderingwhat good they did, but knew what they received: cleansing. As Jesus in today’s story of the man withleprosy, may we all be open to helping others discover why they born, andallowing them to be channels of healing.

Fr Pat

5th Sunday on OT: letting the world in

2012-02-05T06:25:00.000-08:00

It takes two things to be a saint. One is we need to quit resisting grace. The saints are what they are not because theyhave received more holiness or more kindness from God. We all get dumped on with that. It is just they don’t fight it. They don’t question whether they are worthyenough, or let all those negative thoughts eat at us.

At the deepest crevices of Jesus’ soul he must have known he must have let thisgrace pour through him. He let thatdivine sprit seep into his veins. Thesaints resist less of letting this love take charge, rattle around inthem. They let this love blanket themlike this weekend’s snowfall just overlays everything in our part of creationhere.

May we be so humble, so practical, to let that unboundedlove get into our words, our choices, our actions. But there is more this going on. It is more than letting this grace get alltangled in his life. It is letting thisworld’s battered and bruised mess get tangled into our hearts.

Jesus never said he was captured by the spirit because hewas too focused on working with those who were held captive by hunger oranguish or rejection. We will not saythe world is charged with God’s grandeur until we hear that refrain from those whose only charge is to find decent work or food, or wood or safety. We teach, we serve, we let people interruptour plans, agitate our souls, afflict our minds not because the world is Catholic,but because we are. We try to make partof our creed that we will not call this world holy until those who suffer cancall it holy.

When Jesus healed in friend’s house, He did not wait for hisschedule to clear out, he did not wait for the Sabbath to end. He approached, he grasped, he assured themthey have a strength to serve others. Whatcompelled Christ to let keep ministering, keep letting his peace be interrupted was not just awareness of this love fromGod It was knowing many people have lives like Job. He knew that frightful story is not fiction. It is crushing to ponder how many go to bedwithout relief, how many do not know what happiness is.

Jesus’ faith was not just hearing the consoling voice from heaven. It was a faith that let in wailings of peoplehe did not know. He knew from where theycame, and that was enough. Courageousfaith is seeing more than how packed this world is with divine mercy. It is accepting how overrun it is withpain. A faith that matters is where the anguish in this world rips through us, afflicts us, and like Christ,pump us up to do more. For this purposeI have been sent. So let’s move on.

In Yesterday's paper was a story of young children in anAfgan refugee camp who died from cold. Wecan not do a blessed thing for them. Butthey can do much for us. We can let thepeople who have lives like Job be weaved into our prayer, from our ethics, ourfaith. We will let our faith be like thefaith of Christ, takes down time, and a faith that lets this world’s chaosinterrupt us, seize our attention, and let people we have not yet met mess up ourplans, our agendas, our days.

Paul says today, offer the gospel free of charge. And we cando it like Christ: with our hands, our hearts, our treasures. So like the anointed one, let us see the plentitude of grace. And let us see the plenitude of people whohave lives like Job, people who are in misery, in chronic pain, in the cold.

Like Christ, as we leave our places of worship, leave ourhomes, our solitude, may we discover what is at the core of our soul, to sharean unbounded love with a world at our door. For this reason we have come.

Patrick Malone, SJ

February 4. 2012

newsletter: battered body of Christ

2012-02-04T05:17:00.001-08:00

We cannot be far from awe because we cannot be far from ourbodies. We may wish we worked it more, or fed itwiser, though even when we lack discipline to treat it with respect, the bodygives us reminders of the very qualities we need in our outer life: perseverance, tolerance, and a mission tonurture new life. Those who practice thehealing arts—nurses, doctors, pharmacists, physical therapists--must havemoments of pure amazement.

Those withthe smarts to master its complexity must have moments when they cease seeingthis lumpy bit of minerals as something to probe, and ponder its staggering magnificence. The more spiritually inclined among them maysee signs of the Artist, as they notice the body’s constant sense of giving, itsinsistence on recovery, its joy in collaboration, its contentment in routine, andits wisdom in requiring an ongoing Sabbath.

Thankfully, it’s not just those with the vocation and deep curiosity to studythe body that can get seized with its ability to inspire. Anyone can appreciate its humble nature: the body demands little. Feed it well, give it rest, listen to itsaches, offer it healthy companionship, and the body often stays lowmaintenance. It does not require that weendlessly tinker with it. So we get toforget it. The breathing will go on, theeyes will open, the wounds will heal.

Except when they do not. From our first wail out of the womb to ourlast breadth, the body, like our human spirits, breaks down. For many, sickness is a steady companion, orthey have severe diminishment that requires more patience (and maybeforgiveness) than most of us more fortunate ones imagine we possess. The more we come to know of the physicalsuffering some endure, the more focused, genuine, and intense is our prayer. Nothing compels us to get serious with our empathy than an awareness of others’ physicalanguish.

That seemed to be the dominant story of Jesus, as we will hear in the nextcouple of weeks. So it is our main storyof faith: to be in awe at this close sign of heaven packed snuggly in our humanframes, and to move beyond ourselves in comforting those with afflictions, withpain, with frailty. This Saturday, February11, is the World Day of the Sick, begun in 1992 by Pope John II. May we offer a prayer of gratitude for our health,whatever its current state, and be resolved to follow Christ in more faithfullypracticing the holy art of healing.

Fr Pat

4th Sunday on OT: knowing who You are

2012-01-29T02:30:00.000-08:00

Mark1: 21- 28

There’s a dryness in this January air, even though it is not that cold outside. It makes our skin crack, and crusty, andstiff. If only the dryness in our soulscould be seasonal. That dryness respectsno seasons. It is when we are tight,seemingly impenetrable. There is anexterior hardness that may us hard to touch, hard to loosen.

Whenour souls are dry, it is not so much that we tune others out, though that willhappen. It is more we tune out our owntears, our own anger, our own our own hungers, our own pain. We do not intend to be so numb; we just findwe have less patience than usual to deal with chaos and the clutter.

Allthis spiritual stiffness may make us isolated, or dull, or more inclined tobeat up on ourselves, all that may occur with brutal force. But that is not the worst of it. The problem when our souls become dry is thatwe live a lie. We live as if we do notcare about anything outside ourselves. Welive with an exterior that we are above the tough and complicated messes ofthose around us, much less those we do not know. We live as if cynicism is natural to us.

Thetruth is so different. The truth is thatwe have a natural instinct to care about the unfortunate journey of others —eventhose whom we have yet to meet--and to care in ways that are extravagant,beyond rational thinking. We have a inbornlonging to be excessively kind, though we wait. We wait for the right invite, or the extreme case, or a clear sign fromon high that now is the time to let loose with this infused tenderness. This is the moment embrace, even literally,the ongoing chaos around us, especially those that breathing souls likeourselves with the same heartaches, the same hopes, the same stories ofmistakes, the same desires to show their thankfulness, despite it all?

Butwe can play it with aloofness; we have little humor. We are brittle not because we like life thatway, but because we are wise enough to know there is no cheap grace, and it takeswork to loosen a stiff soul. The worst of it is not that we can hurt eachother, including those we love. Theworst of is that we cannot tell when we our souls are stiff. So the naturalimpulse to go beyond ourselves seems out of reach, disbelieved.

“I know who you are—the Holy One of God,” says the demon. We know who You are, says us, when findourselves moving beyond our hardness. Weknow who you are, says us, when our natural tendencies to weep at others’suffering, to delight in their joys, to be in awe at their beauty, to bepatient at their foolish choices, remains unstoppable, despite a tightness thathad seemed impassable.

Weknow who You are--the force that created us to be sacraments, even while we knowour deeds are not always pure. We knowwho You are--the small, steady trace that our demons do not overwhelm us, or deny us from believing in our deepestdesires. We know who You are, the One who givesglimpses of grace when we try to move beyond hardness to tenderness.

We see who You are, not because our lives are free of demons, but each time we heara quick voice to let our demons come out. We see who we are, and from whom we have come, each time we release thegenuine kindness, and knowing we will never be without some dryness

Itis in these moments of crying out that we discover again from where our ownauthority comes. Our lasting authority is when we can expose the love thatbrought us here, without doubts, without reservations, without cracks.

It is the authority is what gives balm to our tightness, so we can follow ournatural ways to embrace with passion, to care with every fiber of our body, to justbe happy to be here, whatever the harsh weather, whatever our tumults, whatever,in the words from Paul’s letter to Corinthians, bits of anxiousness creep intoour lives. When we let this authorityooze our cracks, when we bare our demons to this force, we do not have a blissful lie. We just haveone that, like those in the gospel puts us in awe.

PatrickMalone, SJ

January29, 2012

newsletter: church closings

2012-01-28T05:39:00.000-08:00

The last to leave the neighborhood are the liquor stores and theCatholic church.
Judy O’Bannon.

It is hard not to get emotional when reading and hearingabout the recent draft of closings for many Catholic parishes and schools tothe immediate north and south of St John’s. The parish for many in Omaha, I have learned, has been the source ofidentity, pride, and good-natured rivalry (or not-so-friendly whenconversations turned serious matters such as the better fish fry.)

We naturally feel a kinship with the faithfulof those parishes as they find new ways, not of their choosing, to remain theliving Body of Christ. The bond iseffortless because we Catholics have become reluctant experts on loss. Many have their own tough memories of closingsof institutions—schools, churches, retreat centers, social organizations,convents--that carried sacred memories, lasting lessons. We build well and with fun dreams; too oftenwe impatiently close without proper grief.

We know the cornerstones of healthy faith are more thanbricks, but those bricks held the building blocks of friendships, struggles,inspiration, maturing sadness, and eventually the healing art of pluggingalong. We are, after all, a people whohold dear that visible things point us to invisible goodness. More than missing the loss of the building,which was probably in disrepair and never up to code, we see its passing asanother sign that Catholic culture has always been in chaotic flux, always willbe. The never-ending announcements ofclosings—why always written tersely by those who had no clue of the soul ofthose institutions?—are signs that we need to put a lot of trust in anoverworked Holy Spirit; it would be calming to give her an occasional break.

Reliance on heavenly guidance is hardly new. In the year 70 AD, right when the good partsof the New Testament were getting written, the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem wasflattened. Without the holy site, the authoritiesfigured, the faithful will have lost the heart of their worship and eventuallycrumble like their destroyed building.

Rather, the Jews redefined what wassacred. It was the coming together ofpeople who had a crazy thankfulness to their God; it was the strange binding toone other; and it was an undeniable invite to repair a broken world. So the Sabbath would now be celebratedeverywhere. This way of thinking andpraying gave the model for the early church, which would have sewers andunderground tombs for their cathedrals.

So we pray with our brothers and sisters to the north and south as they remindus of our forever pilgrim status. May we they point us to the good spirit thatresists leaving us.

Fr Pat

Third Sunday in OT: loving better

2012-01-22T06:49:00.000-08:00

Why don’t we love better? We can be quite picky in the situations when we lose all inhibitions,all timidity, all reservations. Thereserve may that an image of full throttle love would be a sort of floppy,flashy, drifting sort of sentiment that, when seeing it elsewhere, looks eitherforced or ridiculous. Neither seemsappealing, or all that liberating. Iwould imagine an authentic release of infinite love would be more sublime, lesspretentious. It would neither exertoneself nor require an audience. Itwould want to absorb all that is before it. It would have a quiet curiosity of what is new, and be free of judgmentfor what already exists.

It would have no worries of revealing too much, yet feel nocompunction of making known anything. Itwould not be surprised with others’ lies or exaggerations, nor be hesitant tospeak harsh truths. It would want noneof life’s unpleasantries to be out of view, yet still finds amazement at howmuch is life-giving. It would neither befrightened or dramatic with inconsistencies; it would find new adventures in repeatedroutines.

Interruptions do not unnerve the possessor of unlimited love. It is not shocked by the world’s unfairness,nor hesitates to create the smallest act of decency. It is mindful of human frailty, so finds ithard to condemn, prepared to reconcile. Itknows the exciting part of others’ journeys is what remains unseen—the effortmore than the accomplishment, the discernment more than the decision—so it hasan expansive sense of beauty.

The blessedness of Jesus went beyond showing this sort of unrestrainedlove; it was the casualness with which he knew others could live it. He was not fussy to whom he invited to liveas if they were descendants of love itself. He must have believed that the invite to follow his way of living doesnot need to be long-winded or praising or gushy. It needs to be sincere; it needs to conveythat one’s adventures in life—the wounds, the hungers, the joys—contain theessentials to spring into holiness. Theinvite needs to be simple enough to remind all who hear it that they cannot becloser to the love that brought them into being.

The empathy of Jesus’ invite is in its brevity. He did not say, “Follow me or else you loseyour chance to get holy.” “Get with theprogram, because you really have made a mess, and this is last call.“ What the first disciples heard was probablywhat those who try to follow Jesus’ message still hear. “You have a longing to be loving withoutreserve, to be generous without regret, to be humble without fear. Be faithful to this persistent longing.”

I would imagine Jesus would say that if you do not stay faithful, you willstill be the beloved; you will still be filled with deep union. But follow me to move beyond your tired senseof badness or sloth or selfishness. Stay with me to see the world through the eyes of infinite goodness. See a world waiting for genuine, human invitesto take them from envy to kindness, from tightness to peacefulness. Help them love better by reminding them inwhose image they are made. Remind themwith few but courageous words. Remindthem by revealing your own unstoppable desire to put gratitude in motion.

Patrick Malone, SJ

January 22. 2012

newsletter: gentle mystic

2012-01-21T06:16:00.001-08:00

All through love, nothing through constraint. St Francis de Sales

“Jesuit spirituality is becoming the spirituality of thechurch,” the Franciscan scorned. Hispoint was that because Jesuits have so many institutions, its spiritualty canspread like fire. I was tempted torespond, “If Franciscan schools better supported their basketball teams wewouldn’t be having this conversation,” but God (SJ) gave me enough patience tosuffer fools graciously.

One nugget of truth in the fightin’ words remark is that asmany religious communities go the way of, well, other religious communities, thechurch—us—slowly loses the beauty and wisdom that radiated from once thriving spiritualties. Perhaps there would be none more tragicto grieve than Salesian spirituality, based on the writings and example of StFrancis de Sales. If you have beenamazed when receiving a short, compact piece of advise after a long tale ofwoe, you would enjoy his style. He wouldhave been at home using the brevity of a text message to get across all that isneeded. If he advised any sacredpath, it may be the phrase used by theorder of woman religious he and a close companion, St Jane de Chantal,founded, the Visitation of Holy Mary:"Live Jesus!"

The spirituality ofSt. Ignatius is intense, which can nourish the hungry beast in all oursouls. St Francis de Sales, who cameabout 80 years after the pilgrim from Loyola, gives a kinder invite to goinward. “Go joyfully and with a lightheart as far as you can; and if you cannot always go joyfully, go with courageand confidence.”

Being the mystic, Ignatius really wanted others to feel thatprofound union, so much so he labored with plans and manuals to bring alongothers--wasn’t too fussy who—to achieve this closeness with the one who gave usfire. Francis de Sales had no plans, no callsto get rid of disordered attachments. His was a path of utter trust: the frustrations, chaos, burdens can be clues that holiness could not becloser. The catchy phrase, "bloom where you are planted," came from his ink.

Ignatius livedbefore the sound bites, and it takes time to absorb his insights. With Francis de Sales, from the start we’re readyto take in more. “Have patience with all things, But, firstof all with yourself.” He remains one of the more quotable holy ones. “Do not bother yourself about whether or notwhat God asks of you is important and grand. Whether your actions are insignificant or not does not matter, if theyare God’s will.” January 24 is the feastof St Francis de Sales. It may worth honoring him this week bychoosing the gentler path when given the option. But then go wild when cheering for the Jays.

Fr Pat

Second Sunday in Ordinary Time: The Calling of the First Disciples

2012-01-15T03:33:00.000-08:00

Whenwe occasionally find ourselves trying please others, we lose the ability to benatural, revealing. When this becomes habitual, we lose awareness of ourdeepest desires. We have unwittinglyturned away from the deepest core where we hear the hunger to be happy,authentic, or trusting, as we have allowed the desire to please others todictate a lot of our actions and words. “Whatever” becomes a default way ofmaking decisions. When we have become soentrenched in pleasing others, we will doubt our capacity to ever be intimate,honest. External validation, as much aswe loathe that quality in others, will take on pre-eminence, while the abilityfor slow, quiet reflection will seem unattainable.

Thenastiness of pleasing others is often veiled under the socially acceptedpractice of empathy. True empathy—whatthose in struggles desperately want—requires trust, sincerity, and a spirit ofgiving that expects nothing in return. Empathy, in any manner it breaks out into the world, is welcomed andoften healing for both receiver and giver. Yet works done in hopes of conveying a positive image of the giverbreeds resentment, burnout, and a simmering sense of guilt.

Theclearest sign of our sacredness is when we show the passion to care foranother. It indicates we have figuredout the peacefulness, common-sense, and simplicity that arrives when we putothers before self. So why is the everydaypractice of wanting to please others so destructive? When the deed is carried out for the sake ofimage, it robs us of the chance discover the depths of our natural inclinationto be lavish; it deprives us of the chance to be carefree; it instills an unintentionaltendency to manipulate; it plays into our already hyper need for clarity; it intensifiesour impatience.

Forthose who wish to follow this messenger who came to set people free, thedownfall of being in a constant state of pleasing others is it diminishes our participationin the sacred act of grace. The ideathat all we have, all we have learned, comes by reckless gift, is hard toaccept for anyone, though it is unimaginable for anyone lost and worn-out in alife focused on others’ approval.

The mission of faith is to see the futility in this exhausting way tolive. Faith reminds us of this heavenly gratuity,with an insistent attitude that we are to then go and offer with that samemagnanimity. We don’t need to be peopleof faith to base our actions on gratitude, but it does help to be reminded thatthe desire to give and not to count the costs is a spiritual birthright. When we recall in whose image we are made,the need to please the world dissipates, replaced with a curiosity to noticeother subtle signs of grace in a chaotic world.

Themost compelling characters in the bible begin their faith journeys with anexperience of internal listening. Theyhave been able to tune out the cacophony all around to hear a gentle, even considerate,voice of invitation. It is a voice that startlesonly because it typically sees more potential, more love, waiting to burst outin the world than the person has thought possible. Sucha voice comes not in well planed moments of prayer, but more often as anintrusion into daily routines of living. It allows us to hear, like the prophet Samuel, invitations to serviceeven in unexpected situations. It givesus the clearness to know, like the first disciples, what our hearts truly longfor, and then be wiling to f0llow that longing with conviction, confidence,calm.

Fromits beginning, our faith drew followers who heard invites to love more broadly,wildly, instinctively. They must have known most of these efforts toimitate--as best as imperfect humans are able—this divine love will be hidden, unacknowledged,and occasionally useless. They will,however, remain authentic gestures that weave divine urging and human kindness. And that effort apparently was sufficient forthe senders of this call.

Jesus’first followers were not the people at the top. It seemed he had the feeling then what many people today feel: people at the top have lost it. Their words are for show, their gestures areto pander, and their ability to listen is nil. He chose to call unpopular or unpowerful folk, possibly to ask: “Do you know what human pain is like? Can you recognize it in another? Do you know what a prayer is when you have nohope left? Do you see holiness beforeyou, without doubt, without hesitation?”

These are the traits that come from deep listening. They are questions that require some desireto be genuine, to be attentive, to be grateful. That has always been the sole requirement for those seeking to bedisciples of infinite love.

PatrickMalone, SJ

January15, 2012

2012-01-14T11:45:00.000-08:00

“Any Christian whois not a saint is a pig.” Leon Bloy

In the readings we receive this year, cycle B, we encounter the feisty part ofJesus slightly more than in the other two. Mark had no hesitation of revealing the radical prophet, one who showslittle patience with rulers who lost sight of a prophetic tradition, whooverturns tables if they mock a religion’s mission to welcome, to heal, toinclude. Blessedly, there have holy agitatorsthroughout a bloody human history whohave maintained the church’s pivotal role in changing entrenched, corruptstructures.

Most are awarethat it was the churches, especially those with African American congregations,that gave the stamina, vision, and soul to the civil rights movement in ourland during the 1950’s and 60’s. Thefaithful were the audiences that gave Martin Luther King the encouragement andlabor to keep his eyes on the prize. Many also know that it was the church in Latin America, especially in Central Americaand Augusto Pinochet’s Chile, which provided the moral support and directionfor the opposition to dictatorship. Thenot-so-quiet church has other not so well known claims to living up to Jesus’ willingnessto afflict the comfortable:

Tomasek

-It was the church in East Germany that organized the peaceful oppositionmarches in Leipzig that would bring down the communist regime in that country. Their inspiration came from seeing thefaithful in Poland in the 1980’s effectively demand rights for workers.

-It was the church in Czechoslovakia, and its 90-year-old cardinal, FrantišekTomášek, thatblessed and defended the VelvetRevolution in1989. Authorities sent this fierypreacher to labor camps in the 70’s in hopes of pacifying his gentle but firm voice,though he came out more strident in ensuring the poor (and small middle class)will not be exploited.

-In 1960, a pastoral letter from church authorities in the Dominican Republiccondemned the autocratic government’s treatment of the poor. The dictator Rafael Trujillothen ordered imprisonmentfor the country's bishops, only averted because he was soon out of office aspeople responded as courageously as did their shepherds.

-It was the Archbishopand many lay leaders of the Chaldean Catholic church in Mosul, Iraq during therecent war who risked their lives (The Archbishop was kidnapped and murdered) inoffering a refuge for orphans from all faiths.

These anecdotalselections of followers of the crucified one come to mind as we embark on aweek to remember the Rev. Martin Luther King. May we be ever grateful for all these prophets who put others’ dignityabove their own convenience. May we honor them by deepening our dedication tohaving our minds upset, our hearts restless, our consciousness disturbed whenso many live without dignity.

Fr Pat

Epiphany

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Matthew 2: 1-12

Imagine you are one of these magi. I don’t mean you are an astronomer or a kingor a camel rider. We don’t know what thesemagi were, or from where they came. Andthat ignorance has made for enduring and penetrating stories. Imagine you know what it is like to know withutter clarity what it is that will make you passionate, determinied, resolute inyour earthly journey.

You have the clarity that transcends whatever fears or shameor weary history that have always seem to pull you back, push you to doubt in your dreams and inyour dignity. So you seek what you knowgives you peace, and you do it not with a nervousness or panic, but with aquite resolve so a part of your character that when encountering other peoples’deceit or arrogance or envy, you are not overwhelmed, nor are you naïve. You will know nasty traitsare part of the human condition. You acceptthem and deal with them without fuss.

When we have a stubborn conviction to seek signs of love inthe most obscure places, we expect to encounter violence and treachery. None of that surprises us. What is an epiphany for us, and worth leavingour comfort zones, is that this world will not cease in giving signs of sacredlove in routine events, in humble places. If that sort of belief seizes us in a profound way, we do sacramentalthings. We give treasures to strangers,and have no regret.

We want to reveal our craziest dreams, with no need to defend or explain ourselves. We will give up our timelines, our wayof proceeding, so others we hardly know have a more ease in a troubled world. If that sort of belief does not, then ourlives will be fine. It is just that wewill separate what is holy from what is human, And both become trivial, predictable,uninviting.

To imagine ourselves as magi is to say we will be the anonymous,brief players in others’ bewildering lives, with no guarantee that it will havelasting impact, knowing only that what we do with generous hearts, what we do out of our deepest prayer, what wedo that puts us in awe, will never be wasted, even when it requires we see thedarker side of human affairs.

But why imagine, if a life of the magi can be so dangerous,so misunderstood, so lacking in assurance that we will behold what weseek. We do it so the Herods within ourhearts do not triumph. We seek the holyin this world so our own inclinations to envy, our own urges to clutch and toinfluence do not overtake us. We do itto get outside our comfort zones where the temptation for superficial kindness canget so entrenched we no longer know when we are engaging in it.

We do it so we see the light that wants lead us to be foolishly generous, to havea confidence that we have all that we need to encounter grace upon grace. We seek the good amidst weariness andset-backs knowing those who travel with us were not random, but chosen toinspire us, humble us, remind us to plug along with hope from on high. We will do all we can to seek the holy thatis here right now, so we then gladly give of ourselves to those who come afterus. We do it because if do not seek theholy in this life, the only to which we will give homage is ourselves.

So follow these wise seekers, but there is a cost. If we are to seek that which gives calm toour restless hearts, if we are to behold that which frees us from our sins anddemons, we have to we are just travellers on someone else’s turf. It is a turf that will require we witnessheartbreaking violence. It requires we sacrificeour own plans and programs if it will preserve what is innocent, fragile, andpromising. It requires we accept thatthe treasures we offer are not about illuminating our life, but what helpsothers grow with grace, truth, and hope.

To imagine ourselves as magi is to imagine ourselves asdangerous souls. We will upset what hasto be upset to reveal the deep desire to give. We will leave what is familiar because we trust what lies ahead is bountiful. We display all God has given us withhumility, gratitude, and awe. We can do this when we believe Paul’s definition of followers in his letter to the Ephesians:those who are stewards of God's grace. Maywe make known this grace to all. Thatwill be the epiphany worth imagining.

Patrick Malone, SJ

January 8, 2012

Newsletter: Ordinary Time

2012-01-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

On Tuesday, 1/10, we make the annual shift into OrdinaryTime, appropriately without fanfare or feasts. That title—“Ordinary Time”—is a weak translation. It should be “Ordered Time,” as in usingordinal numbers for the church weeks. Butthis is a convenient error, and arguably an inspired one. Count our blessings that this escaped the newtranslators’ zeal to tinker with syntax. We’ll take any signs we can get that the grace of the Holy Spirit stilltriumphs over human meddling.

Iconsider this the most Catholic of church seasons. It require no particular occasion or ritual tobring forth the sacred. It relies on thestories of a divine messenger who had an uncanny preference to challenge,argue, heal, weep, prod, and trust people lie us. It weaves together the central components to be a person of faith: service, prayer, thankfulness, union.

Itis the most gracious of seasons, not asking us to conform our moods and spiritsto external celebrations and invites, but rather allows the stories the getweaved into our lives with depth and integrity, touching us with whatever isgoing on in our hearts and minds. It is asif the scriptures proclaim: “Listen to familiar words again, with noexpectation. Let then rustle throughyou, and create a bit more wonder. Letthem teach you again for the first time.

Thecolor for Ordinary Time may not have been chosen as much as it was the remnantleftover when the other church seasons took the flashier hues. Yet how fitting—or cleverly inspired—that thissingular liturgical time that messily overlaps with all the natural-world’sseasons is the color of life.

Ifthere is a mission to this time once referred to as Epiphany-tide and Pentecost-tide,it may be: relax. You are closer to extraordinarytranscendence than you may realize. Itis in your everyday awe; it is in the repetitive routines, it harbors among thecommon conversations. It abounds amidstthe sometimes dull labors of ordinary living. When we cannot find the friendship of God here, then religiouscelebrations in any season become foolish or forced. Yet when we do, then the mischief work of theHoly Spirit arrives when we least expect it.

New Years. Solemnity of Mary.

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Numbers6:22-27
Galatians 4: 4-7

Luke2: 16-41

Wedon’t know much about 2012, but some things do not change. We know we cannotalways help those who suffer. We cannotprotect them from the world’s cruelty. We can rarely prevent them from making bad choices. We cannot eliminate their sorrows or their fears or their festering wounds. We cannot rip out lousy memories any morethan we can give a assure them of a future free of betrayals or set-backs ornastiness. We cannot free them fromanguish when they do not know how to move forward.

But the more we center out lives and our choices on love, the more we can’t bealoof as we ponder other people’s likely anguish. So we give ourselves stress, and gladly do it again and again, when weare smart enough to know our limits, and human enough to refuse to play it coolbefore other’s misery and sorrows. We doit because we know there is no hell as fresh as the one that cuts us off from others’chaos.

Andif we are people who believe in the incarnation, we believe the central forceof this place is trying very hard to get our attention about extending love inthe most obscure places. We believe thisCreator apparently makes a point to get messed up in human chaos.

So we know we could do no worse than to try to do what holy ones have alwaysdone, when so aware of the world’s misfortunes and so mindful of this One who broughtus here. We do the one simple act thatunites our desire to love the world in all its uncertainty, with our desire to revealthis spiritual union. We offer ablessing. That was the early advice fromancient scripture. It was the way Maryand Joseph brought their child into the world. It was sole activity of their child.

We do it with no illusions that we understand how something so infinite can besummoned by our less than angelic lives. We do it with the humbling truth that we are out of our league. We do it with full awareness we often don’t getthings right. But we must do it becauseit is the clearest sign of gratitude for our connection to the those whoselives we know are tangled in ours, not by random—including those we will nevercall by name—and gratitude to feel a bond with the infinite love that made thistangle.

Wemust, like Mary, we leave nothing out of our world, no matter how baffling. We claim that divine inheritance of which Paulwrites to the Galatians, right now, right here. We dare to do it not because ofself-importance. That way of thinking invitessarcasm from others, as it should. Weinvoke this name that we puts us in awe, knowing whatever goodness or wisdom or grace that has fallen our way, we mustpass it along, ideally without a lot of fanfare.

We do it because ordinary words cannot convey our hopes, our passions, ourempathies. We ask for this Creator’sattention with no illusions that we are more holy or more in touch with thesacred. But we do see the holiness that is right before us, and our deepestdesire will not be denied, which is to it is to share our wonder to be here.

So we do what ancient Israelite priests, what lowly shepherds at mangers, whatalmost all parents of new-borns cannot cease from doing: we claim to the world that holiness abounds. Atthose precious times when we know this, all that is left to is be givers ofgoodwill, because we have been receivers of good tidings. Because, as Paul wrote, we have aspirit in our hearts that cries out to connect with this God.

Weoffer a blessing not to wipe away any doubt or discomfort. Who are we, after all, to cut short other peoples’ road to real prayer, real growth? We do it to pass on a communion that transcendsthan words and deeds. We do it as areminder to us as well to others that our only spiritual mandate is to takecare of each other. So we exhalt eachother in their goodness, we carry each other in their sadness, we discover togetherthe incarnation in a violent world. And weproclaim all this out loud, offering blessings that all see this face of Godwith the amazement of shepherds, With the tenderness of new parents, with thecertainty of wandering holy ones.

Wedon’t much about 2012, but we know that we will be overwhelmed. We will witness more suffering due to humangreed and indifference. May we live the firstwords of people of faith. May we revealthe face of divine love no matter the chaos. May see both the holiness and the pain all put before us, and convey to them,with the delight of a shepherd, with the stillness of mother holding her child,that they were named holy long before we were conceived in the womb.

PatrickMalone, SJ

January1, 2012

Newsletter: from death to life

2012-01-01T04:29:00.001-08:00

New Years

On New Year's Eve Ten years ago, about one hundred folk huddled around an eight foot cross, the last remaining structure at the site of the former World Trade center. The two steel beams had not been heroically preserved from the wreckage; they had not been crafted out of human desires and sweat; the cross, like the best of penetrating icons, was waiting to be stared at, waiting to serve as a finite part of the earth to point to something infinite.

So at 11:30 pm, the cramped crowd gathered on a high mound of mud on an unseasonably warm winter night to do what everyone does on New Year's Eve--to celebrate, though with the word's root meaning: to honor. For the first time since the recovery efforts began four months earlier on 9/12, all work halted. Generators stopped blaring; trucks, cranes and bulldozers ceased their hauling. The diggers and torchers and blasters interrupted their hard labors for a half hour Sabbath. Grace needs no human preparations, but the prep does help us humans slow down enough to notice it.

There would be many more ceremonial breaks at ground zero, though this one had no big names, no podiums, no clean clothes. It began with a Salvation Army officer yelling a religious story about laying down one's life for one's friends. A priest's reflection morphed into an invite to have people invoke the names of the fallen, which naturally evolved into the crowd getting on blended knees. On a site that doubled as a mangled cemetery and a brutal crime scene, there was a consecration of bread into everlasting love. The wind decided most of the spiritual food would go to the fallen, though all were satisfied. Being swept up in a sign from death to life was sufficient.

We move on from a year, 2011, where we all seek healing, seek to move beyond our angers to our empathizes, from our vengeance to our resolve for peace. May we honor those who have shown us how. May we pause in 2012 with a reminder of the grace that has prepared our way. May we huddle together, and know what is the center of our lives.

Fr Pat

Christmas

2011-12-31T17:58:00.002-08:00

From prologue to Gospel of John

When God turned on this cosmos and heated it up,when he triggered the switch that started this expanding universe, this creatormust have known that we who got here too late to see this opening act, we willwant to know the dazzle and the pumped up juice that got it all going, and eventually made the oozing mass that formed us.

But knowing the beginning is not enough. Whyhas this God embellished us with much more than what we need to survive? This holy old one wants us to grow beyond our space and time by teasing themwith minds of wonder. This One who had the Word from the beginning hasleft enough hints in plain sight that that we—creatures part spiritual, partphysical--know we glimpse only a tiny bit of something magnificent andpowerful -- and that somehow we are all connected to it.

This creator infused us with stories to pass on,whether it is with camp fires or on keyboards and with stories we still do notsee the good in them. This one who formed us gives temptations toget lost in truths that take us way beyond facts. This One who turned itall with a bang has afflicted us with a conscious that reminds us to pick upour mess.

This creator formed us in ways that require welaugh at life’s absurdities. We have this strange capacity to weep atothers’ misery. We can be wired into our spiritual DNA to forgive thosejust as foolish or frightened or forgetful as we are. We canimagine a better way we can take care of each other, and then work like a crazyprophet to make it happen, with no need to draw attention to ourselves, becausesuch a mission is deep within our spiritual ancestry.

To discover transcendence is much more thanpiety. It is cooking for the half-time party, dancing on rooftops,falling in a sleep in the arms of those we would die for, going too far,telling wicked stories, protesting the world’s inequities, feeding a hungrychild whose name we cannot pronounce, going crazy at Husker games, hurtingthe ones we love, failing in our dreams, and dreaming again. It isgrieving without end, giving to a stranger with no thought of repayment. asking again when the pain will stop.

But what makes us spiritual is more what we do; itis what puts us in awe. When we look at a cold and dark world, what wenotice is not the darkness. What is amazing is that nothing quenches thelight. No matter the horror, no matter the brutality, there isnoting that extinguishes the light. The senseless of this lightis the secret of its immortality. It is to know hope.

When the efforts to be humble or trusting seempointless or unbearable, we show the effort anyway. It is when weknow, without facts to prove it, that it is not by accident or naturalgeneration or our own decision that brought us here. It is to knowfaith. When we accept just a bit that we have done nothing to merit thislife, that whatever blessings fall our way are because this Source hasbeen recklessly generous, we get it that our job is to pour out this infinitegrace in our own finite ways to others. It is know love.

How natural, how smart, how delightful that thisWord infuses our lives with a hope that that gives vision in our bleakesttimes, with a faith that gives union when convinced we are alone, with a lovethat invites us to release our better selves when we smothered in shame oranger. Yet this source of all says it is not enough to know theseheavenly gifts. Live them. Explode with them with the same forcethat began this cosmos. And here’s how: behold the Word that has made hishome among us.

This one who, like you is made of stardust and madeof spirit. This one will reveal the holiness that started thisproject. But more dazzling, he will reveal the holiness that iswithin all that breathes and believes. There is where this Word willdwell. And from his fullness we will see that we are not miracles. That is thinking too small. The truth is, we have been wrapped in amiracle that began long ago. Then go out and fashion this place hospitablefor of God’s children, That is when the incarnation dwells among us. Thatis when the Christ is born again and again.

Fr Patrick Malone, SJ

December 25, 2011

December 18, 2011. Fourth Sunday of Advent

2011-12-31T17:58:00.000-08:00

Reflectionfrom the Annunciation

Luke 1: 26-38

There is acore truth to our faith, to our lives, that if we speak about it all, it isdone cautiously. We know we are treading on something both mysterious andundeniable, and we do not want to bungle it, or spoil it, or exploit it. If we do speak about it, we do with reservation, so not to sound foolish, orshow we really do not “get it.”

But even morethan bruising our ego, we wisely speak little of it so not to disrupt its beauty,its power, its fact in our lives. The truth does not easily slip intoeveryday conversation even though we welcome it into our core as comfortably aswe do a good friend into our home.

The truth isthere are times in our ordinary, fragmented lives when we feel surrounded bysomething other ever ancient, ever new, as St Augustine wrote it, that isbegging for attention. We feel a gaze--friendly, patient, strong—thatknows us. We feel completely known, and most bewildering, we still do notfeel nervous or ashamed or lacking. What we do feel is utterlytransparent, and no need to explain ourselves; no desire to hide anyshortcomings. No, the focus is all about absorbing, to take inwhatever wisdom sure. But more vital is to take in any love, especiallyto our darkest crevices that really need peace.

This communionhappens completely unprovoked. It could happen sacred house like this oneat St John’s--like the one Nathan envisions in today’s first reading--but itcould just as likely happen when sweating on treadmill, or when standing in anextremely slow moving check-out lane, or at a party when you really wish youwere already home. It happens when daydreaming while someone drones on atchurch or at a meeting, or in a noisy sensory overload sports arena.

We would saywe feel wrapped up into something, but that sounds too confining. What iscertain is that we now grasp the most liberating idea of faith, which is ourlives do not belong to us. And once we encounter this holy presence thiscloseness now seems so obvious. It is like the words of Isaiah today:“the mystery kept secret for long ages (is) now manifested.”

At the time ofour visitations, we trust where-ever this holy presence will take us. The path is sounimportant. What is important is the past. We can now see that thetimes that had pointless suffering, or the traumas that seemed sooverbearing. Or the acts of charity to another than seemed sowasted. Or the seemingly mindless prayer. They have each been an essentialthread in a rich fabric that allows us to believe right now in this holypresence.

Withoutencountering this holy presence, our faith can still filled with connections,and meaning and fun. But with this awareness, we have a heart ready totake in any part of the world’s craziness. We have a mind unafraid toexplore any demons that overwhelm us. We have a faith that sees thisworld that can so brutal as a sacred place waiting for human carriers ofinfinite love.

We then knowthat messengers who bring us bewildering truths will come the strangest ofdisguises. They will be children who ask us to slow down. They willbe elders who ask us to listen. They will be the wounded, especiallythose now returning from a confusing war, who ask us to understand.

Blessed areyou, Mary, for showing us where faith seizes us. It seizes us when we areattentive to this holy presence. Blessed are you Mary, for you show usthat such attention gives us no guarantee of a life without unfairness orviolence. It gives us, as your magnificent prayer proclaims it. Itgives us a forcefulness to speak of the hungry in the world. It gives usa clarity to see the massive inequity in the world, and the and corruption withthe powerful.

Blessed areyou Mary, for you show us that when that holy presence departs, our real workbegins. It begins when we cease trying to understand the sacredencounters in our lives, and we live them. We live them in humble simplesurroundings with which God has blessed us.

Let this bedone to us. Let ourselves be transparent enough to reveal the God we knowgives us breadth and embrace and dignity. Let us be servants to the truth that we canbring a holy mystery into this hectic world, no matter our station, no matterour story. Let us go forward knowing we are filled with grace.

PatrickMalone, SJ

December 18,2011

St John’s church

December 11, 2011. Third Sunday of Advent

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We know the mission of Advent. We are towelcome Christ. We are to make room for this God who breathed the goodearth, and shared our crazy human journey. But this is the taskalways, and one we may never get completely right. We can’t crampsomething like this into these short dark days of December. We haveour thinking reversed. It is Christ that welcomed us into this place. It is Christ that made room for us,

There is something that fashioned us, gave usbreath, soaked our minds in wonder, our hearts with a longing to connect,something that weaved our souls a desire to recall our spiritual roots. Let advent be a time to pause long enough to recall those centraltruths. Otherwise we can miss seeing the Christ already in our midst,especially in the bleakness, the private struggles, the everyday irritations

If that becomes our Advent, if we break therules enough to try to imagine whatever it is that welcomed us. Whateverit is that wants us here, wants us breathing away, making mistakes, playingwith creation, Whatever it is that gives us people to love withabandon, gives us the chance to pray without ceasing by recognizingat all times how staggering it is to be a part of this breathing journey.

How can we be anything but humbled, attentive, onfire?

For us, Advent comes in a cold and darktime. How ideal to let this bewildering truth that somethinghas welcomed us seep into the darkest, most barren parts of oursoul, those parts buried under embarrassment or regret or frustration. Into these creepy parts we let the central truth heal what seemsbeyond healing. We let this central truth meander about into theparts of ourselves that seem hopelessly unchanging, lifeless.

Something very old apparently wants us to be morethan here. It wants us to shake the timidity,cast off playing small. The Apostle Paul was pushy on thispoint: “Do not quench the Spirit… retain what is good… spirit, soul,and body.” When we get that glimpse of our welcomedness, what changesis not so much what we do. It is what we reveal. Like John theBaptist, we reveal our simple selves, and nothing but that is sufficient.

We rejoice in other’s greatness. When this central truth our lives seems too fantastic, too impossible toaccept, we can easily get caught up in trying to figure othersout, or even more damaging, we will miss recognizing the Christ inour midst. We will be too busy focusing on ourselves to recognize theholiness, especially when overwhelmed with coldness and darkness and signs oflifelessness. It is a holiness that comes in multiple forms, most of themprodding us to see this universe as a friendly place, one that wants us here,has prepared a place for us to rejoice always.

If we did get this glimpse, evenoccasionally, we would respond as wildly and as dangerously as Johnthe Baptist. We would not be afraid of humility. We would not beafraid of much, knowing somehow we feel anointed. That doesn’t give asense of superiority. It helps us see the goodness others.

How it happened is beyond our understanding. All we know is that now impossible to look out on this sometimes unfair and harsh world and remain indifferentwhen so hungry they don’t care whether they are welcomed. We justknow that they no one should be so brokenhearted that they don’t care whatexisted before them. When we remembered that someone wasreckless enough to welcome us, all that remains is to reveal thisreckless love without disguises, to welcome this love withouthesitation To share this love without ceasing.

November 27, 2011. First Sunday of Advent

2011-12-31T17:55:00.000-08:00

Weneed to revise our sacred words. The ones we use outside the Mass. The words that come some great joy or from some immense sorrow. Too often they come out garbled. Between these experiences thatmake us fall in love, these experiences that we know require morestrength than we have ever had. These experience born from thosemoments when our human lives encounter something, like Isaiah writesin the first reading, that “rend the heavens to come down upon us.”

Wehave them, and if we speak of them at all, they can come out too polished,too tame, lest we sound crazy. Buthow do we find new words to speak about getting close to whatever createdus? How do we speak of people we know are angels in bad humandisguises But how do proclaim in sane discourse

thatwe know the random experiences, and especially the harsh ones, getweaved together by some plan that “no ear has ever heard, no eye everseen?” These truths will never make it onto You Tube,sohow do we speak intelligently of that union of which we know to be true,and kind?

Webegin by revising how speak of everyday occurrences. When I am jealous atothers’ good fortune, mayI speak of a holy longing to rise above my self-imposed isolation. When I grumble how anger and impatience often explode in controlledrage, may I see this as a cry to get over myself. When convincedthat many irritations, the daily trials, are pointless, may I speak of myhunger to remember in whose potter’s hands I have been fashioned. Whena mean spiritedness comes out at the most awkward times, may I speak of thegrace that smothers me.

Theserevisions help us see that most of our words, most of our life, forms oneholy longing. It is a longing that our words reflect our desire toshare goodness that comes from beyond us, even when our words are rough. It is a longing that our actions reveal that we know who we are, weknow what matters, even when too frantic to show it. It is a longing thatour deeds reveal our deepest value,

whichis thanksgiving, even if we, as Isaiah warns, fail to show it. It isa longing that our faith reveal a closeness to what brought ushere, even if when act as if we were masters of our lives. Adventis the church’s tool to be clear about this longing. The season says:give us time to ponder howwe welcome this incarnation. If we are loyal followers of churchteaching, we will speak of this incarnation that whatever violencehas hardened our hearts, there is a bondless love that surpasses.

Whateverweariness makes us harsh, there is an passion to build up those Godhas tangled in our lives. Whatever discouragement can corrode ourminds, there is an abiding presence of gratitude that fails to go away. That is what we profess with our lives when we believe in thiscloseness.

Andthe command for this time could not more gracious: watch for thiscloseness. Watch for it in the hunger you have to be more genuinewith the people in your lives. Watch for it in those who unravelyou, those who shake your confidence, and see something powerfullygood in them. Watch for it in peoples’ disgust when leaders fail togrow up and serve the common good. Watch for this closenessinthose who refuse to let pain define them. Watch for it in peoples’ hungerto have their land

reflecttheir deepest values of openness, fairness, decency, hope.

Watchfor this hunger in the multitude of souls around you who are trying tolearn from their fury, their losses, their fears, their struggles, theirmistakes. May we make this Advent a retreat to watch how this Godhungers to reveal to us all—to wanderers, to servants, to whatever ourtribe of our heritage, to those who speak with force, to those whoswear with vengeance, to those tired of waiting, to those tired ofchanges.

Maywe see the God who hungers to get close. So let do whatever revisions weneed to do to believe in this closeness, and help others believe. Ithappens when we let this God revise us. Then we know all our hungers, allour revisions, all our watchfulness, even all our everydayoccurrences invite us to see again what has always been there: The Wordmade flesh. Let us welcome it into our sacred lives.

November 20, 2011. Feast of Christ the King

2011-12-31T17:51:00.000-08:00

Matthew 25: 31-46

The Christian faith is to make us bigger.

The hope is that the tight grip of perfection losesits power. We see that the goal of a holy life is not perfection, butunion. It is a heavenly union that we hope frees us from wanting to beperfect. The Christian faith reminds us, that since the foundation of theworld, Something must have seen our significance, something must have known us,Something must have settled us. Jesus, like all the holy ones, includingthose saints in our lives, got this point. They knew from where theirstrength, their gladness, their grace came. So they could not help butradiate this closeness—with peacefulness, with humility—in a way that pulls usin.

The goal of this Christian life makes us big in amore earthy way. It happens, sometimes with great struggle, that ourbigness comes not when we live large. It is when we let the tiniest woesof the fill us, bewilder us, overwhelm our limited world.

These woes and dreams fill our prayer, ourchurches, our music, our blessings, our conscious, our crying, our visions, oursacrifices, our faith. How wondrous, how holy, how difficult to let thisworld’s chaos and unfairness seep deep into our crevices, our embraces, our senseof kin. It is then we discover our souls were never really ours. Wehave just been holding a part of something much bigger, that really belongs tothis King, and this King entrusts a piece of it to us.

This idea of big will break us. That is themission of love, whatever the source. It breaks us of thinking first ofourselves. It breaks us of being numb, which is so tempting, sopervasive. It breaks us of resentment from feeling we get so little,because we now see the truth of the majestic load we have received.

This idea of big asks one thing: let your kindnessbe serious and extravagant. Let it begin with those who are thrust intoyou small world you not by accident. Be in awe that in this coldunfolding universe, this King knew who will stretch you, who will invite you to magnify your life.

Let it include the horrific increase among those inour own land of families living in hunger. Let us hear the heavyfootsteps of the women in Africa carrying potable water for miles for herthirsty family. Let it imagine the undocumented alien who lives in theshadows from health care or protection or decent work laws. Let it seethe children working in clothing factories who could never afford the wearanything but rags. Let it take in the veterans too mentally broken toever be vibrant again. Let it feel a kindred spirit with prisoners whoget violated in our own camps, in our own name.

The least among us-- the royal brothers and sistersof this Source of Love: the ones who deliver us from our smallness. The hope is that if we do it right, we won’t feel a need to condemn, orexclude, or divide or separate. We are here, though ultimately, not toinvite then to our table, to our world, to our chorus of gratitude, to thedeepest parts of our lives.

The gift of faith, though, is to help us see thatit was never our table. It was never our world. It was never ourchoir, never our church. It has always belonged to this Shepard who likedto pal around with the least. Right now, it is probably a God who weepsthe when the signs of greed or deceit or fear from the powerful few results inmind-blowing pain upon the most vulnerable. We all now know too manyexcruciating examples of this hell for the innocents of earth.

So people of faith must do the same as theirKing. To let this world’s insanity break our heart, and move our feet tomake this place more humane. It is to dedicate ourselves to welcoming thelost, to healing the ravaged, to restoring dignity to the forgotten. Wedo it not to be big. We do it not to restore integrity to a woundedchurch and world, which it will. We do it not just because it will saveus from our selves. We do it to be human, which has always been thesacred channel to be close to the King of Love.

Fr Patrick Malone, SJ

November 20, 2011

November 13, 2011. 33rd Sunday in OT

2011-12-31T17:49:00.001-08:00

Thirty-Third Sunday in OrdinaryTime

1 Thessalonians 5:1-6
Matthew 25:14-30

Paul says: “For all of you are children of the light.”

Howcan Paul say that sort of silly line? Hedoesn’t know them. He doesn’t know themat all. He doesn’t know if those whohear his words then or today carry deep troubles. He doesn’t know if they are weary from tryingto get a peace, but still fumbling in anxiety or anger or uncertainty. He doesn’t know any of that. He doesn’t know them—not in the least.

Buthe knows one thing, and that seemed to be sufficient for him, who had by allaccounts a terribly difficult, lonely life. He knew they are the lucky ones. They are the ones who get a chance at life. They are the ones who get this exceedinglyrare chance to come alive, to be a part of this Grand Project calledcreation.

Itis a staggering for any of us to think of the potential people who could have been here in our placebut who will never see the light of day—will never be precious children of thisearth. Any of those possible creationscould be greater writers than Thomas Merton. More graceful athletes than Michael Jordan, deepermystics than St Ignatius, more noble statesmen than Lincoln, more inspiringprophets than Romero, Moreclever innovators than Bill Gates, more welcoming hosts than Dorothy Day.

We know this even better than Paul did because we know the possible peopleallowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the number of actual people. Yet, in these staggering odds of our not beinghere, of not being part of this light, this day, this breadth. it is you and I, in our ordinariness, in ourstumbles and in our growth that are here.

And Paul, like his predecessor, went to dangerous extremesto let us know it. It is we who have achance to learn, to fall in love, to lighten up, to weep uncontrollably, to build fires, to order out, to pick up babies, to plug into to Mozart, to textmessages, to make stupid mistakes, and start over again. It is we who apparently have been chosen to be a part of this world,this glimpse of heaven, this taste of infinite love. We are thrown into is with no guarantees, or owners’ manual, or warning, or assurancethat we are doing it right.

We just have this ongoing hunger to wonder who it is thatchose us, to wonder to whom we should direct our thanks, our outburst, oursuggestions, our hurt. We are childrenwho want to remember this sender of life. So we pray with kindred spirits, Especially those who know the wisdom of a sacramental faith,who also want to be friends with this Force who chose us over what we couldthink were better choices.

But here we are,with enough experiences that push us to see how lucky we are—or the more accurate term—we feel blessed to be here. We leave nothing out when we say this. Not the traumas, not the weariness, not the bafflements. In hisplay, King Lear, Shakespeare, has hismain character—the King--say to his daughter, both who are wrongly sufferingfrom other peoples’ greed, And “sowe'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh /At gildedbutterflies, /and …take upon the mystery of things As if we were God's spies.”

And so we are earth to be spies to a God who gives us this chance tocome alive. That puts us in a groupmuch more elite than one percent. Wehave been given talents by this giver who keeps returning home to us. And the greatest talent is we get to know whoit is that gave us breadth, who it is that keeps giving us this chance to bechildren of light.

It is a giver who makes it clear that precious gift has to goout into the world, especially to those creatures who doubt they are chosen,because of abuse or poverty or human greed or pain. May we be faithful in this small matter. May we share in our Father’s, in ourMother’s, joy. May we share in theircoming alive.

Patrick Malone, SJ

November 13, 2011

October 9, 2011.

2011-12-31T17:46:00.000-08:00

In seven weeks, we startagain another church year with ancient prayers and new ways to pray. One of them, the one right before communion, we all say together is, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say theword and my soul shall be healed.

It is proper that if we domake way for Christ into our mess, into our earthly journeys, then we might aswell let this encounter penetrate into the deepest crevices of our souls. That is not the part of theprayer that stings. It is the part of telling thecreator that we may not be completely, absolutely merit all this. This phrase only makes sense,is only healthy, only deserves us to say it before each other if we see it as grounding usin what faith is supposed to do: putting us in awe.

It is to be aware of theGreat Work of which we are a part. It is to be aware of our breadth that connects us to what was long ago. It is to be aware of what puts us in love, be aware of what instills within us perseverance, even when there is reason to have any. It is be aware of a kinship with all in this creation, especially those whose lives are so harsh, so unfair.

It is to be fully aware ofthe lousy things that have happened—leaving out none of them—and still somehow cannot deny thankfulness for life. It is moving us to see thatthe divine image in which we are made, can be distorted, but it will never be obliterated.

Awe is knowing the dignity inall things, and all things point to something old, something that wants us to take it all in. We know that what is invitingus to take it in is the source of patience when filled with anxiety. It is the steadiness speakinghard truths to those we love.

It is then we know that when utter gospel phrase about the unworthiness it is not about how far we are from having our act together, but how close we have alwaysbeen to an infinite love, and we want to make home with it. It is here we know that onevocation is wondering how we can be ready for whatever this God throws at us. It is here we find it easier, despite our tendencies to think otherwise, to be transparent with who weare.

It does not take away the cruelties,the hassles, the struggles we have. It gives us the freedom to seethem in right perspective. It is here we see ourvocation of getting ready to meet this God, this force that insists upon comingin. And so we wonder how toprepare in meeting this God. How can we be ready toencounter this God, that comes in 10,000 disguise?

It is to be ready for interruptions,knowing that is how God gets our attention. It is to be ready to receivewisdom from unlikely sources—a baby, a commercial on TV, a set-back, to our important plans, an irritating college, waiting in an incrediblyslow-moving check-out line at the grocery store

To be ready to receive thislove is to know our dreams will forever be unfinished, our mistakes will never be all forgotten, our hard relationships will not soon cease, our words will never be as free as we want them to be, our actions will never be as passionate as we crave them to be, but it is toknow all this work in progress puts us in prime space to be ready to recognize this One who throws a banquet for the bad and good alike.

To be ready. Shakespeare has his main man, Hamlet, put it all in a few words: “The readiness is all.” Ready to encounter a lovethat brought us here. Ready to look at this world, so devastated by lunaticleaders, and still willing to see theholiness that abounds.

Ready, when missing your onlylove, and knowing the future holds promise. Ready, when lying awake atnight from anxiety and physical pain, and knowing you still can be giving to others. Ready to be put in awe all over again from the same friend, the same reading, the same walk, the same meal, the same routine, even the same darkness, and know this source of love is not done surprising us.

Patrick Malone, SJ

October 9, 2011

September 25, 2011

2011-12-31T17:38:00.001-08:00

Based on Matthew 21: 38-32

26^th Sunday in Ordinary Time

In Africa, I shared a hut with an elder curmudgeon namedMamadou. He was the village crank—quickwith a biting comment. He used justenough words to vent displeasure or cynicism or doubt, rarely making it to acomplete sentence, He had a tough life,and the temptation to focus inward nibbled away at most of peacefulness. He did not care anymore. He lacked the patience, the finesse, the energyto polish his thoughts.

Mohammad and I ate together, rebuild huts, shared Arabic tea, plowing dryfields and prayed for some rain on ascorched earth. Just because we had thesame hut, we saw a lot of hunger together. His quick phrases was how I learned the local language, ancient proverbs.

When leaving the village to come to the states, it was clearthat saying goodbye would be awkward, Best to make a fast exit He would have to do the usual mutterings whichwe both knew would be an insult, or he could something both knew not be who hewas. It would be forced.

Mamadou did neither. As I was leaving, with a crowd around,he came over, took his mighty hands, made bear hug, raised me up, with feet dangling. Not looking too dignified for either of us,he then ungracefully put his head on my shoulder, as if to offer a sign of a signthat distance and time will not weaken the bond.

Through it all, he would not let up on the squeeze. On this last day, I finally saw Mamadou as hewas, as he always been, but I had been too blind. A holy man too tired for pretense. It is these breathless situations we see thegreat hunger to have holy curmudgeons in our life. There are plenty of blessed souls who oozewith this refreshing directness, even if we fail to see it.

It is the young, who let natural curiosity be greater thanthe need to screen. It comes from thoseon the margins who know they have little to lose. It comes from elders, who accept better thanmost life’s briefness. They know avoidingtough truths does not keep the peace. Itjust makes us isolated. It comes, apparently,from those far from comfort or authority--the crew with whom Jesus hung out.

In our own day, words of clarity or from the heart rarelycomes from people in power. It is moreand more maddening to listen to those vested with authority, or read theirwords, or watch their pronouncements even when the words are so right. The gut response is that these soothing wordsare fabricated, tested, and without much convection other than making someonesound important, smart, to righteous. Morethan ever we desperately need holy ones who don’t care anymore.

We need breathing examples of those guided less be fear,more with a trust. Those who know thereis no phrase so eloquent, no statement so memorable, no utterance so piercing assimple words that come from one’s heart. We hunger to hear words from those in authority that do not insult, Thatsound more than what others think we want to hear. What the soul craves, alwayshas, are signs that reveal genuineness, character, humility.

What makes Jesus worth hearing again is when he no longerhas the energy or the patience or the will for sounding good. There is more interest drawing out goodnessin others. The times when Jesus’ wordscarry passion is when people in power—and that can be any of us—forget whatfaith is about.

Do you know what this communion with your Creator means? It is to see the strength from which we are permanentlyrooted. It is to knock any arrogance outof us, knowing we need to need to convince no one of our goodness or ourgreatness—we only wish to invite them see theirs.

It means our sentiments of being in awe overwhelm any demons to condemn. It means we realize we all share the samehut. so we, as in the words of Paul’sletter, humbly regardothers as more important than yourselves. It means we will not become cynical of thepower of kindness.

It means we will focus on our possibility to be more in thisdivine image, and focus less on others’ crankiness on or other’s in Ezekiel’sphrase—iniquities. That is when, inJesus’ words, we come close to entering the Kingdom of God. It when if we are preoccupied with anything,it is that we are cannot stop wondering how is it that I, a quite ordinarysinner, can have such communion with this force of love.

It is then, while we are preoccupied, we find ourselvesspeaking words that come from our core. Itis here we extend gestures of kindness that pierce. It is here others notice an absence of pretension. It is herewe interact with transparency and depth. It is here we do the will of the one who sent us. It is here, we raise those around us byfirmly reminding them of their value, their permanent closeness to love.

Patrick Malone., SJ

September 25, 2011

September 11, 2011

2011-12-31T17:35:00.000-08:00

There was an Ex Fire Chief Joe Butler who, no matter the hour of night, was always digging close by. He brought his own rake and shovel from home, which I guess ex Fire Chief get to do. He eyes were weak. He knew younger diggers and the trained dogs did it faster. But when we know who we are, we don’t compete. He did the digging as if it were a vocation-- with grace, with gratitude, with no worries about being successful. He had a task to do, but he welcomed interruptions, especially human ones. He asked what was knew as if this was a some comfy park.

It is then you realize that it is not immense tragedies, in the long haul, that change us. Encountering the souls with grit and humility and spontaneity does. You feel holy just being close by. And after talking, Chief Joe wished you well and got back to looking for the remains of his only son, Steve, who had followed in his father’s profession.

It is our profession. To dig deep. We do it when knowing it will uncover pain and unfairness and our own sense of impotency. We dig when we know we will onfront unbearable sadness. For those who follow this Christ, we dig because we know that there is no place too vile, no experience too crushing, no effort too brutal, no memory too sorrowful that, as Sirach wrote, cannot be raised

The horrors unleashed these ten years have been numbing: —the gruesome wars,

the greed of a few at the expense of the many, the scarred minds of brave witnesses to human indecency, the loss of transparency in public affairs, the enmity towards the poor, the abandonment of treating workers with dignity, the demonizing of whole crowds of people, and--to use a word from the first reading--the celebration of wrath. These horrors did not occur because of what was smashed on 9/11. They happened because we have forgotten what was raised at 9/11.

Those who worked to seek signs of former life, were surrounded by a fence that quickly morphed into a mile long shrine cluttered with and anything simple that conveyed signs of everlasting love. Inside were ordinary souls-not heroes—who oozed with decency, humility, salty humor, and most of all, with resolve to not let violence define us. Their only personal object they carried—their helmets-- had no slogans of wrath or anger or enmity as Sirach wrote, but names and pictures of those who inspired them. They had icons symbols like the cross, or the star of David, or the Muslim crescent, that comforted them.

They knew that in our most fragile times, our greatest motivator is not what angers us, but who and what reveals a sacrifice, an ethic, a strength we need right now. Those diggers knew the encouragement that seeped into the pit, coming from all points in heaven and on earth. They knew, like Paul wrote, to whom they belonged, whether they lived or died.

If we fully took in this idea of knowing to whom we belong, the good inside of us would beam out, as radiant as two towering beams of blue reaching the skies Father Mychal Judge, the beloved chaplain of the firefighters and the first recorded fatality on 9/11, said it poetically: “Lord, tell me where you want me to go. Let me meet whom you want me to meet. Tell me what You want me to say. And keep me out of Your way.”

That was the mission statement of the world’s first chaplain 2000 years ago, showing us the way. He who began his earthly life during a massacre of innocents, he who used parables to show the rough life of the poor, he who was no fool in knowing speaking truth is dangerous, he who saw many young men serving in other peoples’ undefined battles, he who saw religion used as a club rather than a invite to holiness. He must have known how easy it is for us to get in God’s way.

But more, he knew of human hunger to rise up from the squalor of pettiness, of the vengeance that corrodes souls. He knew the grudges keep us sick. He knew we all share Chief Butler’s vocation--to take away the crud that crushes our love, our desire to leave legacies of kindness.

Chief Butler’s actions were not futile. He, like so many others, lived the message of the cross: the violence stops here. I will not perpetuate it. I will not forget the forces, both human and divine, that has prodded me, blessed me, healed me.

We can forgive, and do it again, when we want badly enough for the violence to not destroy us. It will change much in this tired world, but it will stop this world’s pain from making us more bitter and miserable. We forgive not when we block out our hardships, but when we refuse to let our vocation be crushed, which is to let anything get in the way of receiving, believing and sharing infinite love.

Christ had an unimaginable faith in humanity’s goodness. Yes, he would say, I know about carrying unbearable sorrow, about having your world shattered. But I know of your hunger to rise from your lowest point. I know of your hope to not let your violence define you. I know how you allow others’ selfless, others’ courage to embolden you.

I know you don’t want vengeance to destroy your sanity. I know you want to make this faith one that reveals a loving God in the darkened, cruel parts of the world. So dig more. Dig into this world’s harshness, especially where innocents are slaughtered, and be guided by your hopes. Dig into your own sorrows from others’ deceit, and discover how you can bring strength to those around you. Dig, and reveal the Body of Christ.

Patrick Malone, SJ

September 11, 2011

23 Sunday in OT. September 4, 2011

2011-12-30T22:11:00.001-08:00

Covenant

In a couple ofweeks St. John’s parish council and the pastor will pronounce a covenant toeach other. Part of that shared pledge saysthat we will commit to holding each other in prayer. We will try at all time to respect oneanother’s ideas and efforts. Wewill keep confidential whatever wouldharm or degrade the other in any way. Wewill not speak badly of one another. Wewill try at all times to be positive, affirmative, direct.
We will not replace listening with judgment, nor will we replace one’s ownconvenience

for the group’swell-being.

There may be manyreasons to offer such a covenant—whether it is with board members or a faithcommunity or within a household or a bond among friends. It shows we take our faith seriously. Wewant a firm nudges to live out our best ideals. We know that in any union worthy of our time,we need a healthy dose of responsibility. Most of all, we offer such a covenant because it reminds us that we arevery lucky.

Many have no one with whom they can speak of a covenant, much less liveone. Because of the lousy experiences oftheir lives, because of some tough but unseen scars, because of other’sviolence, the idea of a vibrant bond is either unattainable or toopainful. Beyond the poverty of theflesh, there is no poverty sadder, no poverty more dangerous, more hellish,than the poverty of loneliness.

It is this sortof poverty that steers one to cynicism, makes one more likely to get burdenedwith regrets, more likely to have suspicions about other’s good deeds. We are not less holy when we are alone, justmore willing to believe we are believe we are. It makes one think all this talk of a loving God is a cruel joke attheir expense. Even more disturbing, lonelinessconvinces those miserable souls caught in its grip that they are unworthy to share in the bestparts of life.

When we make acovenant, we know we have set ourselves up for failure, we know our earthylives will never quite reach our heavenly goals or words. We know just thinking of covenant can rub too closelyof our doubts about our ability to feely give up. But none of those harsh realities weakens abit the abundance of gratitude to know we are connected.

To have a covenant does not infuse us with a charmed life. If we are a sloth on our own, we do transforminto a Navy Seal simply because we are aware of a connection. If we are uptight about trivial detailswithout a bond, we do not become guruwith complete balance and serenity with one.

But a covenantedlife gives us what our hearts long for: an opportunity to be transparent.
It is an opportunity to dedicate the tiniest parts of our selves to someoneelse’s comfort, growth, joy, fun. Wefind it easier to release the better parts of ourselves and have less worry ofwhat is in it for ourselves. We have thecourage to commit the sacred act of making others believe in the truth ofunconditional love.

When such a bondhas been granted to us, however briefly or imperfectly, then it becomesnatural--even obvious--to accept that something is hovering about, something wedon’t want to hassle with, just something we want to abide in. “Where two or three are gathered, …”

Most of Jesus’ words were not about covenant; Most of his life was. He chosethe most motley crowd to ask, without words, “Do you know to whom you areconnected?” Do you know what holyfriendship is yours?” We are not able totake in all that truth. I cannot. But even a piece of that truth could make uscreate a Body of Christ more bent on sharing this holy kinship with all wanderingsouls—especially those isolated by fear or needs—and less bent on showingothers their waywardness.

This shifthappens when we understand this sacred binding of which Jesus gives to all hisfollowers, and not only to the high rabbis as it was practiced. It is a binding people have to experience ina concrete, fleshy, human way, if they are to believe in any other kind ofbinding.

It is a bindingthat puts another’s well-being before one’s own, which means it is binding thatshakes heaven and earth when it des not sacrifice courage for our own comfort. So we confront. I t is not score points, not shame, not todump our frustrations. We confront becausewe see so much life crushed under their demons and weariness. Wespeak of the tough parts nor because we are so skilled with words or because weare faultless ourselves. Just theopposite. It is because we know too well the heavinessof faults,
the pressures of a fragmented life, the worries of getting stuck. We confront because we hope they will do thesame for us.

Is a covenantthat says we owe it to those with whom we are bound, as Paul said to theRomans, to share a love that is respectful, healing, and one that knows who isalways in the midst of us. We pay aprice when we do not confront those closest to us, as Jesus must have known. We are less than real, less peaceful.

If anotherbroken but beautiful creature of God hurts, go and tell her between you andher, guided with your honesty, and with that force of love that keeps intrudingwhen we gather in hope.

If there is painor hardness, if our humanity that stifles that bond, remember Jesus’ vision ofchurch: the place where sinners,dreamers, those who believe in a sacred Covenant
among all who comes to us, where we commit to holding each other inprayer. Where we will try not to speakbadly of one another. Where we won’t replace listening with judgment.

And if we do notsucceed, we return to be fed, to be in each other’s presence, to be one in the presence of the one who livedcovenant. To be healed again, and readyto go out and make this world less lonely.

Twenty thirdSunday in Ordinary Time

September 4,2011

Patrick Malone,SJ