Thursday, June 11, 2009
Salvation and the Tuna Fish Sandwich
Salvation and the Tuna Fish Sandwich
I have heard that roughly seventy-thousand people pass through our monastery every year. We are on the tourist maps and in religious sights-to-see brochures. I am the Guest Master of the retreat house, so I have an opportunity to meet many of those who grace our lives with their presence. I give orientations several times a week and am often called upon to give talks to groups who visit us. I enjoy my “job.” I am always meeting new people, people from all walks of life and from many varied places on the religious “map.” People, of course, are the living embodiment of the church. There are people who are liberal in their thinking and there are those who feel more comfortable in the conservative realm of devotion.
Last Saturday I was asked to give a brief talk to a group of visitors. It was a group of mentally and physically challenged adults. They were accompanied by their parents and chaperones. I met them in a large room beneath our church. Chairs were arranged in a large circle and when I walked into the room, I saw a chair which was reserved for me. Well, not everyone was able to use a chair. Several of the people were wheeled into place on their small motorized vehicles. And there was a man who wore a blue helmet and who leaned against a pillar. I noticed later that when he walked, he did so in fits and starts, shaking a lot before he was able to steady himself, and then took one small step at a time, and then began to shake again until he steadied himself and the shaking stopped. Then he would move forward again.
I sat down and began to speak, telling them about the life here, about what we are about. I shared with them a few things about myself – where I grew up, how it was that I came here, and then invited the group to ask questions. To my right there sat a young man who was wearing a baseball cap. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to him and he smiled and said “I want to live here. Wanna be a monk, maybe a priest. Gonna do it. Gonna, gonna do it do it do it” He stuttered, trying to get the words out. He smiled. I told him it just might work, that it would take some time. “Time, time, time,” he said, seeming to like the cadence or the sound of the words. Or maybe it was a way that he let things sink in, by a need to repeat important words over and over. He had a wonderful smile – I could feel him listening to me, taking in every word.
I had brought my camera and wanted to take some pictures, but the light in the room was poor. I thought to myself that I would meet the group later, when they went outside for lunch.
Later, I came back and it was raining, so the group was in the same room, having their lunch. The tables were rearranged so as to easily accommodate the movement and placement of those who had the wheelchairs and motorized vehicles. I let go of the idea about taking photographs. I sat near a couple and later found out that they were the parents of one of the older men. We chatted a bit – they were interesting, easy to chat with. We spoke about the church with its present challenges, opportunities and problems. They were well informed and extremely articulate in terms of church related – human related – issues. I was listening intently to what they were telling me about their journey re church and their son when suddenly I noticed movement before me, on the table. I looked down and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane paper glided across the table and stopped in front of me, guided by a hand. I looked up and their son beamed at me. He did not say anything, and nodded. “It’s for you,” his mom said.
The son moved off, back to his table. I let the sandwich be for the time being. Several minutes later, I spotted him across the hall, standing at his place, looking at me and smiling, his arm raised high and his hand making a pointing motion down. He wanted to make sure I had noticed the sandwich. I lifted it off the table, showed it to him, and he beamed and sat back down.
I went back later in the afternoon, hoping to see them again, but they had left earlier than had been originally planned. I suspect that the stormy weather had something to do with it. I hope that they come back again someday.
The monastery attracts as many questions as there are the people who ask them. Many of the questions hover around the presence of God – how to find him, how best to order one’s life so as to allow a space for God to make an appearance. I suppose it is assumed by many that we monks have some sort of a knowing edge when it comes to divine matters, to the revelation of the holy in this life. And so it is that for most of us, language strains to situate in a fairly convincing way the parameters of God in this life. We have monks here who speak about such things very well. And we have a lot of books, CDs and videos, audio tapes and the like which offer a huge array of God related topics.
Yet how well aware I am at this writing that there are other conversations, other ways of being in this world that are no less striking in their offerings of what God and salvation are all about. I sat with that group on Saturday, crafting as best I could some words about the holy and this life, well aware that I was speaking to many levels of comprehension and experience. And in the midst of some high flying words about whatever – grace or peace or the psalms, a tuna fish sandwich made its way, unbidden, right before me. And there it sat as I spoke. And then I saw the giver out of the corner of my eye, waving and hoping that I saw what he had given to me. He was a man who will never get things really “right” but who does what is of deepest “right.”
And the teetering man, the man in the blue helmet, who needs to take life a very careful step at a time lest he fall. All around him were those who would pick him up and help him get to where he needs to go. But it is best that he tries each step alone, for now. Yet he is never really alone. He is watched, loved, and will be helped to his feet when the time calls for it. As a gathering of believers, no matter where our place on the religious map, we fall. Being human is to risk each step, each teeter and shake that goes with it, trusting in the move forward, and being lifted up when we go down.
“Gonna, gonna, gonna be a priest.” I wanted to photograph him, to remember him. The light in the room was not bright enough, the light above. Yet how a different kind of light shown from below, through everyone in that room, people looking for God yet bearing him with such beauty. A priesthood we all are and share, as real as the priesthood that young man wants and is already. A priesthood of smiles from wounded bodies, a priesthood of a tuna fish sandwich and a reminder from afar that it is there in front of you and, of course, that there is more to come if you need it.
God may seem far, but he is near, kind of across the room, where he needs to be, yet giving us what we need and ready to come again and give more. He is waving.
All of life, all its beauty, sadness, teetering joy and stammering – God comes slowly, through it all. “It’s for you,” I was told. Words that say it all.
We are of God to each other. And what is revealed through human weakness is the most powerful of God’s many manifestations. It was just that way in the dimly lit room, where the light was brightest from below.
I have heard that roughly seventy-thousand people pass through our monastery every year. We are on the tourist maps and in religious sights-to-see brochures. I am the Guest Master of the retreat house, so I have an opportunity to meet many of those who grace our lives with their presence. I give orientations several times a week and am often called upon to give talks to groups who visit us. I enjoy my “job.” I am always meeting new people, people from all walks of life and from many varied places on the religious “map.” People, of course, are the living embodiment of the church. There are people who are liberal in their thinking and there are those who feel more comfortable in the conservative realm of devotion.
Last Saturday I was asked to give a brief talk to a group of visitors. It was a group of mentally and physically challenged adults. They were accompanied by their parents and chaperones. I met them in a large room beneath our church. Chairs were arranged in a large circle and when I walked into the room, I saw a chair which was reserved for me. Well, not everyone was able to use a chair. Several of the people were wheeled into place on their small motorized vehicles. And there was a man who wore a blue helmet and who leaned against a pillar. I noticed later that when he walked, he did so in fits and starts, shaking a lot before he was able to steady himself, and then took one small step at a time, and then began to shake again until he steadied himself and the shaking stopped. Then he would move forward again.
I sat down and began to speak, telling them about the life here, about what we are about. I shared with them a few things about myself – where I grew up, how it was that I came here, and then invited the group to ask questions. To my right there sat a young man who was wearing a baseball cap. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to him and he smiled and said “I want to live here. Wanna be a monk, maybe a priest. Gonna do it. Gonna, gonna do it do it do it” He stuttered, trying to get the words out. He smiled. I told him it just might work, that it would take some time. “Time, time, time,” he said, seeming to like the cadence or the sound of the words. Or maybe it was a way that he let things sink in, by a need to repeat important words over and over. He had a wonderful smile – I could feel him listening to me, taking in every word.
I had brought my camera and wanted to take some pictures, but the light in the room was poor. I thought to myself that I would meet the group later, when they went outside for lunch.
Later, I came back and it was raining, so the group was in the same room, having their lunch. The tables were rearranged so as to easily accommodate the movement and placement of those who had the wheelchairs and motorized vehicles. I let go of the idea about taking photographs. I sat near a couple and later found out that they were the parents of one of the older men. We chatted a bit – they were interesting, easy to chat with. We spoke about the church with its present challenges, opportunities and problems. They were well informed and extremely articulate in terms of church related – human related – issues. I was listening intently to what they were telling me about their journey re church and their son when suddenly I noticed movement before me, on the table. I looked down and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane paper glided across the table and stopped in front of me, guided by a hand. I looked up and their son beamed at me. He did not say anything, and nodded. “It’s for you,” his mom said.
The son moved off, back to his table. I let the sandwich be for the time being. Several minutes later, I spotted him across the hall, standing at his place, looking at me and smiling, his arm raised high and his hand making a pointing motion down. He wanted to make sure I had noticed the sandwich. I lifted it off the table, showed it to him, and he beamed and sat back down.
I went back later in the afternoon, hoping to see them again, but they had left earlier than had been originally planned. I suspect that the stormy weather had something to do with it. I hope that they come back again someday.
The monastery attracts as many questions as there are the people who ask them. Many of the questions hover around the presence of God – how to find him, how best to order one’s life so as to allow a space for God to make an appearance. I suppose it is assumed by many that we monks have some sort of a knowing edge when it comes to divine matters, to the revelation of the holy in this life. And so it is that for most of us, language strains to situate in a fairly convincing way the parameters of God in this life. We have monks here who speak about such things very well. And we have a lot of books, CDs and videos, audio tapes and the like which offer a huge array of God related topics.
Yet how well aware I am at this writing that there are other conversations, other ways of being in this world that are no less striking in their offerings of what God and salvation are all about. I sat with that group on Saturday, crafting as best I could some words about the holy and this life, well aware that I was speaking to many levels of comprehension and experience. And in the midst of some high flying words about whatever – grace or peace or the psalms, a tuna fish sandwich made its way, unbidden, right before me. And there it sat as I spoke. And then I saw the giver out of the corner of my eye, waving and hoping that I saw what he had given to me. He was a man who will never get things really “right” but who does what is of deepest “right.”
And the teetering man, the man in the blue helmet, who needs to take life a very careful step at a time lest he fall. All around him were those who would pick him up and help him get to where he needs to go. But it is best that he tries each step alone, for now. Yet he is never really alone. He is watched, loved, and will be helped to his feet when the time calls for it. As a gathering of believers, no matter where our place on the religious map, we fall. Being human is to risk each step, each teeter and shake that goes with it, trusting in the move forward, and being lifted up when we go down.
“Gonna, gonna, gonna be a priest.” I wanted to photograph him, to remember him. The light in the room was not bright enough, the light above. Yet how a different kind of light shown from below, through everyone in that room, people looking for God yet bearing him with such beauty. A priesthood we all are and share, as real as the priesthood that young man wants and is already. A priesthood of smiles from wounded bodies, a priesthood of a tuna fish sandwich and a reminder from afar that it is there in front of you and, of course, that there is more to come if you need it.
God may seem far, but he is near, kind of across the room, where he needs to be, yet giving us what we need and ready to come again and give more. He is waving.
All of life, all its beauty, sadness, teetering joy and stammering – God comes slowly, through it all. “It’s for you,” I was told. Words that say it all.
We are of God to each other. And what is revealed through human weakness is the most powerful of God’s many manifestations. It was just that way in the dimly lit room, where the light was brightest from below.
Faith and Writing
Faith and Writing
We recently hosted a retreat here on faith and writing. There were about thirty people who registered for the retreat. Carl McColman, who manages our Abbey Store and who has written several books, carried the weekend with gusto. On Saturday morning, I asked several of the monks and Linda Mitchell to serve on a panel discussion on their love for writing and spirituality. Linda serves with us as a spiritual director. Father Anthony, Brothers Elias and Mark, me and Carl rounded out the panel. It would turn out to be the part of the weekend most liked by the retreatants. Many of them spoke of how much they enjoyed hearing about how and why we write. As the panelists each took turns talking about their writing journeys, I watched the expressions on the faces of the retreatants. I was delighted to see smiles of interest, delight, curiosity. I am very happy with the way the weekend “worked.” In addition to the retreat, many other events were taking place in the retreat house, especially on Sunday. Our Lay Cistercians were here as well as a group from a parish being given a tour of the monastery. And, to cap it all off, a friend of mine came and gave a concert in our Crypt Chapel. His name is Chuck Henderson and he is a folk singer and a recording artist. He came down from South Carolina with his guitar and harmonica and played and sang for an hour. He is good. Like, really good. He has composed songs about such beautiful experiences in his life, people and events that have come his way and which he put to words and music – a wondrously rich transformation. I did regret that there were not more people at the concert – but Chuck had called earlier in the week and I spread the word as best I could but it turned out fine. He seemed genuinely pleased to sing and play and it was easy to tell that those there realized that they were listening to a gifted musician as well as a sensitively attuned heart to the ways of God in this life. He sang of his grandma and his love for her. He shared a beautiful song about two homeless and wandering people, and a song about salvation and a stone. He finds his inspiration in what touches his heart and the melodies and lyrics pour out from that place.
All this took place last weekend. And, this weekend, we celebrated the Body and Blood of the Lord. There will be a Serenity retreat, which will as well be a full house, but there will be no troubadour and no panel discussions. But it will “work” just as well.
The sound of Chuck’s voice is still fresh in my mind, as are his words, and what he has seen in life and put to music. And I can still see the faces of those on the writing retreat – some letters have already come in from those who were here, letters that brim with words of gratitude and avowals to put pens to paper and fingers to keyboards. And, there may be a person or two who may have been inspired to sing and play guitar. I watched Anne Sullivan, who works in our retreat house and who sat in front of me as Chuck played. She has told me much about her life, and it has been a good, loving life, and I think if Chuck got to know her, he would raise her life even more to a melody, taking the rich places of her life and crafting some lovely notes and words.
During the retreat, on Saturday afternoon, we showed a DVD of the writer Anne Lamott. I had never seen it before, though I have corresponded with Anne over the years. She is a wonderful writer and a delightful person. But that is another story, too good, perhaps, to relegate to a few sentences here. Anyway, to my dismay, the DVD projector was not working properly. There was a “lag” as the picture played on the screen – it was like looking at a rapid slide show instead of a smoothly moving film. The audio worked fine, as did the movie as it played on the small computer screen. But something was lost in the transmission from the computer to the big screen. The retreatants did not seem to mind. They were able to fill in the gaps, listen to the DVD and watch the staccato-like images on the screen. It “worked” even though it sort of limped along in fits and starts. But the audio was as smooth as can be.
Like any weekend, or any day in life, that particular weekend was an interplay of highs and lows, misfires, adaptations, wondrous revelations spoken, sung, written, harmonized, strummed, jotted down. And I suppose that there was experienced some level of anxiety as some the retreatrants wrestled with how to better express their rich interior landscapes through words. And I found myself wishing that more folks had come to the banquet of the music of Chuck Henderson. And I wish the DVD player had perfect synchronization between the voice and the image.
The same might be said of this weekend, this feast of the Body and Blood of Our Lord. For it is a feast of this banquet of life, a setting aside of a day when we remember the gift of Jesus to his followers in the very offering of his body in the Eucharist.
Eucharist is best translated as “thanksgiving.” It seems strange. Like something is lost in the translation, Such a generous, all encompassing word settles on the familiar substance of bread and wine. (Another theme, incidentally, that Chuck put to music and rhyme). But it settles and then moves, expands, finds its proper place in the farthest reaches of the universe and the deepest recesses in the human heart.
Anne was beautiful to watch as Chuck sang. I wondered if she was thinking with love about her grandmother, about growing up in Michigan, about the hard and good times in her life, and finding in her heart as she did so a gratitude. As if the staccato like memories of her life were given a graced cohesion and fluidity with the tender words and cadence of Chuck’s voice and guitar. I like to think so.
Life is a daily banquet and everyone is always invited. It seems that few take the interest to ponder where all this came from, and how rich and vast it is. But that is okay. The world is a symphony of God’s love, and we had here a gathering who wanted to write, and listen, and who have now gone back to their lives – their work, their marriages, their loves with all that these offer in their joys and sorrows. A small panel shared how to find the gold in such things, and put it to paper. And then a man sang with all his heart, and even more was given us through the beauty of song, words written on the air and breathed into hearts, making the fits and starts of human life a lovely song.
As he left, Chuck gave me a hug and said he wanted to come again and sing. And that made me so happy. I will write to him in gratitude for what he gave, and for what he will give when he comes again. And at Eucharist later this morning, I will remember those who write and sing, raising something of this Body of the Lord to a visible and audible expression. Out of the fits and starts of this seemingly cranky machine of life, artists go for the gold in the seemingly misfiring engines of our lives, and make them purr and run and shine. It is always that way. But we need words and song to better see it, hear it, love it.
We recently hosted a retreat here on faith and writing. There were about thirty people who registered for the retreat. Carl McColman, who manages our Abbey Store and who has written several books, carried the weekend with gusto. On Saturday morning, I asked several of the monks and Linda Mitchell to serve on a panel discussion on their love for writing and spirituality. Linda serves with us as a spiritual director. Father Anthony, Brothers Elias and Mark, me and Carl rounded out the panel. It would turn out to be the part of the weekend most liked by the retreatants. Many of them spoke of how much they enjoyed hearing about how and why we write. As the panelists each took turns talking about their writing journeys, I watched the expressions on the faces of the retreatants. I was delighted to see smiles of interest, delight, curiosity. I am very happy with the way the weekend “worked.” In addition to the retreat, many other events were taking place in the retreat house, especially on Sunday. Our Lay Cistercians were here as well as a group from a parish being given a tour of the monastery. And, to cap it all off, a friend of mine came and gave a concert in our Crypt Chapel. His name is Chuck Henderson and he is a folk singer and a recording artist. He came down from South Carolina with his guitar and harmonica and played and sang for an hour. He is good. Like, really good. He has composed songs about such beautiful experiences in his life, people and events that have come his way and which he put to words and music – a wondrously rich transformation. I did regret that there were not more people at the concert – but Chuck had called earlier in the week and I spread the word as best I could but it turned out fine. He seemed genuinely pleased to sing and play and it was easy to tell that those there realized that they were listening to a gifted musician as well as a sensitively attuned heart to the ways of God in this life. He sang of his grandma and his love for her. He shared a beautiful song about two homeless and wandering people, and a song about salvation and a stone. He finds his inspiration in what touches his heart and the melodies and lyrics pour out from that place.
All this took place last weekend. And, this weekend, we celebrated the Body and Blood of the Lord. There will be a Serenity retreat, which will as well be a full house, but there will be no troubadour and no panel discussions. But it will “work” just as well.
The sound of Chuck’s voice is still fresh in my mind, as are his words, and what he has seen in life and put to music. And I can still see the faces of those on the writing retreat – some letters have already come in from those who were here, letters that brim with words of gratitude and avowals to put pens to paper and fingers to keyboards. And, there may be a person or two who may have been inspired to sing and play guitar. I watched Anne Sullivan, who works in our retreat house and who sat in front of me as Chuck played. She has told me much about her life, and it has been a good, loving life, and I think if Chuck got to know her, he would raise her life even more to a melody, taking the rich places of her life and crafting some lovely notes and words.
During the retreat, on Saturday afternoon, we showed a DVD of the writer Anne Lamott. I had never seen it before, though I have corresponded with Anne over the years. She is a wonderful writer and a delightful person. But that is another story, too good, perhaps, to relegate to a few sentences here. Anyway, to my dismay, the DVD projector was not working properly. There was a “lag” as the picture played on the screen – it was like looking at a rapid slide show instead of a smoothly moving film. The audio worked fine, as did the movie as it played on the small computer screen. But something was lost in the transmission from the computer to the big screen. The retreatants did not seem to mind. They were able to fill in the gaps, listen to the DVD and watch the staccato-like images on the screen. It “worked” even though it sort of limped along in fits and starts. But the audio was as smooth as can be.
Like any weekend, or any day in life, that particular weekend was an interplay of highs and lows, misfires, adaptations, wondrous revelations spoken, sung, written, harmonized, strummed, jotted down. And I suppose that there was experienced some level of anxiety as some the retreatrants wrestled with how to better express their rich interior landscapes through words. And I found myself wishing that more folks had come to the banquet of the music of Chuck Henderson. And I wish the DVD player had perfect synchronization between the voice and the image.
The same might be said of this weekend, this feast of the Body and Blood of Our Lord. For it is a feast of this banquet of life, a setting aside of a day when we remember the gift of Jesus to his followers in the very offering of his body in the Eucharist.
Eucharist is best translated as “thanksgiving.” It seems strange. Like something is lost in the translation, Such a generous, all encompassing word settles on the familiar substance of bread and wine. (Another theme, incidentally, that Chuck put to music and rhyme). But it settles and then moves, expands, finds its proper place in the farthest reaches of the universe and the deepest recesses in the human heart.
Anne was beautiful to watch as Chuck sang. I wondered if she was thinking with love about her grandmother, about growing up in Michigan, about the hard and good times in her life, and finding in her heart as she did so a gratitude. As if the staccato like memories of her life were given a graced cohesion and fluidity with the tender words and cadence of Chuck’s voice and guitar. I like to think so.
Life is a daily banquet and everyone is always invited. It seems that few take the interest to ponder where all this came from, and how rich and vast it is. But that is okay. The world is a symphony of God’s love, and we had here a gathering who wanted to write, and listen, and who have now gone back to their lives – their work, their marriages, their loves with all that these offer in their joys and sorrows. A small panel shared how to find the gold in such things, and put it to paper. And then a man sang with all his heart, and even more was given us through the beauty of song, words written on the air and breathed into hearts, making the fits and starts of human life a lovely song.
As he left, Chuck gave me a hug and said he wanted to come again and sing. And that made me so happy. I will write to him in gratitude for what he gave, and for what he will give when he comes again. And at Eucharist later this morning, I will remember those who write and sing, raising something of this Body of the Lord to a visible and audible expression. Out of the fits and starts of this seemingly cranky machine of life, artists go for the gold in the seemingly misfiring engines of our lives, and make them purr and run and shine. It is always that way. But we need words and song to better see it, hear it, love it.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Bear
His name was John, but everyone knew him as “The Bear.” The nickname had nothing to do with his personality. It had to do with his low, gravelly voice and his short stocky frame. He was one of five or six men who hung out in a small Italian grocery store across the street from a church where I served. I stopped in nearly every morning for a cup of coffee and was greeted by a chorus of “Hi, Father!” from the rear of the small shop. The Bear could always be found leaning against the counter, with a cup of coffee in his hand. Every morning he asked how I was, and what was new, and if I liked the Pope. As the days stretched into weeks and then years, the Bear became a living part of my mornings. I developed a deep affection for him and I suppose never really thought about it all that much, until one afternoon when I received a all from Matt, the owner of the store, who told me that the Bear had died. He was crying on the phone and had closed the store and gone home, which is where he called me from. He gave me what details he knew, that the Bear had suffered a heart attack and that this family wanted me to say the funeral Mass.
I never thought to ask the Bear about his family. I realized that I knew little about his life other than how friendly he was and genuinely funny.
At the wake, I met his sister and found out that John, as they knew and loved him, lived with her and her husband and their children uptown in a very nice house. She told me that he loved children, had never married, and that their children brought him so much joy. He lavished them from the time they were very little with gifts and tales of his own youth. Looking around the room, I spotted the children, now young adults, and their loss and grief were deep and obvious.
At the funeral, I started to choke up while speaking of him. I did not realize until I had lost him how much a part of my life he had become, how his goodness and simplicity were something that lived in me far more deeply than I realized. His capacity for being good was as natural and as deeply touching as any friendship that I had ever known.
His buddies from the store stayed in the rear of the church, except for Matt, who sat behind the family. I could not help but see the similarity between the church and the store as regards the position they took. Always in the rear, out of the way, on a friendly kind of fringe.
Late that afternoon, hours after the cemetery service, I was driving back to the rectory and drove over the train tracks that ran right next to the little grocery store. Stopping before I crossed the tracks, I looked to my left and saw a man standing down a ways, his head bowed and crying, his face buried in a handkerchief. He never saw me, and shaking his head, turned and walked into the rear door of the grocery, where Matt and the others were gathered, mourning the Bear. I will never forget the sight of that man crying.
It was Abraham Joshua Heschel who wrote that “truth is buried in the earth.” He meant that truth is of being itself, that God is in us and of us. We do not have to go digging all that far, or all that deep.
I saw such a sublime truth that day, in that man who loved and lost a friend, a good friend. The Bear never knew what he left behind, never knew how far his goodness entered the hearts of other people. He would have laughed and scoffed if he had been told that. And then asked me quickly, once again, how I liked the Pope.
How good life is.
How wondrous are those who live that goodness, and in so doing help us to love, and to cry by the railroad tracks only to return to the company of friends, a gathering of the gifted.
His name was John, but everyone knew him as “The Bear.” The nickname had nothing to do with his personality. It had to do with his low, gravelly voice and his short stocky frame. He was one of five or six men who hung out in a small Italian grocery store across the street from a church where I served. I stopped in nearly every morning for a cup of coffee and was greeted by a chorus of “Hi, Father!” from the rear of the small shop. The Bear could always be found leaning against the counter, with a cup of coffee in his hand. Every morning he asked how I was, and what was new, and if I liked the Pope. As the days stretched into weeks and then years, the Bear became a living part of my mornings. I developed a deep affection for him and I suppose never really thought about it all that much, until one afternoon when I received a all from Matt, the owner of the store, who told me that the Bear had died. He was crying on the phone and had closed the store and gone home, which is where he called me from. He gave me what details he knew, that the Bear had suffered a heart attack and that this family wanted me to say the funeral Mass.
I never thought to ask the Bear about his family. I realized that I knew little about his life other than how friendly he was and genuinely funny.
At the wake, I met his sister and found out that John, as they knew and loved him, lived with her and her husband and their children uptown in a very nice house. She told me that he loved children, had never married, and that their children brought him so much joy. He lavished them from the time they were very little with gifts and tales of his own youth. Looking around the room, I spotted the children, now young adults, and their loss and grief were deep and obvious.
At the funeral, I started to choke up while speaking of him. I did not realize until I had lost him how much a part of my life he had become, how his goodness and simplicity were something that lived in me far more deeply than I realized. His capacity for being good was as natural and as deeply touching as any friendship that I had ever known.
His buddies from the store stayed in the rear of the church, except for Matt, who sat behind the family. I could not help but see the similarity between the church and the store as regards the position they took. Always in the rear, out of the way, on a friendly kind of fringe.
Late that afternoon, hours after the cemetery service, I was driving back to the rectory and drove over the train tracks that ran right next to the little grocery store. Stopping before I crossed the tracks, I looked to my left and saw a man standing down a ways, his head bowed and crying, his face buried in a handkerchief. He never saw me, and shaking his head, turned and walked into the rear door of the grocery, where Matt and the others were gathered, mourning the Bear. I will never forget the sight of that man crying.
It was Abraham Joshua Heschel who wrote that “truth is buried in the earth.” He meant that truth is of being itself, that God is in us and of us. We do not have to go digging all that far, or all that deep.
I saw such a sublime truth that day, in that man who loved and lost a friend, a good friend. The Bear never knew what he left behind, never knew how far his goodness entered the hearts of other people. He would have laughed and scoffed if he had been told that. And then asked me quickly, once again, how I liked the Pope.
How good life is.
How wondrous are those who live that goodness, and in so doing help us to love, and to cry by the railroad tracks only to return to the company of friends, a gathering of the gifted.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Is There Coffee in Heaven?
Recently, I read an article in a newspaper about a place called the Southbury Training School. The school is in Danbury, Connecticut and it is home to about five hundred men who are mentally challenged. It has been in existence for a long time and many of the men have lived there most of their lives. A small group is bussed every morning to a rest area on Interstate 84, where their job is to keep it clean. They remove the garbage, clean the bathrooms, polish the floors.
One man’s name is Bobby. He loves coffee and always carries a plastic cup with him, attached by a string to his belt. One day, while the men were being driven back to the school, their conversation revolved around a cemetery that the van passed. For a little while, the men wondered aloud where would they go after death, and would anyone remember them, and would there be coffee up there. It was Bobby who asked the last question about the coffee and when he did he was promptly told to shut up by the others. Their attention span is very brief, and Bobby did not seem to mind the rebuff. He found immediate delight in the raising of his plastic coffee cup to his lips, gazing out the window as he took a gulp.
Anthony worries about death, since several friends of his have died. They were life-time friends – men he lived with ever since he came to the school fifty years ago. On his small refrigerator he has taped their pictures and obituary notices. He hopes that someone takes care of him when he is dying and has left a note to that effect on the same refrigerator door.
It is a very small world, that school, and it is a world that reveals a facet of poverty. It is a world that offers windows through which we can glimpse the grace of God.
The men are well cared for and they also care for each other. Their poverty is not one of lack of income. It is, rather, a poverty of roads that they could have taken if they were born normal. Their choices were severely limited by mental illness. They could never live out the kind of dreams that come to so many others, like those who pass through the rest area every day. Yet they keep the place clean and the grass mowed.
The gospels often portray Jesus as speaking of things that are hidden and secret. Jesus speaks in this way and his disciples do not understand. They cannot grasp what he is saying and are afraid to ask. Jesus does not clarify things for them. Life moves on and they stay with him. They trust him enough to stay, even though they are afraid and do not understand.
Our lives are not much different. Beneath the wealth of our words sleeps wonder, and every now and then it awakens and beckons us to look about at the passing beauty that is life and those places where something of God might be more clearly seen. Maybe some day, one of you will enter a rest area on Interstate 84 and will see a man there, dressed in a yellow work vest. His name is Bobby – buy him a cup of hot coffee, a taste for him of heaven on earth and an image for us of God in this world.
Recently, I read an article in a newspaper about a place called the Southbury Training School. The school is in Danbury, Connecticut and it is home to about five hundred men who are mentally challenged. It has been in existence for a long time and many of the men have lived there most of their lives. A small group is bussed every morning to a rest area on Interstate 84, where their job is to keep it clean. They remove the garbage, clean the bathrooms, polish the floors.
One man’s name is Bobby. He loves coffee and always carries a plastic cup with him, attached by a string to his belt. One day, while the men were being driven back to the school, their conversation revolved around a cemetery that the van passed. For a little while, the men wondered aloud where would they go after death, and would anyone remember them, and would there be coffee up there. It was Bobby who asked the last question about the coffee and when he did he was promptly told to shut up by the others. Their attention span is very brief, and Bobby did not seem to mind the rebuff. He found immediate delight in the raising of his plastic coffee cup to his lips, gazing out the window as he took a gulp.
Anthony worries about death, since several friends of his have died. They were life-time friends – men he lived with ever since he came to the school fifty years ago. On his small refrigerator he has taped their pictures and obituary notices. He hopes that someone takes care of him when he is dying and has left a note to that effect on the same refrigerator door.
It is a very small world, that school, and it is a world that reveals a facet of poverty. It is a world that offers windows through which we can glimpse the grace of God.
The men are well cared for and they also care for each other. Their poverty is not one of lack of income. It is, rather, a poverty of roads that they could have taken if they were born normal. Their choices were severely limited by mental illness. They could never live out the kind of dreams that come to so many others, like those who pass through the rest area every day. Yet they keep the place clean and the grass mowed.
The gospels often portray Jesus as speaking of things that are hidden and secret. Jesus speaks in this way and his disciples do not understand. They cannot grasp what he is saying and are afraid to ask. Jesus does not clarify things for them. Life moves on and they stay with him. They trust him enough to stay, even though they are afraid and do not understand.
Our lives are not much different. Beneath the wealth of our words sleeps wonder, and every now and then it awakens and beckons us to look about at the passing beauty that is life and those places where something of God might be more clearly seen. Maybe some day, one of you will enter a rest area on Interstate 84 and will see a man there, dressed in a yellow work vest. His name is Bobby – buy him a cup of hot coffee, a taste for him of heaven on earth and an image for us of God in this world.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Little Girls at the Carnival
There was a carnival in town and I watched from the sidelines as Carmelita the Clown spoke to a small group of children. The group stood in a short line. The boys and girls waited their turn for Carmelita to speak to them individually. Two little girls watched and waited. They had their hands folded, as if in a prayer or expectant anticipation. They listened carefully to what Carmelita was saying to the children ahead of them. I suppose that they wanted to say the right things when their turn came. The look on their faces was beautiful – they both smiled in wonder and in awe at the woman who played so well the role of a caring and loving clown. Carmelita was very kind and patient with each child as she or he responded to the questions that Carmelita asked them. The questions were very simple – where they were from, what their favorite colors were, did they like being at the carnival.
All around the group, for as far as I could see, were the delights of the small-town carnival. Big and small rides swirled in the distance. A Ferris Wheel rose and turned majestically in the late afternoon sky. All colors and shapes of bright neon lights adorned the rides and the chance and food booths. The walkways everywhere were lined with colored posters of fairy-tale lore – dragons, princesses and princes, lions and bears, palaces and distant planets. The posters enshrined the doorways and walls of the rides, as well as the food and game chance booths and “shooting galleries” with their moving plastic ducks and water guns.
Directly behind the two little girls as they stared entranced at Carmelita was a large work of art. They could have touched it; it was that close to them. It was a palace that rose to the sky, its turrets reaching to the clouds. On the turrets there were men and women, dressed in their medieval finery, waving and smiling, as if they could really see Carmelita and the wonders she was working with the hearts of the children. But of course it was all make believe and the only things that moved were the line and the smiles and eyes of the two little girls. Their hands stayed folded.
“Life is a Carnival,” or so goes the title of the song by the Band. And I suppose that it is, for young and old alike. Our ways get more expensive and fantastic as we get older. The stuff of make-believe gives way to what is real and what we can buy or invest in. We learn to seek out midways near and far, lined with all that life can bring, and we of course hope to get something good for free, be it a stuffed bear in our youth or a later lottery winning. .
But every now and then, someone can and should make us open our eyes in wonder. And like those two children, the looming promises of dreams may rise within our reach, but we are so absorbed in what is right before us that we pay it no mind. For someone is then speaking and our hearts are moved, we smile, and our eyes open wide. Perhaps it is when the meaning of life reveals itself to us, and we are stopped dead in our tracks with the delight of it all, and realize that it was everywhere, all around us and within us, awaiting the right time to speak. It is that close to us. We can touch it.
There was a carnival in town and I watched from the sidelines as Carmelita the Clown spoke to a small group of children. The group stood in a short line. The boys and girls waited their turn for Carmelita to speak to them individually. Two little girls watched and waited. They had their hands folded, as if in a prayer or expectant anticipation. They listened carefully to what Carmelita was saying to the children ahead of them. I suppose that they wanted to say the right things when their turn came. The look on their faces was beautiful – they both smiled in wonder and in awe at the woman who played so well the role of a caring and loving clown. Carmelita was very kind and patient with each child as she or he responded to the questions that Carmelita asked them. The questions were very simple – where they were from, what their favorite colors were, did they like being at the carnival.
All around the group, for as far as I could see, were the delights of the small-town carnival. Big and small rides swirled in the distance. A Ferris Wheel rose and turned majestically in the late afternoon sky. All colors and shapes of bright neon lights adorned the rides and the chance and food booths. The walkways everywhere were lined with colored posters of fairy-tale lore – dragons, princesses and princes, lions and bears, palaces and distant planets. The posters enshrined the doorways and walls of the rides, as well as the food and game chance booths and “shooting galleries” with their moving plastic ducks and water guns.
Directly behind the two little girls as they stared entranced at Carmelita was a large work of art. They could have touched it; it was that close to them. It was a palace that rose to the sky, its turrets reaching to the clouds. On the turrets there were men and women, dressed in their medieval finery, waving and smiling, as if they could really see Carmelita and the wonders she was working with the hearts of the children. But of course it was all make believe and the only things that moved were the line and the smiles and eyes of the two little girls. Their hands stayed folded.
“Life is a Carnival,” or so goes the title of the song by the Band. And I suppose that it is, for young and old alike. Our ways get more expensive and fantastic as we get older. The stuff of make-believe gives way to what is real and what we can buy or invest in. We learn to seek out midways near and far, lined with all that life can bring, and we of course hope to get something good for free, be it a stuffed bear in our youth or a later lottery winning. .
But every now and then, someone can and should make us open our eyes in wonder. And like those two children, the looming promises of dreams may rise within our reach, but we are so absorbed in what is right before us that we pay it no mind. For someone is then speaking and our hearts are moved, we smile, and our eyes open wide. Perhaps it is when the meaning of life reveals itself to us, and we are stopped dead in our tracks with the delight of it all, and realize that it was everywhere, all around us and within us, awaiting the right time to speak. It is that close to us. We can touch it.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Rainbows
Not long ago, we had a wonderful evening here at the monastery. We shared a meal with a gathering of long-time friends of our monastic community. Our Abbot, Francis Michael, wanted to express his gratitude to those who came, to thank them for their love and support. He spoke warmly about how much the community values their friendship and presence. I sat at a table and listened to Francis Michael as he spoke and looked about at the people at the other tables. I was asked to take pictures, and I got up a few times, taking some pictures. They came out well – I think I captured as best I could the kind and receptive expressions on the faces of those who listened to him. After one such stroll around the room, I returned to my place and noticed a strange light to my right and when I looked that way, I noticed a slight opening in a large curtain. Through the opening I saw the light – it was a brilliant blend of oranges and reds, purples and golds of the setting sun. I quietly excused myself and went outside to the cloister area and that was when I saw it. A gorgeous rainbow arched across the sky, seeming to begin or end in our lake area and stretching with an endless beauty toward our abbey church steeple. I took a few pictures and then headed back inside and returned to my place. Our night prayers were to begin in just a few minutes, and I knew I would go to them with a sense of gratitude for the evening. I also felt an excitement for having been able to photograph a rainbow.
It is a safe bet that every person who has ever lived has been enthralled by rainbows. The rainbow enjoys a prominent place in folklore, mythology, in religious texts. It is a rainbow that God sends to let Noah know that the deluge was over and that his wandering on the flooded earth would come to an end. It is a rainbow that some have followed, hoping to find at its end a pot of gold. It is a rainbow that arches over the Emerald City when Dorothy sees it for the first time after a long journey in the classic tale “The Wizard of Oz.” Perhaps a common theme beneath such variations is that despite all the turmoil of life and amidst all its sorrow, something beautiful comes and we look up and take the hope that it offers – that God is leading us all somewhere. And every now and then he sends a sign. And so it is that we take heart in whatever comes that may promise something good. We gladly follow a yellow brick road, or the sight of land, or look real carefully for that pot of gold.
Rainbows are high and elusive. There is a song about the seeking of lasting good in this life being like chasing rainbows. Rainbows recede as we move toward them. And they do not last very long. They exist through a prism like crystallization of moisture and sun, or rain and light. When the sun shines through the rain, a rainbow appears.
We often look to brighten the rain of our lives through whatever light we can bring to those darker times, but we are not too adept at creating our own rainbows. We do not have that kind of artistry.
The Incarnation is the Word made flesh, the belief that something of God not only shown through a man but in fact lived through him. People all over the world have looked heavenward since the beginning of time for a sign of divine life or activity. The rainbow is one of many such portents or omens of God’s presence and artistry. The Incarnation brings the artistry of God very close to earth. A light shone among us, and it still shines. It shines in a special yet ordinary way.
I was happy when I walked back to the table that night, with my camera and the picture of the rainbow. I showed it to Jim, our business manager, and he smiled and said “All we need to find now is that pot of gold.” I looked about the room at the small gathering of those who were still absorbing the words of gratitude from Francis Michael. I saw smiles and expectancy on their faces, a thankfulness for his words and, presumably, for being a part of our monastic life.
I looked again at the small opening in the curtain but it was dark and the light was gone. And I am sure that the rainbow was no longer there, high in the sky. But I looked about at what remains of God’s presence in this world, right here in our monastery, in the lives of those in the room that night and in every person who comes to this place.
Later that night, it started to rain. I came up here to this third floor room where I am now, where I write. There was a lot of water on the floor and when I looked up at the ceiling, I saw the leak and the dripping of water. I called Augustine right away – he is familiar with the trouble spots in our many walls and ceilings, and he came up right away. He said it could be easily repaired. I asked him where the water came from since I knew that above this ceiling is an open space and he smiled and said, “You never know with the rain. It has its own way of moving through any crack it can find.”
And you never really know with God. The Incarnation is like a tiny opening through which God came to us, through the Yes of a young woman whose very body carried the Light of the world. And when we extinguished that Light through our own blindness, the Light became even more, and became a living part of Everyone. And it shines and shines, through what we know to be of love and hope and goodness. God finds a way to seep through the openings in our hearts. It cannot be fixed or stopped or rerouted. In time, the whole world will shine with Eternal Light. It will be like a rainbow coming to the ground, laying down a path for a path for everyone, the gold of God’s love within easy rich, his Light dancing at their feet.
Not long ago, we had a wonderful evening here at the monastery. We shared a meal with a gathering of long-time friends of our monastic community. Our Abbot, Francis Michael, wanted to express his gratitude to those who came, to thank them for their love and support. He spoke warmly about how much the community values their friendship and presence. I sat at a table and listened to Francis Michael as he spoke and looked about at the people at the other tables. I was asked to take pictures, and I got up a few times, taking some pictures. They came out well – I think I captured as best I could the kind and receptive expressions on the faces of those who listened to him. After one such stroll around the room, I returned to my place and noticed a strange light to my right and when I looked that way, I noticed a slight opening in a large curtain. Through the opening I saw the light – it was a brilliant blend of oranges and reds, purples and golds of the setting sun. I quietly excused myself and went outside to the cloister area and that was when I saw it. A gorgeous rainbow arched across the sky, seeming to begin or end in our lake area and stretching with an endless beauty toward our abbey church steeple. I took a few pictures and then headed back inside and returned to my place. Our night prayers were to begin in just a few minutes, and I knew I would go to them with a sense of gratitude for the evening. I also felt an excitement for having been able to photograph a rainbow.
It is a safe bet that every person who has ever lived has been enthralled by rainbows. The rainbow enjoys a prominent place in folklore, mythology, in religious texts. It is a rainbow that God sends to let Noah know that the deluge was over and that his wandering on the flooded earth would come to an end. It is a rainbow that some have followed, hoping to find at its end a pot of gold. It is a rainbow that arches over the Emerald City when Dorothy sees it for the first time after a long journey in the classic tale “The Wizard of Oz.” Perhaps a common theme beneath such variations is that despite all the turmoil of life and amidst all its sorrow, something beautiful comes and we look up and take the hope that it offers – that God is leading us all somewhere. And every now and then he sends a sign. And so it is that we take heart in whatever comes that may promise something good. We gladly follow a yellow brick road, or the sight of land, or look real carefully for that pot of gold.
Rainbows are high and elusive. There is a song about the seeking of lasting good in this life being like chasing rainbows. Rainbows recede as we move toward them. And they do not last very long. They exist through a prism like crystallization of moisture and sun, or rain and light. When the sun shines through the rain, a rainbow appears.
We often look to brighten the rain of our lives through whatever light we can bring to those darker times, but we are not too adept at creating our own rainbows. We do not have that kind of artistry.
The Incarnation is the Word made flesh, the belief that something of God not only shown through a man but in fact lived through him. People all over the world have looked heavenward since the beginning of time for a sign of divine life or activity. The rainbow is one of many such portents or omens of God’s presence and artistry. The Incarnation brings the artistry of God very close to earth. A light shone among us, and it still shines. It shines in a special yet ordinary way.
I was happy when I walked back to the table that night, with my camera and the picture of the rainbow. I showed it to Jim, our business manager, and he smiled and said “All we need to find now is that pot of gold.” I looked about the room at the small gathering of those who were still absorbing the words of gratitude from Francis Michael. I saw smiles and expectancy on their faces, a thankfulness for his words and, presumably, for being a part of our monastic life.
I looked again at the small opening in the curtain but it was dark and the light was gone. And I am sure that the rainbow was no longer there, high in the sky. But I looked about at what remains of God’s presence in this world, right here in our monastery, in the lives of those in the room that night and in every person who comes to this place.
Later that night, it started to rain. I came up here to this third floor room where I am now, where I write. There was a lot of water on the floor and when I looked up at the ceiling, I saw the leak and the dripping of water. I called Augustine right away – he is familiar with the trouble spots in our many walls and ceilings, and he came up right away. He said it could be easily repaired. I asked him where the water came from since I knew that above this ceiling is an open space and he smiled and said, “You never know with the rain. It has its own way of moving through any crack it can find.”
And you never really know with God. The Incarnation is like a tiny opening through which God came to us, through the Yes of a young woman whose very body carried the Light of the world. And when we extinguished that Light through our own blindness, the Light became even more, and became a living part of Everyone. And it shines and shines, through what we know to be of love and hope and goodness. God finds a way to seep through the openings in our hearts. It cannot be fixed or stopped or rerouted. In time, the whole world will shine with Eternal Light. It will be like a rainbow coming to the ground, laying down a path for a path for everyone, the gold of God’s love within easy rich, his Light dancing at their feet.
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