Hello Again...Pardon My Confession

"Rejoice in your hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer." (Rom 12:12)

It's been a while since I've posted anything...almost two months. My excuse? Diane and I were in Italy helping to lead a parish Jubilee Year pilgrimage during late January, and since then have been quite ill trying to recover from a nasty virus. We were actually sick before the trip, but had recovered (we thought) and had been given an OK for travel by our respective docs. Anyway, we're healthy once again and trust we will remain so, at least for a while.

If you know me at all, you'll realize how grumpy I can be whenever I'm ill. And this time around was no exception. Most often I turn to God and, forgetting everything I preach to others, grumble about why He has allowed me to get so ill. Then I inevitably get a little sanctimonious and remind the Lord that by confining me at home He's keeping me from doing His work in my tiny corner of the world: "Don't you understand how much I do for You?" (It's amazing how often we think and say such foolish things to God.) As a confessor told me years ago: "Being a sinner is a fulltime job."

This attitude usually rules for only a few days until I realize that by putting myself at the center of everything, I'm separating myself from reality. Yes, indeed, it's hard to be humble when you're always focused on yourself. Humility, of course, is simply reality, the true understanding of who we are in relation to God and others.

So, eventually, as always (I'm a notoriously slow learner), I began to accept God's will, even though I didn't understand it. And that's when His blessings and His gifts became evident. I realized first that I had become somewhat overwhelmed in my ministries. I used to say "burned out" but that always led me to feel sorry for myself. Truthfully, though, at 80 perhaps I need to slow down a bit and focus my remaining energy on how I can best serve God and His people. Once again, this demands a hefty dose of humility, a willingness to let the Lord take the lead and point me in the right direction. So often He calls us to our weaknesses, not to what we believe are our strengths -- another hard call to humility. The antidote? Prayer, prayer, and more prayer -- listening prayer -- and an openness to God's working through others to show us His will.  

Another blessing was a related and treatable eye infection that I might well have picked up on one of the flights to and from Italy. As a doctor friend once remarked: "Airplanes are perhaps the perfect Petrie dish for the cultivation and transmission of all kinds of nasty bugs." The infection made it difficult to read and use the PC. (I'm not a touch-typist, but hunt and peck at high speed.) So I actually had time to think and pray more than usual. This, then was another of God's unexpected gifts since it led me to thankfulness, quite a change from my earlier grumbling.

Diane and I also grew closer to each other as we flip-flopped in our roles as caregiver and care receiver, depending on who happened to be worse off on any given day. As you might have guessed, I tend to be the neediest, but Diane never complained and took wonderful care of me. I tried to do the same. After 56 years of marriage, we still find new ways to love each other. Diane's well-being is something else I must consider as I examine my way forward in the diaconate. Our mutual needs are more important. After all, those matrimonial promises and vows were made 30 years before holy orders.

I could go on, but there's no need. God is the great Teacher, always leading us to a deeper love for Him and each other. Some of us have to be retaught again and again, but His patience knows no limit and He continues to find new ways to help us grow in holiness.

God's peace, sisters and brothers...

Sick and Tired

I’ve been sick, with something that’s made me very tired. I’m really not sure what hammered me about a week ago, but it sure made an impression. It feels like the flu but I won’t hazard a diagnosis except to say that I’ve been out of commission ever since it appeared. The symptoms were pretty standard: aches and pains, upper respiratory congestion and cough, chills, weakness, loss of appetite, and all the rest. To my knowledge I never had a fever, so I guess that’s a good thing. But the best thing has been the loving care provided by Diane who kept me hydrated, medicated, fed, warm and cozy, and let me get the rest I needed. She has been wonderful indeed. Anyway, thanks to Diane, I’m now on the mend, and should be back to normal within a day or two. In the meantime I’ll continue to remain cloistered here at home and just goof off until I feel well enough to rejoin polite society. 

Sadly, today I’ll have to miss the Parish Staff Christmas Luncheon, always an enjoyable event, except perhaps for the irritating Yankee Swap gift exchange. Okay, okay…a lot of folks apparently enjoy it, but it just seems to turn gift-giving into an unnecessarily complicated process that ensures the right gifts too often get to the wrong people. Just seems to me a “secret Santa” approach would be a lot simpler, leave everyone happier, and be more attuned to Christian values. But what do I know? Obviously, not much, because I think I’m alone in my, until now, unvoiced criticism. I’d already bought a gift for the luncheon, one that met the $25 limit. I think I’ll ask Diane to give it to some deserving soul whom she believes will enjoy it,

Diane’s undergoing another of her frequent physical therapy sessions, so while she’s out I’ll ask a compliant Alexa to play a little Vivaldi or Bach while I take a brief restorative nap right here in my easy chair. But first I must extricate my right foot from under Maddie who decided to settle down on top of it. This is something new with Maddie who’s normally not much of a cuddler. Perhaps it’s a symptom of her advancing age — Maddie turns 15 this month — and reflects a long-repressed desire to establish a closer relationship with the pack. Then again, maybe she just decided my slippered foot was a handy pillow. 

In the meantime, get your heart and soul ready for Jesus. He arrives soon. 

Christmas Grinches: Secular and Ecclesial

I can't speak for anyone but myself, and the older I get the more apparent this becomes. I can't believe, however, that most people, certainly most Christians, would not agree with me as I challenge several rather important people who appear to delight in trying to make this season of joy almost joyless. To me such people epitomize the infamous Grinch of cartoon fame.

My first target happens to be the President of these United States, Joe Biden. That's right, the President, speaking to the American people the other day, threatened some of them with a "severe winter of illness and death" from the Omicron strain of the COVID virus. I find this particularly interesting since so far, worldwide, only one person with Omicron has died, and that person was in the UK. In fact, to our knowledge they didn't die from the virus but from other causes and happened to test positive with Omicron. Most people infected with Omicron have very mild cases that resemble a bad cold. And yet, the power-hungry just continue to create fear and panic among the population, forcing businesses, schools, and government offices to close. Yes, it will indeed be a severe winter and those we have elected, aided by the bureaucrats, will ensure it's as severe as they can make it.

Here's a video of President Biden's little pep talk from the other day:  

https://youtu.be/A4IPfBWN-rQ

As I heard Joe Biden lecture us on the dangers of Omicron, and the bleak winter we will face, I couldn't help but recall a wonderful scene from one of my favorite movies, "Groundhog Day." If you saw the movie, I'm sure you remember how Phil, the weathermen, offered his equally glum prediction of winter. Here's a link to a brief video:

https://youtu.be/vBeGQAvabOE

Sadly, the other Grinch is a Catholic bishop in Sicily, Bishop Antonio Stagliano of the diocese of Noto, who told a group of children that Santa Claus does not exist. His intent, apparently, was to reinforce the religious meaning of Christmas and lessen its commercial aspects. 

Unfortunately, I think the good bishop went about it in a way that only damaged the innocence of children and infuriated their parents. He could have (should have) focused on Santa's origins, the kindly and charitable Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra in 4th-century Asia Minor, who is still with us in the Mystical Body of Christ, encouraging us to follow his example of care for those in need. 

As a result of the bishop's comments, the diocese was forced to apologize and "spin" what the bishop actually said. Maybe on Christmas Eve he should put on a Santa suit (which, by the way, he said was a product of Christmas commercialization by the Coca Cola Company) and visit the poor children of his diocese armed with gifts.

Here's a link to the video explaining all this:

https://youtu.be/dsRyPzf9Hkc

In the meantime, with only six shopping or, rather, six joyful praying and giving days until Christmas, have a blessed, peaceful, Grinch-less Holy Day.

Reading and Rereading

To the tiny band of loyal readers of this blog, my apologies. For the past month or so, and for no particular reason, I've taken a break from blogging.

Sometimes life just gets too busy, so busy I don't have time to think seriously about anything other than the practicalities of daily living. That's not good. We humans need to do those things that separate us from other creatures. We need to love and pray and think. And I really hadn't done much thinking lately. I believe I simply needed to step away from the unnecessary distractions and think about some of the things that have been roaming about in my aging brain. There was a need to take hold of them and pin them down. Whenever I get this way, I usually reach for a book, just to get me thinking. More often than not, it's a book I've already read, a little comfort food for the brain.

For example, about a week ago I was asked to conduct a committal service at the National Cemetery in Bushnell, Florida. This happens frequently since our parish is not far from the cemetery and we deacons are more than willing to assist more distant parishes by conducting these services for them.

I always include a brief homily during committals. After all, the committal is the final rite of the funeral, the time when family and friends say their public goodbyes to their loved one. It's really a very special time for most families. They need words of comfort and hope.

Flannery O'Connor

In this particular instance the deceased was a sixty-year-old woman who had suffered from Multiple Sclerosis for many years. Her husband, a retired Marine, had died three years before in a car accident. Their five children, now all in their twenties and thirties were present, along with a whole crew of grandchildren. They all mentioned how cheerful and loving this mother and grandmother had been, even in the midst of her illness and despite the tragedy of her husband's death. They would miss her terribly. It was a very sad day for these young people. What could I say to them?

As a sat down to write my brief homily, Flannery O'Connor came to mind and I reached for a book of her letters, The Habit of Being (1979). It's a thick book of over 600 pages, but after a moment's searching I found the letter I was looking for. O'Connor, who suffered her entire adult life from lupus, the disease that would ultimately take her life at age 39, wrote these words to a friend:

"I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense sickness is a place...and it's always a place where there's no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don't have it miss one of God's mercies." [p. 163]

I included this excerpt in my homily and suggested that their mother would have known exactly what O'Connor meant by the mercy of illness. This woman they loved so much had given them the example of one who had recognized this mercy of God in her long illness and had accepted it with joy. How blessed they are as a family to have had such a wonderful mother and grandmother, someone to show them the way.

We all need people like this in our lives.

This evening I decided to begin another book I've read many times before, Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. We'll see what this moral philosopher of another time and place has to teach me today.

Confronting Illness

Increasingly I seem to be spending time with those who suffer from illness of one kind or another. This, I suppose, should be expected since my ministry as a deacon certainly involves visiting the sick. Another obvious reason for this increase is that earlier this year Dear Diane and I began to minister as volunteer chaplains at our local hospital. After all, one doesn't go to the hospital with the expectation of encountering too many healthy people. And then there's my age and that of many of my friends and acquaintances. Most of us are at or approaching an age when we begin to encounter serious threats to our health. As a consequence we seem always to be praying for or visiting those who are hospitalized, or awaiting surgery, or in rehab, or entering hospice care. As you might expect, all of this is reflected in our conversation when we get together with our friends. Although we might begin by sharing stories about our grandchildren, the conversation inevitably devolves into a discussion of the three D's: doctors, diseases and drugs.

Now you might think all this involvement with illness would be depressing; but I haven't found it so. Indeed, I have been buoyed, literally raised up, by many of the most seriously ill people I have encountered. Their illnesses seem to have focused their minds and hearts on what is truly important. Let me pass along a few examples:

On one of my recent chaplain days at the hospital Dear Diane had a doctor's appointment of her own that morning and couldn't join me until later.  And so I was alone when I entered the room of a woman who suffers from several forms of cancer. After I introduced myself she told me she was a "believing Christian" -- as I recall, she later indicated she was a Baptist -- and then thanked me for stopping by. We spoke a while about her illness and then she said (these might not be her exact words, but they're close enough):

You know, one of the blessings I've received from my illness is the understanding and firm acceptance that our stay here on earth is purely tentative. It's a little like being on probation, isn't it? We are such fragile creatures, but God, and only God, can make us strong enough to face the end of our stay here with faith and really with a kind of happiness. I find that wonderful, but very strange at the same time. 

She is a perfect example of the surprising benefits and joys of hospital ministry. I'm not convinced that I bring very much lasting comfort to those I visit, but they certainly do educate me about the human condition.

Something else Diane and I have discovered as we make our rounds at the hospital relates to the love and care provided by family and friends. So often the patient's spouse will be there when we enter a room. Many of the patients we visit have been married 40, 50 or 60 years and the love between husband and wife has an almost physical presence. More often than not the spouse will be the one with the questions and concerns, the one who asks us to pray with the patient, the one who seeks signs of hope. This obvious care and concern, this open manifestation of faith, tends to have a positive effect on the spouse who is ill. The patient who has a caring, loving spouse and a devoted family seems to be the happier, more hopeful patient.

Interestingly, these same hopeful patients are those who often have the most visitors. Here in our large retirement community strong friendships seem to form rather quickly, resulting in informal but equally strong networks of solidarity formed to help and care for those in need. On many occasions we have entered a hospital room to find two or three friends and neighbors visiting the patient, seemingly very pleased to be there. They, too, usually join us in prayer before we leave the patient.

I should be used to the miracles God works in the lives of those who suffer because I witness them so frequently. A few weeks ago a parishioner approached me after daily Mass and said she wanted to discuss the meaning of suffering. Now I know that this woman suffers from the early stages of Alzheimer's and has experienced many severe problems. As you might expect, her life has undergone significant changes.

At first I tried to get her to talk about her own situation, but she'd have none of it. "Oh, no," she said, "I'm fine. I just want to know what suffering is all about. Someone told me it's a bad thing to suffer, and that didn't sound right to me."

I agreed that what she'd been told wasn't right. "How can suffering be bad," I asked her, "if Jesus instructs us to take up our cross in imitation of Him?"

And so we talked about the Cross, about how we can come to discern God's plan in our lives, about how the key to that discernment is the Cross of Jesus Christ. We shared our joy that Christ, the Word of God Incarnate, has taken on our weakness, our humanity, and done so through the mystery of the Cross. I mentioned to her that one of the "joys" of accepting the suffering in our lives is that we can become, through this, a source of hope and salvation for others. With this her face brightened into a wide smile. And then she asked, "Do you mean, I can just climb up on that Cross with Jesus, and be with Him, and just suffer right alongside Him?"

As I have said already, those who are ill, those who suffer have become my best teachers.

Pax et bonum...

Larry Krupa, R.I.P. -- Funeral Homily

I lost a friend this week. He wasn't really a close friend. He and I didn't hang out together or socialize. In fact our relationship was pretty much limited to our fairly frequent interactions at our parish and occasional phone calls. He was a reader at Mass, an usher, and a minister to the sick. He assisted at our parish's resale shop. He was a faithful member of one of our scripture study groups. And I'm sure he did much more for the parish and community that I didn't know about. But I still considered him a friend. His name was Larry Krupa.

Not long after my assignment to our parish nine years ago, I began to facilitate a weekly scripture study. We actually started two study groups, one in the morning and a second in the evening. Larry and his wife, Peg, were among the first to join the evening session. It didn't take me long to realize that with Larry I had a gem. An intelligent, curious and spiritually mature man, Larry's lived faith and deep humility enabled him to offer many remarkable insights during those weekly sessions. And so, whenever I couldn't be there to facilitate a session, I would call Larry and ask him to fill in for me. He always said yes. What a joy he was.

Some months ago Larry was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, and despite a grueling regimen of chemotherapy and the best efforts of his physicians, Larry died this past Sunday. As I arrived for the 3 p.m. Mass that day, I noticed Peg in one of the pews and spent a few moments with her. And then during the Prayers of the Faithful I made a point of including Larry among the intentions. As I later discovered, Larry died during that Mass.

I was honored to be asked to preach at his funeral yesterday, and have included my homily here:

_________________


Readings: Job 19:23-27; 1 Jn 3:1-2; Jn 1:1-5

Peg, I join Father Peter, my brother deacons, and the entire St. Vincent de Paul Parish family, in offering you and Larry’s family our sincerest sympathy. And God’s peace also to all of Larry’s friends gathered here today.

Those of us who knew Larry will miss him terribly. His death has left a hole in our hearts. Although we will never forget him, over time the hurt will lessen as we await the day when we meet him again. Yes, today, it’s for ourselves that we grieve; because when it comes to Larry, we’re filled with hope.

Each of us here today knew Larry, but in a sense we each knew a different Larry, one seen through different sets of eyes. But If I had to describe the Larry I knew in just a few words, I’d simply say humble, hopeful, faithful – and especially faithful, in every sense of the word.

One verse in our first reading from the Book of Job brought me back to my last visit with Larry, just a few hours before he returned to the Father. It’s actually the last few words of that passage:

“…my inmost being is consumed with longing.” [Job 19:27]

This was the state of Larry’s being in those last days…filled with hope, “consumed with longing.” Larry was a man who knew his destination, a man with complete trust in the Lord’s mercy, a man who longed to see his God…yes, he was consumed with longing. And typically, his only worldly concern was not for himself. No, it was for Peg. “I hope she’ll be OK without me,” he said. Then he gave one of those subtle smiles of his and added, “I’ll just have to ask the Lord to handle it.” And with that, he knew it would be taken care of. His faith could accept no other outcome.

So he changed the subject and said, “You look tired, Deacon. Are you doing okay?”

There he was, still suffering, knowing that his remaining time on earth could be measured in hours, not days, and he’s asking healthy me how I’m doing.

You see, brothers and sisters, this little incident, a conversation between two men in a room in a hospice…this little incident is what faith is all about. We’re so enamored of the world’s great events, the big important worldly things, that we forget it’s in the everyday meetings of one person with another, it’s in the smallness of life, where hearts are moved and lives are changed.

I’m reminded of St. Therese, the Little Flower, and what is often called her “Little Way” in which the simple daily acts of life become a movement of the heart, a glance toward Heaven, a cry of gratitude and love in times of both trial and joy.

Larry in his humility didn’t know it, but he had taught me much over the years, and he continued teaching right up to the end.

Larry knew that faith must always be shared. Faith must be a reaching outward from our innermost being to others. It must be a living faith, a faith alive in Jesus Christ, not something that we lock up in some interior closet, or display on a shelf like a trophy. No, true faith must be put into practice; it must be lived. And to bring our faith to life, we must first turn away from ourselves and turn to others. That’s where the humility comes in.

My father used to say, “Humility’s a very strange commodity, because once you know you have it, you just lost it.”

Larry didn’t know he had it.

And the rest of us? Well, we struggle with this because we find it so hard to humble ourselves in imitation of Jesus, our God who lowered Himself beyond imagining for our sake. Then we hear the words of our 2nd reading, from the First Letter of John:

“See what love the Father has bestowed on us that we may be called the children of God.” [1 Jn 3:1]

…and we realize that we are mere children. Despite all our sophistication, our pride in our human accomplishments, the esteem and recognition of others, despite our loss of innocence, despite it all, we remain in the eyes of God just children. The shock of this recognition can drive us to our knees in humility and faith, as we suddenly realize how deeply God loves us.

The Good News, then, becomes something tangible, something so wondrous we are compelled to proclaim it to others. This is how Larry, despite the pain and the suffering, could look at me with joy after I blessed him that last day.

You see, in its outward expression, faith is never grim, but always joyful. For faith is God’s perfect gift, a gift offered to each one of us, the only gift that truly keeps on giving and, as C. S. Lewis said, leaves us continually surprised by joy. Larry suffered much during those last weeks and months of his earthly life; and yet whenever I met with him he surprised me with his joyful, loving heart.

Faith, you see, must not only be shared, it must also be manifested in love. It compels us to take the Father’s love and share it, to spread it around like seed, letting it fall on every kind of soil.

Larry was my second-in-command at our weekly evening Bible Study, and I was always recommending books for him to read. Some time ago I suggested he check out some of the mystical works of St. John of the Cross. One evening after our Bible Study, he come up to me excited about something he had read, and he quoted the mystic’s words:

“In the evening of life we will be judged on love.”

“I’ve been thinking about these words a lot,” he said, “What do you think?”

Well, I gave him some shallow, off-the-cuff answer and then, thinking the better of it, referred him to the description of the last judgment in Matthew 25. For it’s there we discover that the test of love is to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to make a place in our hearts for the forgotten, the rejected, the abandoned.

We first experience the depth of God's love at baptism, when, as St. Paul tells us, we are plunged into the mystery of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. And after this vital first lesson we spend the rest of our lives trying to learn its truth.

Some people, like Larry, are wonderfully quick at picking it up. Most of us, though, are slow learners. Some of us don't fully comprehend the seriousness of the absence of love in our lives. We might not recognize this omission as sinful, and often there’s a hardness to us. Sometimes we believe that being lavish in sharing love with others will cost too much. Sometimes we’re simply afraid to love.

Yes, “in the evening of life we will be judged on love.”

Well, as Larry and I talked and prayed together Saturday afternoon I threw that quote back at him and said, “I think you’ve loved much, Larry. Don’t sweat the judgment.” He just smiled and said, “Yeah, thanks.”

Before I left we talked a bit about heaven. I suggested that our eternal joy will come more from within than without. In other words, it’s not so much our surroundings that will change – although they certainly will – rather it’s we who will be changed.

How did John put it in our first reading?

“Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as he is.” [1 Jn 3:2]

Did you catch that revelation, that promise? “…we shall be like Him.” Could we possibly ask for anything more than this?

And so, as we take our leave from Larry today, let’s lift up our hearts, prayerfully confident that his suffering has been replaced with a joy beyond our imagining. Yes, brothers and sisters, the light will shine dispelling the darkness of death, for the darkness has not overcome it. [Jn 1:5]

God love you.