Competition

Why does our society have to make everything into a competition, or some sort of race against the clock?

Speed chess?  Crossword contests?  Timed Sudoku?  Really??

Be the smartest!!  Be the best!!  Be the fastest!!

Can't we just, be?

Not a dream

The other morning I was looking at the poker chips on my dresser.  I don't play much poker.  The chips are from my uncle, who enjoyed gambling.  Many of my cousins shared that pastime with him on occasion, though I never had the opportunity.

On this particular morning, I was remembering seeing a similar chip in a highly incongruous location.  It was on a tile floor, close to the corner it formed with vertical surface.  The first place that came to mind was our choir director's house, where we'd been for our annual post-Easter ice cream bash.  But as soon as I thought about it I knew that wasn't right - there's no way Jodi would've had a poker chip on her kitchen floor - and so concluded that I was remembering an eerily lifelike dream.

The following Saturday evening, as I bent down to plug in my guitar direct box at Mass, there it was, on the floor next to the step leading into the sanctuary: a poker chip eerily like the one on my dresser.

Like I said: a highly incongruous location.

Some thought on tomorrow's Mass readings

At today's men's group, I was struck by a confluence of something from each of the readings with something that has been on my heart, of late.  First, from the Acts of the Apostles, we will hear:  You must reform and be baptized, each one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ, that your sins may be forgiven; then you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.  It was to your and your children that the promise was made, and to all those still far off whom the Lord, our God, will call to himself . . . Save yourselves from this generation which has gone astray. - Acts 2: 38 - 40b.

We will again encounter this image of sheep gone astray in the second reading.  This idea of our "stray-ness" is a key part of the problem that has been weighing on my heart for my fellow husbands and fathers.  All three readings point to both the root of the problem and its solution.   In this case, St. Peter is calling those in Jerusalem to turn away from their sins and be remade through their baptism by the Holy Spirit's transforming power in their lives.

It is critically important that we experience and manifest this transformation from darkness to light in our lives.  Its lack is the only evidence that people need to doubt that the outlandish things we believe and proclaim could be true; it becomes an immense obstacle to their ever being drawn into this transformation for themselves. While there is a wide variety of reasons why we may fall short in this, many particular to each individual believer, some are more common.

• While I believe the Church's position on infant baptism, so many of us experience this Sacrament at an age at which we have yet to have life experiences to be delivered from.  My baptism a few short weeks after I was born falls into this category, and so I grew up surrounded by the ritual of our worship without any real experience of gratitude for what God has done for me in delivering me from death into life.  I think many of us share this difficulty in recognizing our response to the Holy Spirit's guidance as an issue of any real consequence, in contrast to the darkness from which God delivers us.

• However, even when we've had a conversion experience later in life, as I came to have on an unexpected evening many Februaries ago, we can have difficulty seeing the brokenness that still lies within us.  I knew there were things of which I was immediately healed in that moment, but didn't see the wounds that remained buried within.  So I failed to see how my futile efforts to control the world around me would affect those whom I love the most, and the harmful decisions I would continue to make.  Yet these sins, too, have been forgiven, by God's grace.

If you put up with suffering for doing what is right, this is acceptable in God's eyes.  It was for this you were called, since Christ suffered for you in just this way and left you an example, to have you follow in his footsteps . . . When he was insulted, he returned no insult.  When he was made to suffer, he did not counter with threats.  Instead, he delivered himself up to the One who judges justly . . . At one time you were straying like sheep, but now you have returned to the Shepherd, the Guardian of your souls.   1 Peter: 20b - 21, 23, 25

St. Peter quotes Isaiah's prophecy, that we had all gone astray like sheep, and refers to Jesus' description of himself as the Good Shepherd.  And we have all indeed been astray, none more than I. But the issue on my heart lately has been how men, specifically husbands and fathers, in what may be a well-intended wish to lead our families in the way we think they should go, instead resort to controlling, manipulative behaviors that can descend into denigration and emotional abuse and beyond.  Those of us prone to this approach to life often share a brokenness born from childhood circumstances beyond our control - alcoholism, abuse, trauma - that our child selves learned to respond to by finding ways to avoid them.  These methods are part of the reason children are admired for their resilience, yet these childhood survival techniques don't work for adults; in fact they harden us and make us less able to cope with what life brings.

As a result, even though our lives have been touched by the Holy Spirit, we're not equipped to participate with the Spirit sufficiently to allow us to respond to the bumps and bruises of everyday life with the grace embodied by Christ Jesus.  Even when we're emotionally healthy, we're often unprepared to bear the suffering that's inescapable when different people's different needs abrade against each other.  When we're wounded, we're not merely unaware that we need to respond to injury as Jesus did, we're utterly incapable of it.  To tell me to follow Jesus' example is to lay a burden on my shoulders that it is impossible for me to carry.   Only God can do it, and while God lives within every baptized believer, the wounded are unable to participate with the Spirit sufficiently to live like this.  So every perceived slight seems like an offense against us, and can become an occasion for us to reaffirm our broken self the only way we know how: at the expense of the ones we should be loving.

Truly I assure you: whoever does not enter the sheepfold through the gate but climbs in some other way is a thief and a maurauder.  The one who enters through the gate is shepherd of the sheep; the keeper opens the gate for him . . . My solemn word is this: I am the sheepgate.  Jn 10: 1-3a, 7b.

One of the men in our group this morning shared part of what it meant to be a shepherd in those days. It involved the smelliness of ovine excrement, and another man insightfully pointed out the wonder that our Shepherd - there's no way to do this justice without being graphic, sorry - is willing to deal with our shit in order to bring us home safely.  He doesn't even turn up his nose at us.  He just lovingly puts us over his shoulder and carries us home, even though we've been wallowing in our own waste.  We want to clean ourselves up first, but the truth is that we really can't.

And the other truth is, some of our brokenness is truly shitty.  Controlling, manipulative behavior; denigrating others; yelling; other forms of emotional abuse; addiction.  My own offenses became worse than any of this, and being delivered from it, I hurt for men who wound their families by remaining trapped in their own brokenness.

We're trying desperately to make things right.  We feel like utter failures when we can't, but we can't bear the thought that there might be something wrong with us, so we project that failure onto the ones we love.  In our desperate inability to make things right, we force our way into the sheepfold in our own wrongheaded and wrong-hearted manner, and become marauders in our own families.

We do not grasp well the concept of the sheepfold.  It was a haven of safety and security, into which all of the shepherds brought their flocks to keep them safe from the threats of the perilous night.  The next day, each shepherd would enter the fold through the sheepgate and call for his sheep, who would recognize his voice and follow.

The home is to be the family's fold.  Each member's heart is their own fold.  And when we try to enter those places of safety by barreling our way in, by imposing our vision whatever it takes, by intimidating or putting down those who have failed to live up to our impossible standard - which we cannot ourselves meet - we become marauders who maim those we love and kill something beautiful within them.

It is not just men who have this problem.  But my heart is focused on the crisis of broken husbands and fathers who perpetuate the intergenerational scourge of controlling, abusive behaviors into the lives of those they claim to love.

It is not my family's job - not my wife's, nor my children's - to meet my expectations.  It is my job to meet their needs, not to impose my own needs and expectations upon them.

We must enter the fold through the gate.  Jesus shows us what this looks like.   When he was insulted, he returned no insult.  When he was made to suffer, he did not counter with threats.  We return to St. Peter's words, and to the cross, to see what he means.  And we cannot hope to meet such a standard on our own.

Humility is a word that is tossed around so casually as to lose its meaning, and we fail to apply it where it matters most for our own lives.  Can I be humble enough to acknowledge that I have been an invader, a marauder, rather than a shepherd to those I love?  Until I can, until I allow the Good Shepherd to carry me home to my fold upon his loving shoulders and tend to my wounds and make me whole, I cannot hope to shepherd my family.  Only when I am made whole can I lovingly enter into my loved ones' hearts through Christ, the gate, the gatekeeper, the Shepherd, and the Lamb of God.  Then I am so filled with gratitude for what he has done for me that I will do whatever it takes to be his instrument in the lives of those I can now love as I should.

Indisputable truth

A merry heart does good like medicine, but a broken spirit dries the bones.  - Prov 17, 22

Yep.

On a less newsworthy death, and Mother's Day

39 days after 9/11, my mom succumbed to the ravages of a ruptured bowel.  Her sister wouldn't fly so soon after those four planes were hijacked and crashed, so she and her brother took a train to the funeral instead.  I was mom's only surviving child, the last remaining member of this dysfunctional family that once resided together in Pasadena, MD.  Since I was gathering my aunt and uncle from the station and driving them to the funeral home, when Amtrak ran late (to no one's surprise) there was little choice but to delay the start of the funeral.

It was such a time of emotional upheaval for our nation.  We were angry, and afraid, frustratedly trying to figure out how to protect ourselves from the enigmatic threat of people whose mysteriously twisted view of us seemed so alien and inaccurate.  We've always thought of ourselves as the good guys, and found ourselves taking an earnest look at whether that self-perception was truly accurate.  In trying to look at ourselves from the perspective of others, we were learning that even when our intentions seemed sincere, some of our decisions may have been questionable, or worse.  But we also learned that there is a clear difference between honest misjudgments, the unforeseen side effects of our actions, and intentional attacks on defenseless noncombatants.  Yes, we've made mistakes, and some of our actions which weren't necessarily mistakes still earned us enemies, but no, we didn't deserve for thousands of us who had nothing to do with those decisions to be attacked and killed because of them.

Amid this national turmoil and introspection, in a hospital room in north Atlanta, my mom's life quietly ended.  She'd once been a teenager and young adult who loved to dance, who was headstrong and sometimes got caught up in her passions at the expense of her good judgment.  Yet I never knew her to excuse her mistakes or back down from the consequences of her decisions, not when that included the conception of a son for whose responsibility she perhaps seemed unready or ill-prepared, nor when the man to whom she later looked to become a dad to him turned out to be very broken in his own tragic ways.  Through many nights of his drunken rantings, she steadfastly strove to protect her son and subsequent daughter from the inescapable emotional buffeting of a home marred by alcoholism.  Upon his suicide, she continued to build a protective wall around the children she treasured so dearly.

Her own emotional needs led her into a relationship with a man with a rather unusual view of the role that intimacy should play in his life.  He separated its pleasure from any meaningful partnered relationship, partly as a result of his embracing of the social transformation of the previous decade, partly due to the wounds he'd received in relationships that could never work in that context.  She doubtless counted herself and her children lucky to have escaped her previous marriage unscathed, not recognizing the deep wounds that lay beneath the surface of each of our outward lives.

Thus a decade later she found herself facing the unspeakable pain of burying the daughter who had been influenced by both her father's alcoholism and her brother's drug abuse.  Seven years thereafter, she helped her son overcome his own brokenness and abusiveness, to be thanked by learning of both her husbands' secretive and abusive actions toward him.  She responded with grace and steadfast support, though I can only imagine the pain it must have cost her.  But she never stopped loving any of us once she had decided to in the first place.  She understood the permanence of love and, without ever articulating it, knew that love was manifested most fully on the cross.

Today we're seeing many stories about those whose lives were permanently damaged by the loss they experienced at the hands of a man who is now the long-delayed recipient of either vengeance or justice - I think and hope it was closer to the latter than the former. I read the touching truth of those who lost loved ones on that day in 2001 when evil struck such a blow: that the death of the man most supremely responsible does nothing to diminish the hurt they've experienced, and does not in fact bring them any sense of closure or justice.  I understand that.  And I know it is wrong for me to feel as if they are more entitled than I am to a continuing awareness of the empty space in their hearts.  I don't know if they feel annoyed, attacked again, by being forcibly reminded of their loved ones' death at the hand of outside agents.  If so, I don't discount their pain, nor would I deprive them of their right to feel it.  Yet I am certain that most aspects of death are usually beyond our control, and that includes many of the reminders that come unbidden and often unannounced as the years and decades pass.

I am beyond grateful for the blessings of a mother who, for all of her own faults and missteps along the way, loved me and taught me to love.  I lost her at a time when the whole country's attention was elsewhere so, as our attention is now drawn back to that collective moment, I find myself again drawn back to my personal and unrelated one.  And though I still feel the holes in my heart that were once occupied by my mom and my sister, among many deceased family and friends, I am so blessed to have had them in my life.

On a notable death

No person who values the dignity of every human life can truly rejoice in the ending of one by violence, even the death of one who was himself responsible for the shedding of so much innocent blood.  And no one who has received undeserved mercy could desire anything less than mercy, even for one's worst enemy.  One who is grateful that their own debt has been forgiven desires not for another to be bound by his for all eternity.  By definition, mercy is always undeserved.  To suggest that another is completely undeserving of it indicates that I've completely misinterpreted the gift that I've received, that I mistakenly think that I somehow deserve it and that it is my due, for some reason.

So I will not be rejoicing along with others today.  I hope no one offers me a high-five over this, or suggests that this is a cause for celebration.  When we celebrate the killing of a man, rather than observing it with appropriate solemnity, it says something dark about us.  It speaks to our woundedness, not to any admirable quality in us.  It is how we can tell the difference between a proper thirst for justice and a hot-headed desire for vengeance.

A misguided son of my loving Father has died.  I know he was responsible for hurting many people deeply and taking many lives.  But I am still sad for him.

Others have expressed these thoughts more eloquently than I, but these are mine.