An Odd Prospect

…Pray therefore the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.

--- Luke 10:2 (RSV)

Honestly, the only reason I attended the Evangelization Day was because my thirteen-year-old son wanted to go.  Not only was it beastly hot but the idea of knocking on doors and talking religion, when people are relaxing on a Saturday, felt uncomfortable -- even scary.  I likened it to one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses who show up at my front door pretty regularly.  

Trevor and I were paired with Mike, a person experienced in door-to-door evangelism.  We were assigned to the odd-numbered houses on Prospect Avenue.  How appropriate.  I felt odd seeking new prospects for church.  Mike was willing to do all of the talking at each house.  Fine with me!

Mike steps up to the door.  (I take a few steps back.)  Knock, knock.  “Hi, I’m Mike, this is Lisa, and Trevor.  We are from the church around the corner and are visiting the houses in the neighborhood today to invite people to come to church.”  From there, we found out rather quickly about a person’s religious views.  Not a single door was slammed in our faces, most people were somewhat friendly, and some even talked at length.  Maybe we were the only listening ears they’d found recently, or perhaps they were bored.  And then there was Lauren, who took a break from cleaning her house to answer the door.  She considered herself open to a mixture of all religions and talked with us while standing on her front stoop, smoking a cigarette.  She declined any literature saying she’d just throw it out and wanted to save trees.

At the last house we met Grace, age 80, whose church had been closed by the local diocese.  Despite her expressed anger, she had kept the faith and now attended services elsewhere.  We shared friendly conversation and she handed us each a precious gift – ice-cold water to soothe our scorched palates. 

I cheered inwardly when time was up, partly due to the emotional stress, partly because it was 92 degrees and partly because my legs were tired from prolonged standing.  Mike deemed it a fruitful outing, especially considering one conversation with a woman who'd had a heart attack and welcomed a visit from our pastor.

Later in the afternoon came the summary email and I truly was humbled and amazed.  The teams had knocked on a total of 485 doors and made 197 contacts with 25 people marked for “follow-up” visits.  One team had spoken with someone who now identified herself as a “pagan.” She’d had a good discussion with the team and, before they left, tearfully came out onto the porch to join in praying the Lord's Prayer out loud!

It seems the fields of the town were indeed white unto harvest and although I was a reluctant laborer, I’m glad to have been a part of the effort.

Lord, thank you for the work of evangelization.  Please bring to fruition the seeds that were planted.  Amen.

Spinnaker Spirit

The wind blows wherever it pleases.

--- John 3:8 (RSV)

Yesterday, we went sailing in the Chesapeake Bay.  I am returning to sailing after many years, so my husband patiently explained which line was connected to each sail.

It was a light wind of about five knots, and gaining momentum was a challenge.  Afar off on the horizon appeared a billowing spinnaker sail, with its red, blue and white geometric pattern.   I learned that the spinnaker sail is used under light-wind conditions.  The huge size allows it to balloon out, thus capturing as much of the wind as possible.

It reminded me of something I heard Bishop Donald Hyne, of Madison, Wisconson say recently. “When you hook the sail of your life to the mighty wind of the Holy Spirit, the Holy Spirit is going to blow you out into the deep water far from the safety of shore.  And then you’re gonna hear this gentle but urgent voice say ‘Get out of the boat.’”  He continued, “When we surrender to the Holy Spirit, our life becomes this Holy adventure.”[i]

Lord, help me to open wide my heart and life to you like a spinnaker sail – able to receive the movement of Your Holy Spirit.

 

---

[i]Sanctifying Grace/Hope [Transcript, Radio broadcast]. (2021, April 15).  Morning Air. Green Bay, Wisconson: Relevant Radio. https://relevantradio.com/category/podcasts/morning-air/

 

Falling Three Times

 

Although it is Easter-tide, the situations of life sometimes toss us back onto the road of the cross.  That's why I appreciate the fourteen Stations of the Cross being displayed on the walls of the Church all year round.  

The Ninth Station: Jesus Falls the Third Time.

The Gospels do not specifically say that Jesus fell at all on the way to Calvary. Saints Mark and Luke mention that Simon of Cyrene was seized from the crowd, suggesting he was forced to carry Jesus' cross.  Most likely, Jesus was so weak and injured from all the beatings that he kept falling, thus being unable to carry the cross on his own.  

In the Christian experience carrying one's cross is likened to our sufferings.  Sometimes the sufferings become so heavy, we fall.   I especially appreciate the following words:

"My Jesus, even with the help of Simon, You fell a third time...  There are times when the crosses You permit in my life are more than I can bear.  It is as if all the sufferings of a lifetime are suddenly compressed into the present moment and it is more than I can stand.

"Though it grieves my heart to see You so weak and helpless, it is a comfort to my soul to know that you understand my suffering from Your own experience.  Your love for me made You want to experience every kind of pain just so I could have someone to look to for example and courage.

"When I cry out from the depths of my soul, 'This suffering is more than I can bear,' do You whisper, 'Yes, I understand'?  When I am discouraged after many falls, do you say in my innermost being, 'Keep going, I know how hard it is to rise'?" 

Lord, thank you for your example to us in your human suffering.  When it seems like the enemy is winning, thank you for being my light.  

Quoted content taken from:   The Stations of the Cross | EWTN

Kudos to Kipling

He who is slow to anger is better than a warrior, and he who controls his temper is greater than one who captures a city.

-- Proverbs 16:32 (BSB) 

IF
by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

     If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings -- nor lose the common touch.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!


Lord, produce within us the virtue of self-control, by which we will respond to all things with measured wisdom.  

      

Peace from Penance

Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man has great power in its effects.

--- James 5:16 (RSV)

 

The beauty of it took me aback.  Walking towards the church on the Tuesday of Holy Week for a “Penance Service,” Those leaving looked happy and lighthearted. 

Inside, what I saw both humbled and amazed me.  The aisles of the large sanctuary were filled with lines.  Lines for the priests-in-residence, stationed in their usual confessionals, and lines for thirteen additional priests who were sitting, spaced throughout the pews.

Serene piano music floated down from the loft.  A handout listed the Ten Commandments, each followed by a thought-provoking question to encourage examination of one’s conscience.  The first:  “I am the Lord your God: you shall not have strange Gods before me,” followed by the question: Have I treated people, events, or things as more important than God?  

Muffled conversations filled the sanctuary, each followed by the priest’s hand raised in blessing with the sign of the cross.

My turn.  Through the mask, my words seemed a jumbled mess, but the priest wasn’t fazed.  He spoke pragmatically, indicating acceptance of certain situations, but not in any way condoning my sins.  He reminded me to pray throughout the day, assigned a simple act of penance and then provided absolution.

Later that evening, while lying in bed, I recited the scripture he had assigned, and enjoyed the blanket of peace that resulted from the entire evening.

Lord, thank you for the humble beauty of verbally confessing one’s sins.  

 

 

 

 

The Meaning of Six Letters

In Loving Memory of T. Patrick Burke, Th.D., Ph.D.               
b. March 16, 1934,  d. February 23, 2021

Th.D, Ph.D  -- Those were the letters after his name.   

When I first met Patrick, I was scared of him.  Tall and distinguished-looking, he held two doctorates, was a retired professor, had written several books and even had started his own philosophical institute.  I felt a loss for words.  How could I talk with Patrick when I didn’t begin to have his educational and philosophical prowess?  Yet he never came across as arrogant.  He always was kind to me.

Our friendship developed slowly.  Just a friendly 'hello' after church.  Then someone organized a book signing party for him, to recognize his newly published work on social justice.  He approached me after church to invite me to the “paahty.”  

Patrick was Australian.  His accent only added to his ethereal presence.  Surely… he didn’t mean… “potty??!”  I hesitated, then I realized what he was saying.  Yes, of course I’d be honored to attend. 

My husband and I picked up a bottle of wine.  No connoisseur of wine, I’m sure our gift was the epitome of supermarket normal.  But Patrick accepted it graciously, giving no indication that its vintage might be inferior to that of which he was accustomed.

As the years turned over, our conversations became less stilted.  He once shared how disappointed he was never to have had children, and how it took years to recover from his wife’s untimely death, that he once was featured in Time Magazine, and how it was the beautiful music that brought him back to the Church. 

For some reason as he neared eighty, Patrick fell into financial trouble.  He lost his home, the institute closed and he moved to a residential care facility run by Little Sisters of the Poor.  But that didn’t stop him from giving lectures, attending daily mass, and finding happiness in his own place.

Patrick called me last summer.  He sounded happy, telling me how much he had loved my parents, and encouraging me to call him -- understanding that I had a busy life.  He ended the conversation with these words, “You always were one of my favorite people.”  And those were the last words he said to me. 

Months passed, a couple of seasons.  I heard that he’d fallen and hit his head and was living in a different care facility.  Covid restrictions prohibited visits, and I didn’t get organized enough to call him.  The news of his passing was a surprise, but not completely, given his age and deteriorating health.

Today was his funeral and I’m reminded of his gift to me in those last words, “You always were one of my favorite people.”  Along the inroads of life and the inevitable challenges that arise, Patrick’s words offer a warm blanket to my cold shoulders.  He was indeed a Th.D, Ph.D, six letters that say a lot.  But to me, he was six letters that say even more: friend.

Requiescat in pace, Patrick.

Obituary of Thomas Patrick Burke, Th.D., Ph.D. - The Wynnewood Institute

St. Patrick's Breastplate