Horarium

VESPERS

A few evenings ago as I prepared for dinner, a robin's solo came to my ears, almost echoing in the stillness, so I stepped outside to look for him. To my surprise, there he was, prominently perched atop a nearby pine, chanting his heart out in the song God gave him. For awhile I paused to listen, and his own song called me to prayer, for I had neglected to pray Vespers thus far that evening.

No other birds were singing but for perhaps, far away, the caw of a random crow or chirp of some other bird;  none were joining his chorus. He was a lone cantor, leading Vespers as the sun sank further toward the horizon hidden behind the trees dotting the Minnesota prairie. Even here in suburbia. I can't remember ever being without the lilting, cheery sound of the Robin's praise, so even though I was caught within my own darkness, the music drew me back towards God's Providence. I couldn't help but quietly rejoice in Him through His creation.

LAUDS

The next morning as I arose, the robins were silent in spite of the rising sun, but the haunting cry of a Mourning Dove wept Lauds while I went about my own morning routine.

As a child I was taught to listen to the Mourning Dove's call, for their behavior portends rain. Throughout the years I've often noticed the silence of other birds in seeming deference to her prophesy. Even when I know the rain to come will be mere sprinkles, their mournful cry ties my stomach in knots, for they portend both the gentle and the destructive with the same call. They are the innocent grim reapers of nature and carry out their duty in solemn profundity. Although I have not yet captured one on my camera, they prominently use rooftops as their pulpits then join all the others on the ground in humble acceptance of the event they have just portended on behalf of all who reside in their vicinity.

If it is indeed a sin to kill a Mockingbird, it is an even greater sin to kill a Robin or a Mourning Dove; for one stands as Cantor calling us to joyful prayer, and the other humbly reminds us of our eventual demise.

In the Midwest and Southeastern United States, it's been a tough spring; the storms thus far this season have been monsters especially in the South, and in the North where I live, they have also attacked highly-populated areas. No one is safe, anywhere.

The birds, they know this. As a child, I remember Mom teaching us how to read the weather through nature, a skill she'd learned from her father, a farmer. She showed me how to read the river and discern the bird's calls, the behavior of wildlife...and the proper human response.

She did this after a tornado nearly touched down directly over our home, sparing us with a warning, that being a twisted tree thrown against us in fury abated by what must have been the intercession of the Saints. She tried to help me overcome my fear through knowledge as she recognized my hyper-vigilance. I wanted to know what was coming so that I could find cover, so she, logically, taught me the signs, hoping they would be a consolation, giving me some sort of control over my surroundings.

Unfortunately, her teachings, while proper, backfired to a certain degree, for I didn't understand context. Any sign of a glassy river sent my adrenaline into survival mode, and the second the wind gusted and  birds went silent, I had to grapple hard to keep from tying myself to some sturdy structure.

Whenever I heard the cry of a Mourning Dove, I looked to the sky for the next day or that following, certain the wrath of the weather was about to erase us from the face of the earth.  I dreaded that terrible, haunting sound, even as I wanted to reach out to them for their sadness.

Perhaps that is where I first learned mercy, for I knew not to hate the messenger. To me, the messenger was always sad and only delivered it for the good of others. I saw the Mourning Dove as a friend who desired our survival. To this day, when I hear that echoing coo, I am overcome simultaneously with the nostalgia of my childhood fear coupled with the sensation of love for my Mother who called my attention to their song.

But Robins...they were always my hope. Although scientific models say that Robins winter in the Northland, I have never, or perhaps, rarely, seen them. When they appear in the spring, boldly capturing their wormy prey, we know Spring has finally arrived. It seems their yearly debut corresponds to that of one of my favorite flowers..the dandelion.

The Hours

Around us, even when we forget to pray, or refuse to do so, is arranged an Horarium of prayer.

While winter is silent, mimicking our spiritual lives either apart from God or at a higher level of purification, the remainder of the year has harbingers of nature reminding us to pray the Holy Hours of the Liturgy, to worship God all of our hours, all of our days.

The birds cannot pray for us, but they can remind us to pray, for their entire being is one of praise for God. They cannot choose this and don't know anything different.

We, as human beings, are the only creatures on earth who must work to praise God, to worship Him, and even, as one philosopher noted...to laugh. We as humans don't find prayer as an undeniable instinct. While it is written within our souls and DNA, it is still left to us to choose. Every day I can choose to pray or not to pray. Every day, I can choose to rise and join the song of the birds, or I can choose to close the window and the drapes and cover my ears.

Every day, every moment, I can choose to accept or reject God.

The Horarium {scroll down for specific hours of prayer} helps me to love God and praise Him, even when the birds refuse to sing. Even when the oncoming storm causes the Robin to seek the shelter of the nest and the Mourning Dove to stand down in silence, even when the birds have fled for winter or rise too early in summer, I know when to pray, and to pray in the words and voice of Christ and His Church.  Eternally.

If only I have the grace to choose to do so...and I do...if I don't reject it. 

Salvation by Catastrophe

One morning this week when I threw my bag into the passenger seat and made sure my cell phone was turned on, I did not know that only 20 minutes later I'd be standing at the side of the freeway, my legs coated in salt-infused snow, staring down at the remains of a very violent wreck, wondering about the condition of the occupants.

It started as a normal morning, and the drive was uneventful, until something made me take note of a car rapidly accelerating behind me. (Now...when I say "rapidly", I mean: like a bat out of Hell!)  There was an SUV behind me in the left lane, slowly creeping forward in a slow, steady pace, and I looked back again at the car behind both of us, it dawning on me in horror that the car wasn't slowing, wasn't braking...and apparently intended to pass me on the left in front of that SUV!!!

There wasn't enough real estate for passing!

 I slowed and pulled to the right, still highway speed, onto the shoulder of the freeway just as the car DOVE between us, dodging from the right lane into the left, the SUV's lane, for the pass that ended catastrophically as the car collided loudly with the SUV's front end approximately at the point of my own left front fender (the front side panel of my car).  The SUV went off into the ditch in an  immediate explosion of white, the offending car went into a spin next to/in front of me and began to roll, giving me an intimate view of its underside anatomy while I braked hard and began to dodge left as the physics of the violent collision sent the car off to the right, rolling into the steep snow-laden ditch.

It was surreal as I passed, slow-motion in my memory, between the dual-whiteout-explosions on either side of me, narrowly missing all of the actions of the car that had caused this disaster. 

In shock, I could see from my peripheral the SUV stopping, straight in the deep snow against the thin guardrail to my left as I could also see from my other peripheral the ongoing motion of the car, still flipping, evidenced by the spout of snow announcing, dramatically, the motion of the car and where it was headed, where it had been, where it was going.

Stunned, horrified, concerned, I carefully, not knowing what was going on behind me, stopped and pulled over to the side of the freeway, reaching for my phone, and called 911.

"911 What is your emergency?"

"I need to report an accident on hwy xxx, 2 vehicles involved, one rolled several times. Westbound on xxx....we are......*deep breath* (trying to clear my head)...um....ah...facing...x street....I'm sorry...I suddently don't know where I am...!"  (pause)

Dispatcher (pause) "What exit did you just pass?"

Me: (still pondering, looking forward at an unhelpful railroad trestle, looking for a mile marker.....WHERE ARE WE?????.....  "OK...we're past yyy ...we're approaching xxx...we're between those....there's T landmark to our north."

He explained he needed to transfer me to the State Patrol, and I waited, and about every 20 seconds he came on to ask me to hold, he was transferring me, I assured him I was still there, and in the meantime, I grabbed my purse, watched traffic,. and carefully got out of my car, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for the transfer. I jogged back towards the scene of the accident, hoping to get info on any injuries or trapped victims to pass on to the dispatcher.

Finally I heard the transfer, and the State Patrol dispatcher tried to verify our direction (for side of the freeway) several times....I answered the opposite each time, but didn't realize it until after I'd hung up.

As I conversed with the dispatcher, one hand pressing the phone to my ear, the other holding my finger to the other, I recalled freeway traffic stops, both sides, both as the Officer and of the Motorist, and I realized how stupid I was to leave my car without completing this call.  Granted I had left to try to get additional information from the people on scene, but that didn't matter if neither of us could hear. I berated myself for my stupidity and for forgetting my professionalism, no matter how many years it has been.

"Who's in Charge?  'I am'" 

When I was growing up and interested in EMS, an EMT I knew, upon my completion of Lifeguard training, told me that what I knew put me far and ahead of most people. He told me that if I ever came  upon an accident, I knew the basics and that put me in charge. He told me to enter a scene, ask, "Who's in charge?" and if no one had any training, take charge and say, "I am" and then start assigning roles.

I remember being terrified. He saw that expression and reminded me of what I knew how to do: stabilize the head and neck, stop bleeding, and of course, direct people as to HOW to do those things.

As I jogged that very short space between where I'd stopped (and backed) along the shoulder to the accident scene, I remembered those words, but now, years later, having been trained as an EMT, a cop, a firefighter, but now knowing I was there only as a citizen, having forgotten more than she had ever really learned.

I didn't know what I would find; that was a violent wreck! 

Were people dead? Injured? How many? How bad? How to get there in the deep, deep snow?  I wished mightily I had my Ski Patrol/EMT first aid pack in my trunk, but I had nothing...not even medical gloves. I had only the vestiges of my training.

A few cars had stopped, probably those who had been in the immediate vicinity of the accident. One person had stopped on the other side of the highway to check on the other driver and was standing there, waiting as we all were, for help.  Some people were deep in the ditch, surrounding the car, assisting and....this will make your hair go up...they were taking children out of the car!

CHILDREN!  

I think there were 2-3, all little ones.One was being held as an infant.

At that sight, I tried to go down into the ditch, worried they were moving people who shouldn't be moved. I am a short individual and as I stepped into previously-made footprints, I still sank into the dirty, salty, sandy snow, deeper and deeper with every step. I glanced up at traffic, realizing I was a sitting duck should another vehicle go off the road...I couldn't move. Each step encased me more and more.  I returned to the surface, realizing I couldn't get there, and if I did, I'd be in the way...those at the car reported they were OK...which was amazing.  By the evidence from the scene, the car hadn't just rolled side overtop, but from end to end - it had FLOWN over a chain link fence and landed UPRIGHT!  

One of the other witnesses on the shoulder yelled to the guys who were down below if they had been in the car, but no, they weren't. One shouted back that they lived nearby and had seen it, were able to get to it and help. He  reported that everyone seemed OK and somehow, carefully, they got the little ones up out of the ditch and into a warm witness's vehicle where they could be comforted and gotten out of the cold while we all waited for the State Patrol.  (Most of that had happened when I was still in my car on the line with 911/State Patrol Dispatch)  

We who stood on the shoulder mostly waited, watching, mostly helpless, for the State Patrol. We waited for the salvation of authority who would take control of this chaos and bring this family in the midst of this disaster into warmth and of course, to justice. One person was reliving her own past trauma, a direct witness to this particular accident, remaining to give testimony not just to this but to her own serious accident that had taken place in the past. Others were there to help with the aftermath and found themselves the guardians of the innocent children while, down below, those who had come from seemingly nowhere still labored to aid the mother, the driver, to gather items and slowly make her way through the hip-deep snow, uphill, to meet judgment.

The sound of sirens was music to our ears. I watched the coming of the State Patrol and I rejoiced, for finally, here was authoritative assistance...here was someone with a link and directive to all that was needed. 

The Trooper assessed the scene and asked who were witnesses versus who was there to help after making sure that no one was in obvious immediate attention.  I and another identified ourselves as witnesses as another couple in an SUV identified themselves as people who had just stopped to help. They gave their names and numbers so they could leave, and went to their vehicle for the children.

The Trooper asked me for my driver's license, which I handed him & verified my address & number. As I began to give my testimony as to the events of the accident, one of the children exited the SUV of the couple who had kept him warm inside.Neither of us spoke as the little guy limped past, staring straight ahead, walking the shoulder, limping, moving stiffly, wearing only one boot.  The Officer spoke to him but he did not answer. I judged his age to be about 4, but he passed us as though we were ghosts, went to the squad car, and the Trooper followed, watching as the little man approached the Squad.

He asked the little guy, "Are you going to go sit in my car?"

No answer. As the little one reached for the door handle the Officer told him to go ahead and sit in his car and stay warm.  So he did, but still did not speak or react.

The Trooper came back to where I stood, and then the other child left the warm SUV to make the same staggering trek to the Squad car, wearing the same stricken expression, and I don't think he had anything on his feet at all.   I think he, like his brother, had lost his boots in the crash or on the way up through the ditch.

I wanted to say something, wasn't sure I could or should. I watched the expression of the Trooper, knowing he saw what I did, but had seen much, much more..this guy was no rookie. I wondered if an ambulance had already been dispatched.

We saw both children into the warmth of the squad car, and then the driver, the mother (ostensibly) emerged from the chaos, clearly shocked, clearly stricken.

I wanted to grab her about the throat and ask her what she'd been thinking, but realized the accident had already done that, so instead I asked her if she was OK. She was moving slowly, her eyes wide, and she seemed disoriented. She nodded that she was OK, carefully looked around and asked about others. I told her it appeared all were fine. I don't know why I didn't yell at her to get her kids to the hospital. I think it was maybe because she was clearly incapable of any decision-making at the time and really, needed someone to get her there as well.  I knew I had to entrust her to the State Trooper in charge of that scene...her and her children.

He showed her to the car and her children, then came back to get my statement, which I gave, now having seen the face and the children of the woman who caused this entire mess.

I spoke, I stated what had happened, truthfully, for seeing the faces of the stricken did not change the cause and did not eradicate the fault, or deny the necessity of justice.

Nor did the statement of Truth deny the necessity of Divine Charity.

I can't stop thinking of them:  my biggest concern is for the children in that accident; let's just say a four-year-old doesn't have a thousand-yard-stare unless he or she is in need of serious medical attention.

I was amazed that none of them seemed to have a mark on them. Were it not for the 17 inches of snow we got last weekend, this might well have been a fatality.  How ironic that although snow and ice were not a factor in causing this accident, it was a factor that ensured this family's survival.

But I keep going back to the children, their stricken expressions, their silence as they walked between the warm witness's vehicle to the squad car, one without a boot, the other in two stocking feet. They suffered in stricken silence the sins of their mother and yet they walked, purposefully towards Salvation, having been brought there by others who worked for that Savior, all for a common purpose, a common objective, in recognition of a common benevolent authority who sent an emissary.....

I felt so helpless as I witnessed all of this, until I recognized that I was a part of  it.  In a Flannery O'Connor-type of allegory, we were living out the story of salvation on a Minnesota highway, from Genesis through the Passion.

Those of you who know both Flannery and the story of Salvation will understand...those of you who don't.....won't.

"I wasn't there so I can't say He didn't" The Misfit said, "I wisht I had of been there, " he said, hitting the ground with his fist. "It ain't right. I wasn't there because if I had of been there I would have known. Listen lady, " he said in a high voice, "if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn't be like I am now."  His voice seemed about to  crack and the grandmother's head cleared for an instant. She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're on of my babies. You're one of my own children!" She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down on the ground and took his glasses and began to clean them. 

~ Flannery O'Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find

Life is Between the Triumph and the Fall

Some people have horses in their blood. I'm not one of them. I wasn't born into a "horse" family, nor, at any time in my life, has it been among God's design to bring me by adoption, or by blood, if it were, into such a destiny. Instead, He placed horses in my soul.

This morning, I called my boss to request a vacation day, and my request was granted. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go, alone, to the movie Secretariat, and only a few hours later found myself alone (quite literally) in a huge, darkened theater, watching a matinee showing, enjoying the life of one of the greatest horses ever to place a hoof on earthly soil.

Even knowing the story, knowing Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973, I still laughed and cried and rejoiced at the triumph and the simplicity of one of God's greatest creatures. (I've given nothing away about the movie; the history of the horse is only the vehicle that carries, as Paul Harvey would have said, "the rest of the story.")

Then, this evening, Netflix, on my pauper's account (the single-disk version), Ruffian was delivered to my mailbox. I have to chuckle at Providence here, for until a few days ago, another movie and another TV series was in line far ahead of this movie. I changed it on a whim.

So it was, today, that I came to realize that I was born between the triumph of Secretariat and the fall of Ruffian, during what may have been one of the greatest periods in the history of American horseracing.

I'm thrilled to have been conceived, born, and weaned during such a time, simply to be able to claim my heart was perhaps already beating in symphony with those of two of the greatest racehorses ever to grace American soil, bar none.

Ah, but do I wax too poetic? I cannot help it; as I said, I have horses in my soul and believe they were placed there by God himself, for He continues to communicate with me through these incredible works of art, these paragons of beauty of His own creation.

I've written before of one of my earliest childhood memories:  Mom holding me up so I could see what was passing by our house:  two horses, two riders. I asked what those creatures were, and Mom explained, carefully, that they were very beautiful animals called "horses".  I exclaimed, "Oh...I LOVE horses!"

I meant what I said, down to my soul, to my heart and to my intellect and will.  Oh, yes, in spite of the fact Mom told me many times as I grew up, upon viewing my many drawings of horses and my many requests for ownership, that I would "outgrow it."

It's the only thing Mom was ever wrong about:  I never stopped loving horses.  That love has matured, but it has never left me, and in fact, was a vehicle to my conversion.

This afternoon, I came home from the movie and spent some time reading, then decided to take a brief nap. As I drifted off, thinking of horses, I thought of Brandy, the Shetland pony owned by a family in my neighborhood.

(As an aside: is it called a "neigh-borhood" as opposed to "the hood" when there are horses in it and not just gangstas?)

Grazing Contemplation

Perhaps it wasn't just fishing that introduced me to contemplation. Perhaps it was horses as well.

I remember the first time I rode Brandy, and I recall, vividly, even though I was only 8, being bucked off. She didn't like the way I rode her very bumpy (to me, the unschooled sack of potatoes on her back) trot, and decided to be rid of me. She succeeded the second I realized she was bucking. I could paint you a photograph of her  hind legs stretched out above me, the image from the impact as I struck the ground, before I rolled away in survival-mode.  I still remember Laura, the girl who was leading Brandy, getting her under control, her mouth a perfect "O" as she turned towards me, shocked, a mere teenager, unsure of what to do, her blonde bob refusing to move itself being in the same state of shock.

I stood up, shaking, assuring her I was fine, but it was years before I rode again - I mean rode.

Still, through Brandy, I also learned forgiveness. I so loved horses that I could not stay away from her, the horse (pony!) who had broken my heart by introducing me to fear.

I decided I needed to really make friends with her and so I visited her often. She seemed so lonely. She was not kept in a paddock like other horses, and the one shelter/paddock she did have was a junkyard. It may have been a shelter, but the neighbor kept all sorts of rusting tools and implements there, and there wasn't a shred of green in that fenced-in piece of hell on earth. For that reason, they kept her tethered with a chain around her neck, and attached on the other end either to a spike in the ground or a tree on the slope across the gravel "road".

That's usually where I found her.

I remember, shortly after she bucked me off, finding her wound by her chain tether around the tree. She let me approach and even nickered at me, clearly recognizing her demise. She kept trying to reach her head to the ground to search for grass, but she was held fast. I took her by the chain and led her, unwinding her from the tree. After awhile she became anxious and started to run. I  ran away, diving to the side as she did so, thinking she was after me, angry with me.  But no...she was only happy to be free!  (It took me years to realize that, sadly. But one best learns about horses by being with them.)

I remembered from Laura's instruction how to leap onto Brandy's back, but because Mom had aways taught me to ask permission to access someone's property, I started asking the neighbor (in spite of my intense shyness - my love of horses, and Brandy was enough to overcome it) if I could visit her and sit on her back while she grazed. The neighbor stood there in his dirty wife-beater, holding his can of beer, and grunted his approval. He didn't care what or when I did it, as long as I didn't let her loose.

It was carte-blanch access to her, and yes, I took advantage. Mom always knew (I think) when I went to visit Brandy.  (Mom was insistent on safety around animals and insistent that she "know" an animal I was around!)

I recall long summer afternoons, either walking or riding my bike along the part-paved part-gravel road of our country neighborhood, approaching Brandy who often took little notice of my presence. I always asked her if she minded if I just "sat along". She didn't, so unless she was obviously agitated (which she was, some days), I leapt aboard and spend the hours daydreaming. Sometimes she would walk a bit, according to what her tether would allow, and my heart leapt at the movement.  In those hours I spoke with Brandy, I spoke with God and...I was fully myself. In all that I was, I was me. Alone, in solitude and maybe...contemplation.

I didn't need anyone or anything else. There was no one there to demand anything of me, there was no one there to ridicule me, there was no one there to laugh at me. It was me and the horse and God. Perhaps it was there that I really learned to pray.  I remember thanking God over and over again, for horses, even if they be at rest in the field. So was I.

As a child I was always a loner. Some of that had to do with the lack of children in our neighborhood. Certainly I had some wonderful friends, but I learned early on never to depend on their presence in order to have fun. I always loved reading, and silence, and nature. If Mom kicked me out of the house and told me to go play outside, I had many places to go...the woods across the road, the yard, riding my bike in our country neighborhood, or maybe visiting Brandy, my favorite pastime.  I was never lonely, and if I felt lonely, I went to Brandy, for I thought she might be lonely, too. Her "family " never seemed to pay attention to her, and she was often without the food and water she needed.  More than once I provided for those things, out of what I knew:  immediately fresh-cut grass and gallons of water from our sink.

Ah, Brandy, who in her passive grazing, taught me so much about forgiveness, compassion, contemplation, and action.  

This afternoon, as I drifted off, I felt myself once again astride that stout little bay as she grazed the bare crabgrass on that shadeless Illinois hill....ah, yes...I forgave her, time and time again for having thrown me that one time. I'm sure it must have been my own damn fault. After all, I'd never ridden a trot before and bounced like a sack of potatoes. She was meant for better things.

God has often used horses to reconnect with me. Of course, it is never He who has needed the reconnection, but me. I have needed the grounding, the foundation.  I have found, in looking at the pattern of my life, how God has used horses to bring me back to "center". Fr. Barron, of Mundeleine Seminary, speaks in his video "Three Paths to Holiness" of "finding the center".

Some find it in the rose-window of a Cathedral, and yes, I see it and find it there, too, and of course, in Jesus in the Blessed  Sacrament, exposed in the Monstrance or held aloft at Mass.  Yes, indeed, there is My Lord and Savior.

But I also find Him, in lesser form, which connects me in perhaps a lesser way to Him, through horses. Through their movement, through nature, through the solitude inherent in an afternoon ride.

While I tolerate commercial trail rides, I prefer the silence and solitude of riding alone or with someone who also prefers the resonance of passing hooves, the dappled shadows of an autumn day, the calls of random birds, and the rhythmic movement of one of the glories of creation in full stride.

It was this that reconnected me with God, years ago now, and it was this that reminded me of my mortality.

Divine Providence

Who can foresee God's Providence? Doesn't He always provide for what we need?

Until a few days ago, "Ruffian" was not on my docket. Other things were. But I came across it and decided to   place it at the top of my queue in Netflix.  A few days ago, I proclaimed I would be in  to work as usual on Monday and able to handle a particular thing (nothing of importance).

This morning I woke up, felt just fine, but...needed a day off. I was tired of all the events of the past weeks, the irregular schedule involving late nights, early mornings, and irregular days off. I don't do well with an irregular schedule; I am a regimented person who needs, to function properly, a regular schedule. I haven't had one in over 3 years. But some weeks are worse than others, and this morning, I couldn't take any more: I needed time.

I called in to my boss, asked for the day, and she gave it to me. I don't know if I've ever been so thankful.

It was with this setting that I went to see Secretariat, and then, this evening, watched Ruffian.

Those who are not horse enthusiasts might miss the connection, so I will lay it out:   Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973.  Ruffian's first race was May 22, 1974 (as a two-year-old).  I was born just short of a month later. As I squalled in my mother's arms, some of the greatest horse racing drama in history was playing out, and some of the greatest horses in history lived, translating their heartbeats to hoof-beats, and in that time, I was introduced to their species.

I only wish I could have seen them. I am happy to have lived when they lived. I think, had I not been born a human, I would have instead lived as a Thoroughbred.

Yes, horses are in my soul, and may God will that it ever be so.

Do you give the horse his might?  

Do you clothe his neck with strength? 

Do you make him leap like the locust? His majestic snorting is terrible.

He paws in the valley, and exults in his strength; he goes out to meet the weapons.

He laughs at fear, and is not dismayed; he does not turn back from the sword.

Upon him rattle the quiver,

the flashing spear and the javeline. 

With fierceness and rage he swallows the ground; 

he cannot stand still at the sound of the trumpet.

When the trumpet sounds, he says 

"Aha!"

He smells the battle from afar,

the thunder of the captains, and

the shouting

  ~ Job 39: 19-25

 Amen 

*** *** ***

* The photos of Secretariat and Ruffian were taken from stock footage in their races at Belmont - in Secretariat's case, his winning run in the Belmont Stakes.


* The last pic is my own, a pastel on paper, "The Challenger" from 8th Grade. I may make a more complete picture possible at another date. It just seems to match the scripture and versus of Job.

What Firefighting Taught Me About Evangelization

I always become a little more reflective when I approach my next birthday, and given the movie I watched a few days ago, (Smokejumpers) I've been thinking a lot about the stuff I did in my 20's, the aspirations I had, and, well, the actual results of my efforts.

Although in many ways I often look back on those efforts and judge them as "failures", when I see them in light of the Cross, I can see something more, something that isn't about me, but tells a story that simply turns my experiences into a living parable.

To be honest, it is only in viewing my past through this lens that both gives me clarity and helps me come to terms with what happened, ensuring that I cannot possibly ever view my life as a "waste of God's time."

EVERYTHING is a part of God's time, and part of His timing. In cooperation with Him, I can look back and find the lessons He intended for me to learn, and hopefully, to pass on to others. What follows is only one of those lessons.

**       **       **

Back in my employment with the big city, during the Tower portion of Firefighter training our days consisted of roll call, review of the SOP's (Standard Operating Procedures), practice of certain foundational skills, and the training evolutions scheduled to build upon the previous day's training. It started out in the same way one learns to shoot a gun: with basic safety (i.e. "dry firing") care and cleaning, etc,....and then we began to get into the real meat of it, slowly building the skills at the appropriate time.

The six weeks at "The Tower" were the final culmination of our training, where we put all the academics and practical skills to use in a systematic application of the SOP's. In other words, it was where our real mettle was tested, where we confronted our fears and failings and had to make the choice to push beyond...or fall back.

There were lessons learned, however, that applied to other things. Much of the process was reminiscent of my law enforcement training and work, and for others in my class, of their military experience.  Yet, what we learned wasn't limited to the practical realm.

While I was there, I was also experiencing my return to God. That adage about there being no atheists in foxholes?  Yeah, well, we weren't in foxholes, but when you realize your mortality in exercises that might well actually cost you your life in mere training, well, that tends to introduce you more often to your knees. (Given that I was at the Training Tower on 9/11/2001, that lesson came even more completely home.)

Truly, God was a part of my training even when religion wasn't a formal part of my life.

The Evolution

We were sent into the Residence, where natural gas-inspired fires would burn according to the control of the Training Captains (read: Drill Sergeants).

Each trainee was assigned a position, and we were expected to know the details of each role within that evolution. I happened to draw what was perhaps one of the physically easier roles, but one requiring the most courage with regard to being center stage:  I was on the nozzle for our first "fire".

We went into the building in full gear, airtanks engaged as if the smoke was real, and with a "charged" hoseline running from the Engine at the closest hydrant.  I had the nozzle in hand, felt the door with the back of my gloved hand, opened it, and crawled in under the smoke, my secondary (in real life would be my Captain pushing/yelling)  behind me, "rolling" the tankline just as he was supposed to do.

It was pitch black, so I relied on my training thus far to follow the wall, find the doorknob, find the fire. Finally I opened the door to the proper room and from the midst of the smoke came the hot glow of flames arising from the gas pilot lights, mimicking a real fire. I entered the room slightly, pointed the nozzle, and opened the line. The Drill Sergeant Training Captain yelled at me to get closer, so, holding the fully open hoseline I struggled against the force of the water to crawl in further, surprised by the blast of heat that hit me so quickly. (No textbook explanation can describe this experience.)

I knew about not "steaming us out". I knew I had to nail this thing and had to do it right. My backup person (cadet like me) came up behind me to provide physical support, and just as he was supposed to, pressed his forearm and elbow against my back to brace me. With this initially-helpful counterbalance, I directed the nozzle according to our shared will to make the fire go away.

"ADVANCE! GO! GET THAT NOZZLE UP! GO! GET IN THERE!" 

The Captain began yelling at me to advance. I tried, with all my might!

 But my partner,expecting me to move on that command,  immediately put more pressure on me.

The problem was this: he thought he was helping me to move forward, but in actuality, his main pressure point was against my upper back and shoulders. Instead of aiding a tactical advance, he was, in fact driving my entire upper body, and therefore the nozzle (our lifeline) into the ground.

I tried to yell back at him to back off, but instead he only pushed harder, even while the Captain screamed even more loudly at me to get the nozzle up and to get closer to the fire.

I knew the Captains could see what was going on and wondered why they kept yelling for my advance when they could see that my face was nearly driven to the cement, such that the water stream had gone even lower than the base of the training fire!  I could see it splashing against the brown vents of the "fire source", far below the flames I was supposed to be hitting. With all my strength I was pushing the nozzle hard upward with my hand and biceps, painfully handicapped by the muscles I was not able to use as a result of my co-worker's own battle to get us into the mouth of the dragon. I was desperately attempting to relieve the pressure, desperately trying to crawl forward, completely unable to move because of the force against my upper back, continuing to drive me DOWN, not FORWARD.

Helpless

The screams of the other firefighters yelling at me to "PUT IT OUT!!" "ADVANCE!" "YOU'RE STEAMING US OUT!" still ring through my memory. I can't forget the struggle to push back against my backup, trying to raise the nozzle and put us all out of our misery.

To me, it felt like we were approaching the sun. To them, it felt like they were vegetables being steamed in a convection oven. We were all suffering. We were all miserable, and it seemed that perhaps no one, not even the Captains, realized that I was so totally, embarrassingly helpless.

I was helpless because my backup was oblivious to what he was actually doing, and our Captains, ALL three of them,  continued to scream at me to advance, in spite of the fact it was quite literally impossible to do anything other than lay down and die to get any other message across to them.

Instead, I struggled in utter physical and emotional agony, and finally, at long last, I made my way to the fire, close enough to satisfy the Captains, aiming the nozzle properly enough to satisfy my fellow "firefighters".

The fire went out and, well, I barely remember my exit. The only thing I wanted to do was to breathe fresh air. I exited that fire to an entirely new verbal blast from the other trainees. The Captains didn't even allow me to defend myself...they cut us all off immediately with a command to stand down.

As it turned out, they had a point and knew fully what was going on.

One of their points, from a "personnel" (note: not "personal") standpoint was to see how I would handle being pushed both physically and verbally, especially when the two factors made obedience to either impossible. They wanted to witness the struggle and final outcome.

I didn't know any of this when I stood with my immediate "team" from our first evolution. I only recall standing up wearily, drenched in sweat, listening to the complaints of my coworkers and friends, all of whom had no idea what had just happened and why. I left the training building feeling like a total failure, knowing that I had lost respect, certain that in the future, NONE of them would ever want to work with me, certain I would kill them and anyone we were sent in to save.

Then the Captains surprised us all

Yes, they were critical of me; as this was a first-time attempt, certainly I made errors, and serious ones at that!  Those errors were expected and normal. Our superiors went through a litany of errors that didn't leave a single classmate within that evolution untouched. I was certain I would be crucified in this one, and waited, expecting the worst, but, well, that was the capstone:  the harshest criticism was reserved for my #2 person: the guy who was supposed to be backing me up!

The Captains pointed out that it wasn't my fault that they and my coworkers were getting steamed out; it was HIS fault. They actually noted how hard I struggled against him in my attempts to advance, the effect of his force, and spoke of the physics of leverage.

I am not a tall person, but this guy was. All his strength, although intended otherwise, was put into pushing my upper back and shoulders DOWNWARD. It was HE who drove the nozzle into the ground, and me with it. The Captains could see that I wasn't hesitating, but was quite literally trapped by "friendly fire".

They preached awareness, not just of ourselves, but of those we are backing up. As a shorter person, they emphasized where I would need to place support on a taller person, and actually reversed our physical positions to demonstrate this for the entire group, with an open hoseline. For the tall firefighters working with a shorter person, they emphasized the importance of proper position, for the force from behind in any case will quite literally redirect the nozzle, usually to detrimental effect.

They spoke of communication, of the need for both people to be close enough to know each other well, to speak freely and  to be aware of the other and what they needed. It had to be a team effort. They had seen me trying, my partner not listening. It had to be a two-way street or, well...people would die. Those were the stakes.

Oh, yes, I learned that day how important the #2 person is, and it's a lesson I've never forgotten. Even though I was personally vindicated in that particular scenario, I have come to realize that there's more to that lesson, and where it matters, well...I'm the #2 person and I've more than pushed others down: I've steamrolled right over them in a misguided effort to get them to where I thought they should go.

That brings me to the main point:

That lesson makes sense in Evangelization, too.

In Evangelization, we are trying to advance a soul towards the light of Christ, towards salvation. In effect, they are "on the nozzle".

If the backup person is too harsh, too overbearing, instead of helping that soul towards the Divine Fire, they are driving them into stagnancy, or perhaps even worse.

Coming on too strong is as bad as being too lax; in both cases, the soul in question is left in limbo and might actually be destroyed.

There is a balance to maintain, it relies upon teamwork, and God is the Source, the Catalyst, and the Captain.  Every effort comes FROM Him and is directed TOWARDS Him. Any effort that places pressure so as to direct the focus away from Him is, well...deadly. (Yes, there is a place for backfires, for containment, for "surround and drown"...in spiritual terms we call those techniques the Sacraments, Sacred Tradition, and the Intercession of the Saints, among other spiritual realities.)

Every so often, when I think of evangelization and the mistakes I've witnessed or those I have made myself, I recall that scene, there in the training house, and I recall the sense of panic, the steam, the heat, and the pressure that wouldn't allow me to either advance or flee...and I am brought to empathy.

We are called to lay down our lives in service to Christ. We are NOT called to sacrifice the lives and souls of others. If we deny others the free will given to them by God, we both deny Christ and become culpable for all those we cause to flee from Him.

Evangelization isn't about us; it's about Jesus Christ and the salvation of souls, and the second we lose that focus, we drive others away, and may, in fact, spiritually murder them.

Evangelization must be bound and driven by Divine Charity, directed towards Hope, underscored by Faith. We need to be able to step aside, recalling that conversion and salvation do not depend on us. Many souls need a gentle approach, and hard sales tactics do nothing other than scare them away, or in the terms I experienced, drive them into the ground, paralyzing them.

It is a great temptation for believers to pressure others we love to go where we want them to go, however we must remain cognizant that our pushiness may not be the will of God, no matter what we may think. Perhaps some souls need to suffer in order to be brought to conversion. Perhaps they need to fall away in order to understand what they have lost.(I fell into both categories, and then some).

We have to recall that God is the only one who can bring good out of evil, and He allows evil and suffering for just such a purpose. Look at Our Lord Jesus Christ for this example! Who are any of us to complain of suffering in the face of the One who suffered on our behalf and invites us to partake, to unite our own sufferings to His?

Everyone We Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle

We must act with mercy, in light of what we know of divine justice. For our part, we must temper all we do with true charity, which is not a "warm and fuzzy" type of "total acceptance of all things".  What I experienced that day in the tower was real charity:  I suffered what I perceived as injustice, but were it not for that experience, neither I nor my fellow cadets would have gotten that lesson from any side.

True charity can be harsh, for it has in its sight the ultimate good of every soul. It meets the soul where it is and directs it to something greater. It allows the soul to suffer for what it thinks it loves in order that it might become purified enough to experience what it truly loves.

We must take care of the souls who come across our paths, and be willing to be gentle where a gentle touch is needed. It is easy to be forceful in evangelization;  most of those called to this work in a serious way have strong personalities; it is hard to stand down when the love of Our Lord drives one onward. Yet that very love must be the cause of awareness, for when only one soul is lost, if only one soul flees....we are all deprived.

We all suffer. We are all steamed out.

We become less if only one is compromised.

We lose souls if, out of our pride we forget to take a backseat to those we love.

We lose our own souls if we forget to take a backseat to God.

Driven

I've written of this before, and it's something I often ponder as I continue to hang out in this unconsecrated limbo that is my life. Finally I am beginning to see things differently. There are no new and surprising revelations, just connections being made between those things, helping me to understand myself and God in a way that brings greater clarity.

When I was young, I remember sitting with my Dad at the grill on Sunday afternoons, "helping" him to barbecue chicken, chatting away with him. Even as I was a "Daddy's Girl", Dad was totally devoted to me, too, and it was clear that he reveled in my childish company. He was the epitome of paternal pride.

I can remember him telling me that, as an American, I could do "whatever I wanted" with my life. I could even be PRESIDENT (the highest honor he could imagine) even!  I giggled and said I wanted to be an Olympian, and he agreed that this, too, was well within reach, and asked me what sport I was going to dominate when I got older. I wanted to be famous, I wanted to light up Broadway...all of this, in Dad's eyes, was not just practical, but possible..and maybe even EXPECTED, just because I willed it.  If I "willed" it...so did he.

As a child, I loved these conversations, and I remember Mom being part of some of them, too. At times she just rolled her eyes (as I do now at the memory), and I'll never be one to discredit the importance of a father's encouragement in all things, big and small.  Dad encouraged my brother and I onto great things, and I can still hear him saying in his own form of rejection of our moments of self-pity, "God doesn't make junk!"

It should come as no surprise that, when I met with extreme adversity in High School as my very dysfunctional family life, that I should look to the future and focus on that. That's where I found my hope. That's where I found my being. That's where I found my freedom. I knew that no matter what was happening at that moment in time, I had a future and it was up to me to form it. No one was going to save me; I had to save myself. I had to become successful through my own effort, and as Dad said...I could do and be ANYTHING I wanted.

So there it was; that's at least part of the story (the part I'm willing to share) as to how I went to college and did everything I could (within legal and ethical means) to meet my own definition of myself.

That's the key, isn't it?

Many of us have grown up under this subtle pelagian gnosticism; that we create ourselves, that we make ourselves. How many of us have been influenced by the seemingly-innocent phrase, "Life is what you make it"? Paired closely with that piece of fool's gold is the popular quote and it's own corollaries, "We create our own destiny."  

REALLY?

Certainly we all have choices to make, but can anyone spot the fundamental flaw in such a statement and philosophy? Can anyone see what makes it incompatible with Christianity?

Both are lies.

Both seem truthful up front, but look at them through the glory of the Cross.

Life ISN'T what we "make it".  Such a statement gives subtle acquiescence to the idea that we create ourselves...and if we create ourselves, what need have we of a Creator, who wills our good?  Within whom, then do we "live and move and have our being"? (Acts 17:28)   If we "make" our own lives, why do we have any recourse at all to our loving God, or do we deny His omnipotence?  If we "create our own destiny", isn't prayer a total waste of time? If that pelagian statement of self-creation is true, it is an utter denial of God's love and His own sacrifice for our salvation.

Now, I'm not denying that these statements can be informed and applied with a Christian perspective. However, without clear Christian discipline and definition in proper context, without knowing Christ and the objective Truth of our creation by our Creator who suffered and died for us, well, it's pretty obvious where such a thought process will lead. Given how often we see such pithy and insubstantial phrases, it's pretty obvious, also, why so many teens, and adults, for that matter, are looking to the world for meaning instead of God.

I speak from experience.

I was raised to be a good Catholic, but against the backdrop of the "Create thyself!" culture, I was lost.

No one ever really taught me to ask God what HE wanted for me, what HE had brought me into existence to be. No one ever introduced me to the idea that my life actually belonged to God, if only I would use my free will to allow Him to direct my path. Once I got to college, even if someone HAD brought that idea to bear, I was beyond the ability to listen; I was too busy "creating" my future. I was driven. My goal was my god and I had no need of any other. I was going to become what I wanted to be; damned be who I really was.

What a disaster.

Although I grew up "very Catholic", there wasn't any kind of real encouragement to consider religious life as an option. Mom spoke joyfully of the nuns who taught her as she was growing up, but spoke also of their severity and discipline.  She spoke of the "Latin Mass" with great respect and even nostalgia, but I don't recall her ever once revealing that she had once thought she was called to religious life (a fact I learned only a few years ago) and I don't recall ever hearing encouragement from her or Dad to ask, "What does GOD want?  What is HE calling you to be?"

Instead, Dad gave me (with sincerity and with good intentions) the party line about creating my own future, and Mom used example alone, leaving the Vocations-talk to the parish, and never telling me her own story. In fact, whenever I discussed my future and what I wanted, she shot most of it down to the best of her ability, finding only two "acceptable options" for me:  music or teaching. Or teaching music. I know she spoke out of fear that I would run away and join the rodeo when I had the chance, but never once did she suggest that I truly consider religious life.

Then again, I was so hateful and rebellious towards her as a teenager, that perhaps she was certain I would verbally sever her head from her body if she were to suggest such an idea of donning a habit and veil and praying all day instead of cheetah-tackling villains.  So yes, it's my fault, too.

But still...it never even came up on the peripheral. Not in my family. The only time I heard the word "Vocation" was once per year at Mass, and the only time it was on my radar screen was when I thought Sr. Zaccheaus would bring it up because I sang and played flute at Mass and that probably made me a "target."

I FEARED this idea. I RAN from it. I REJECTED it outright. Such an idea conflicted with my personal philosophy of "creating myself" and "envisioning my own destiny."

As everyone knows, it's families that make up the foundation of society, and from that foundation sprouts both good parents and good priests/religious.

It took a huge smackdown to force me to look to God, and this happened even as my first career goal was reached, and my draw to Him grew in intensity with every subsequent failure.  Jesus had to knock every obstacle aside until I could finally, of myself, ask, "What do YOU want?"

It has taken years, it has taken, quite literally, blood, sweat, and tears.

Ultimately, God had to corral me into a place where I could not run from Him any more. I couldn't go backwards, I couldn't go forwards; all I could do was look up, fall to my knees, and 

pray for direction.

I've often lamented, here, and even more often, more deeply in my spiritual life, how I've lost my focus, I've lost my goal and I am not attracted to ANYTHING anymore. I don't want to get married. I don't want children (blasphemy!), I don't want another career....and I don't even want religious life.  And...I don't want to be alone. I don't want to live this perpetual single life.

I have gone from being intensely career-driven to being...what?

Nothing.

The ONLY thing I know to do right now, from the foundation of my nothingness, is to look to God, and from here, on my knees, maybe face-down in the mud that is my life, ask Him what HE wants for me. Not just the what, but the when.

For years now I have wondered why I am not so "driven" anymore. I have been trying to find my true ambition in life, what I really want. In all this drama, I've come to understand that although I've tried to define myself according to cultural and personal terms, all fall short. I can't define myself. I've already tried that, many times over.

It is God who defines me. It is the Cross. It is the Resurrection. It is the final end towards which I am drawn that reveals who I was brought from eternity to become.

Now, it is not that I am not "driven".  Rather, it is that I am "driven" towards a different goal, and that goal cannot be defined in worldly terms. I am looking to become who I truly am, and this is what drives me now. The difficulty in this path is that it does not rely on my own self-creation, but refers to the reality that I am a created being, I am an adopted daughter of God, and no matter what I do, I cannot create my destiny. I can either reject it or I can cooperate with it, and it is in seeking cooperation, it is in willfully losing my own prideful self-definition that I might finally find God's.

Yes, I am still driven to success...but not according to terms the world would recognize: All I desire is this:  that, in Him, I live and move and have my being. I desire nothing  more, and nothing less.

Fall in Love Again

Last night I was ready to delete my blog.

I was ready to just walk away from the whole mess. Every so often I get fed up with the snark and vitriol of the internet world, and truth be told, I get fed up with myself as well.

But I can't delete myself, so I don't really see how deleting my blog will help anything.

It's been a tough Lent, maybe my personal worst EVER. I fall...I get up. I fall again. I get up. I fall again. It's like my legs are made of rubber. I can't get out of the dirt, but then again, all I'm looking at is dirt. Even when I get to the point that I'm ready to lift my eyes, something else happens and I am thrust once again into the throes of disaster. I quite literally haven't been able to lift my head for weeks!

I've realized some of the problem is in my prayer life;  I had intended to spend MORE time in prayer each day, but I haven't been faithful to that. In fact, I don't think I've even really tried! It seems, actually, that the closer we get to Holy Week, the less focused I am, and the worse I'm doing.

This morning though, while walking my dog, taking in the fresh air and sunshine, I addressed these problems to Our Lord. I gave him my misery and asked Him about a particular insight that came to me last night. I gave Him my lack of Hope and my absolute weariness, asking Him, "When will this end?  How can I be ready for Holy Week? How can I be ready for YOU?"

Jesus has been silent of late, letting me wallow, and for good reason. I prayed for conversion, for I realize that I am in desperate need of conversion. That is the goal of this Lenten season for us all, but I did have a special request and a special focus. Until today, I thought that I had lost focus. As it turns out, my prayer has been answered.

God is faithful.

As I see now, He was allowing me to really wrestle with my own sin, ask those deep dark questions, and finally fall, exhausted, into the mud. It is only here in this weariness that I could finally see what has been lacking. It is only by experiencing this utter blindness that I finally can recognize my spiritual desolation and from that point, be brought to conversion.

This morning, while walking, I finally heard Jesus speak, and His words were simple. "Look at Me."

Huh?

Again, the words came to me; not in a locution, but in that still, small voice from within:  "Look at Me. I'm right HERE. LOOK at Me!"

And I looked...and that's when I understood.

I've been all over the place this Lent. I've been looking elsewhere, but He was within. He called, he shouted, but I couldn't hear because I had taken my eyes away from Him.

Conversion isn't some difficult theological construct. It doesn't require knowledge or philosophical understanding or complicated definitions.

Conversion is, simply put, falling in love. It is the state of turning toward God, toward the Author of Life, and allowing oneself to be inflamed by the fire of Divine Charity.

All Jesus asks us to do in Lent is to fall in love with Him again.

All He is saying is, "Look at Me."

When we do, when we really look at Him, we can't help but fall in love.

Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you! You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you. In my unloveliness I plunged into the lovely things which you created. You were with me, but I was not with you. Created things kept me from you; yet if they had not been in you they would have not been at all. You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness. You breathed your fragrance on me; I drew in breath and now I pant for you. I have tasted you, now I hunger and thirst for more. You touched me, and I burned for your peace. 

~ St. Augustine, Confessions

The Theology of the Rant

“Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength”

 ~ St. Francis de Sales

I've really been praying about this, and in examining my conscience, my occasions of sin, etc., I've really had to hold a mirror up to myself and accept responsibility for my own contribution to the problem.

We all seem to love a good rant. It gets us fired up, it sets off a domino-effect in the echo-chamber that is the world of blogging and social networking, and the next thing you know we're all fired up and ready for a good fight.

Oh, wait...what does THAT have to do with holiness?

One of the things I noticed is that either in writing or reading a rant, I can FEEL my blood pressure rising, and at times, it sets my blood to the boiling point.  In the past I've tried to justify my own feelings or behavior by saying, "Well, there IS such a thing as righteous anger!"  And yes, well, SURE there is! But the difference between "righteous anger" and "ranting anger" is that, well, I'm in control of the former, and the latter controls ME.

Now, I'm not saying that all "rants" involve anger. Often they do not. Sometimes they are simply humorous outtakes on situations, sometimes they are simply a passionate statement on some topic, and written for the point of positively getting people "fired up" to take some kind of action.  The fact is that as we are humans prone to all sorts of things like laziness and apathy, at times we NEED to have a fire lit under us to get us up off our rear ends. In light of this, please understand that I am not condemning anyone in particular or any posts in particular. Nor am I saying that people should not write with passion!  What I am trying to point out is that there is a difference between "writing with passion" and "ranting".  Sometimes the lines are blurred, and we have to learn to recognize those lines.

I can't always.

A few weeks ago as I began to ponder my own Lenten sacrifices, and the point of them, which is conversion, I took a look at my own blog and noted a few things in the blogs of others. For awhile now I've been avoiding the ranting-tone writings of many bloggers, for I noticed that they do to me, physiologically-speaking, what the sudden use of curse words would do when I worked in adolescent psych:   it upset my balance, it sent me into stress mode, and it caused me to want to make an immediate response.  Adrenaline.

I shouldn't need an adrenaline dump if I'm sitting at my computer. It's a waste of perfectly good neurochemicals and quite honestly, it distracts me from God. It distracts me from prayer. It disturbs the peace which should remain with me as I struggle constantly to keep focused on the Lord.

In all honesty, I'm sick of reading about complaints about the Church, and I'm sick of writing them, too.  We as human beings are so given to criticism, to focusing on the negatives in the Church, to carrying on the rants of others and making them our own.  But do we ever stop to consider whether or not our rants are BUILDING UP the Kingdom of God?  Do we ever stop to consider whether our rants truly Glorify GOD, or are they just self-seeking pleas for personal glory from a rant-happy crowd of unhappy Catholics, feeding further into their (and our) own unhappiness?

Is there true goodness in that, or do you, like me, smell the acidic scent of sulpher?

As I've been discerning the Visitation Nuns, I've pondered more the words of St. Francis de Sales, their Founder, and his gentle approach.  Time and time again I've come across writings of Saints, and statements about them, referencing their continual kindness towards others, their constant peace and gentle responses even in the face of outright hostility, dissent, etc. I am further convicted by the book I'm reading for Pastoral Theology:  Jean-Baptiste Chautard's "The Soul of the Apostolate."  He references this reality of holiness, and how souls are won not through harsh correction, but by a gentle, consistent response and patient teaching.  Even those that seem "lost" come around when they recognize the need to drop their own hostility, for it is not being returned in kind...ever.  They recognize, in a gentle response:   God.

True holiness cannot be attacked, cannot be undermined, cannot be destroyed. It needs no defense. The most an attacker can do is destroy the body, when truly they are trying to destroy God in the soul of that holy person.  This is the reason for all the martyrs throughout the history of the Church.  God can't be killed.

Why, then, do we become so defensive and angry when our faith is attacked?  Why are we so ready to respond with condemnation and judgement and vile, mean-spirited humor?  When, in the history of the world, has THAT tactic EVER won souls?

Although St. Francis of Assisi and St. Anthony were known for their impassioned preaching, they did not descend into sin by allowing anger or frustration to control them. What shone forth in their words was the very passionate love of Christ and zeal for souls that hadn't a bit of anger in it.  They had no need to be angry: the Truth speaks for itself, and is sufficient in and of itself to win souls.

St. Francis de Sales, another great preacher, suffered a great deal in bringing souls back into the Church, and many are not aware he had a problem with his temper. Do you know that after he died, they discovered GROOVES worn under his desk from him scraping his hands in frustration underneath, as he struggled to keep his anger and frustration at bay?  Yet, none ever saw anything but an enduring patience and expressions of true charity for those who he sought to help.

In light of all of this, and in light of all I am continuing to read, I've decided to take it all to heart. Although I am fond of passionate writing, I will do my best to keep it from being a "rant" so that none will read anger, especially where there isn't any! I will try to avoid any use of sarcasm (for which I have a special, but clearly disordered "love"), and as I have been, I will continue deleting old ranting posts. I may even clean up those posts that seem angry in tone, albeit only as I have time.  (School takes precedent over all of this.)

For Lent, I'm going to work on focusing on what is GOOD about the Church, even as I also continue my focus on the Passion and Death of Our Lord. Yet, I hope my "rants" are over, and maybe for good. Lent is a time for conversion, a time to re-focus on God and grow in holiness.

If we are not growing in holiness, then what ARE we growing?

St. Francis de Sales... pray for us!

How Long, O Lord?

Suffering is important and we can't escape it.  I know that I have often written of the need, and the call, to unite our sufferings to those of Christ, but the truth is that I seek to escape just as much as everyone else.

One of the things I have prayed for this Lent is to really SEE how many times I have caused Our Lord to weep over me as He did for Jerusalem.  I know I am in need of a very deep conversion, as I have allowed sin to rule my life in place of Jesus.

Truly, in order to grow in virtue, to eradicate sin, we have to recognize it, we have to renounce it, and we have to keep our eyes on Jesus. It is here that we suffer the most, for we recognize the damage done to our souls, maybe even our bodies, and our relationships because of our sin. Perhaps our suffering is at first self-centered, but in keeping our eyes on Jesus and on the Cross, that suffering is transformed to a recognition of something far greater, something that transcends even the most horrific temptations.  When we realize how far we can fall, and look upon the Cross to see Our Lord, who condescended to become one of us, to become one WITH us, what we find is that our love for Him begins to grow far stronger than the love for our favorite sins.

More and more, we desire to embrace Christ and live only for Him.  It is folly, then to try to run away from suffering, to be "positive" and deny the need to suffer during Lent, for it is only through embracing the Cross that we can EVER embrace Jesus.

How long, O Lord, have you wept over me as you wept over Jerusalem?  How long have I fled from you, how long have I denied you, how long have I been the cause of your suffering? 

Help me, Jesus, to embrace the Cross and die to myself so that I may one day become the cause of your joy.  

Amen

The Conversion Was Not the Call of St. Paul the Apostle

Today, the Apostle Paul himself tells us of his conversion, and the story is well known. There is a reason, though, that we celebrate it not as the Call of St. Paul, but rather his Conversion. I think that the reality is that the Call of the Apostle Paul happened many years prior, when he was still a young man.

A few months ago it was my privilege to attend a conference in which a priest offered a possible link between the man who went away sad and our beloved St. Paul.  In my opinion, this link is worth considering and I have pondered it often, for there is a great deal of truth in the idea, including something of human psychology we can observe in people around us who have missed their calling or have outright rejected Christ.

Let us review the relevant passages to this meditation:

Mark 10:17-31 The Man Who Went Away Sad

17As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up, knelt down before him, and asked him, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" 18 Jesus answered him, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. 19 You know the commandments: 'You shall not kill; you shall not commit adultery; you shall not steal; you shall not bear false witness; you shall not defraud; honor your father and your mother.'" 20 He replied and said to him, "Teacher, all of these I have observed from my youth." 21 Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said to him, "You are lacking in one thing. Go, sell what you have, and give to (the) poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." 22 At that statement his face fell, and he went away sad, for he had many possessions.

Now let us look to today's Feast and read part of what Paul has to say about his conversion in

Acts 22:36-11

“On that journey as I drew near to Damascus,about noon a great light from the sky suddenly shone around me. I fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to me,‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me? I replied, ‘Who are you, sir?’And he said to me,‘I am Jesus the Nazorean whom you are persecuting.’ My companions saw the light but did not hear the voice of the one who spoke to me.I asked, ‘What shall I do, sir?’ The Lord answered me, ‘Get up and go into Damascus, and there you will be told about everything appointed for you to do.’

Do you see the link between the two?

The priest who made this connection advanced it carefully, not to be considered dogma but rather for a point of meditation. If you have not guessed, he advanced the idea that the young man who approached Jesus asking, "What must I do?" was Saul who became St. Paul the Apostle.

In that young man of the reading from Mark's gospel,  the priest saw Saul, who we know to have been a Pharisee, a privileged man, one who persecuted the Christians without mercy.  In the first passage from Mark, we observe a young man who is struck to his very being by what Jesus is saying, so much so that he RUNS to Him, falls on his very knees and asks what he can DO!

How does Jesus respond?  First he asks Saul to go deeper into the mystery.  He asks him, "Why do you call me good?  No one is good but God alone!"

In this question, imagine Jesus looking into Saul's eyes, perhaps putting His hand on Saul's shoulder to emphasize His words and express His goodwill.  "Why do YOU call ME 'good'?  NO one is 'good' but GOD ALONE'."   Jesus does not break eye contact.  He is asking Saul to go deeper into himself, and into HIM to see the Truth of His very being...and what He is really asking.

Imagine a moment of silence as Saul ponders this question. "What does Jesus mean?  What is he saying?  Is he...claiming what I THINK he is?  That HE is....GOD?!!!!!??????"

Jesus emphasizes the Ten Commandments...the Law of God HIMSELF.  It is God HIMSELF speaking here, the Word Incarnate giving spoken expression the Word that is HIM.

Saul has broken eye contact. He looks away and in meeting the gaze of Jesus again, he sees everything...he recognizes who he is in the face of God, who LOVES him.  God LOVES Saul, but still tells him what he is lacking...he is not free to follow Him. He must purge himself of his worldly attachments, give to the poor...and follow.

That's where Saul goes away sad. 

So often this scripture is interpreted in a way not supported by scripture itself.  I've heard many homilies and lectures giving rise to the idea that the young man went away sad because he didn't want to part with his belongings.  Maybe that's true, but where in scripture is that verified as reality?  I pondered this myself  years ago when teaching RCIA, and in light of what Father said, I ponder it even more.  It seems that the man who went away sad isn't actually the end of the story.

 It makes sense that we consider this testimony in the light of Paul's Conversion...and Apostleship.

Look seriously at and ponder the story the Apostle Paul tells us today. If we can assume the negative about the Gospel of Mark, can we not ponder it in light of Paul's testimony in ACTS?    What did he do?  He HEARD a voice...a voice he recognized especially when Christ Himself spoke.  The conversation is almost an echo of the first!.

 Saul has matured and asks, "Who ARE you?"

Jesus simply identifies Himself, knowing Saul will remember and BELIEVES that only God alone is Good.

Saul doesn't question the identification.  This good Pharisee who questions EVERYTHING and is ready to kill on contact lies there on the ground and recognizes the voice of the Good Teacher from his youth.  This time, instead of asking, "What must I do to inherit eternal life" he asks a more open-ended question, "What shall I do?"

Jesus, instead of giving him an open ended answer, gives him one far more specific...and tells him where to go, and to whom.

Saul goes.

The young man, maybe Saul, went away sad. He had many possessions.  Perhaps he was prideful and expected to be told how wonderful and holy he was.  Perhaps he expected the Teacher to  hold him up as a perfect example.  Perhaps it was a moment of humility that made him approach with such zeal,  but upon learning that the greatest possession he had, himself, was what he had to give up, he went away knowing he could not do so.

He is the epitome of the sin of Adam, juxtaposed with the New Adam

He goes away, and considers all he has, and most importantly, that he is being asked to die to himself.  In order to follow Christ, he has to give up EVERYTHING, perhaps not understanding that Jesus is the fulfillment of every belief he has ever held, and that his people have ever held.

Saul struggles and succumbs to the world and his own will, which, as St. Francis de Sales calls it, his self-love.   He becomes angry, and when his life doesn't pan out as he thinks it should, he becomes bitter. He recalls that intimate moment with Christ, where he knelt at His knee, made eye contact, and recognized...the Call.  Which he rejected.

Saul, in his battle with himself, expresses it as a battle towards the early Christians.  He persecutes them mercilessly. Instead of attacking his own sin, his own faults, he puts to death those who reveal the Truth Incarnate, the real love of Christ that would not abandon him to his own disorder, his own superficiality, but would call him out of it for the benefit of eternity.

Because he rejected such a gift, he must try to destroy it, knowing all the while that this war is futile...and it makes him that much more furious in his persecution.

It all makes sense. The Young Man is the Apostle Paul.

We who struggle to know our Vocation, especially we who are so LATE can find a friend in the Apostle Paul through this particular meditation.  Maybe we identify with an earlier Call...and we went away sad. Maybe we didn't trust, maybe we were hindered in some other way. Maybe it had nothing to do with us, but with legitimate worldly and holy obligations.

But we can't look at it without looking honestly at ourselves, considering our own unholy flaws.  I can see it clearly now that it  has been pointed out. I can understand some of my own anger and rejection of Our Lord over the years in light of this, and can more clearly understand others, even those who claim to be Catholic, who spout off so publicly in anger at Jesus, Christianity, and the Church.

I wonder if maybe they recognize that once they were LOVED...but either that love was distorted or because of their own Pride, they chose to run away...and try to kill that which loves them the most in hopes they will eliminate that terrible ache within that calls them onward..towards Christ.

It's easier to attack than it is to succumb to the sacrificial love of Christ. I know this from experience. And it's easier to run away.  

Maybe we can give up things, but are we ready to give up OURSELVES, to lose our own lives in order to partake in the life of Christ?  Are we willing to forego those things we "love" because we love God more?

Or will we reject a Call we sincerely hear, in favor of a few trivialities such as social status or education or...simple, pure...love?

Maybe the reason Saul was angry was because he rejected Christ and instead of pursuing him, focused on a lost Vocation he would prefer to destroy rather than pursue.  Maybe some of us who are miserable are clinging to who we think we are instead of accepting that we are to become who God created us to BE.

The good news is this:  maybe the Young Man came BACK...and leads us all still today.  Perhaps we who think it is too late, can find, in the Apostle Paul, a Patron Saint for Late and Lost Vocations.  Perhaps if anyone can understand...it is him.

St. Paul the Apostle...pray for us! 

Entitled

I went to a Catholic College where, as at any college or university, there was a mix of students from several states, regions, and economic statuses.  As I recall, several of us used to comment on the sometimes shocking behavior or attitudes of those students that came from the wealthier suburbs of Chicago or other cities. We often snarked that they were always being bailed out by "Mommy and Daddy", and so never held to account for anything.

Truly there were some students who seemed to have no sense of the real world, so sheltered had they been by their parents' wealth.  One famous example from my class year came from a sociology class. A somewhat heated debate was raging with regard to male and female roles in the home, and there were passions on all sides. Finally one particular girl raised her hand and when given the opportunity, stated in honest astonishment, "I don't understand what the problem is! Why don't they just have the maid do it?"

The entire class fell silent in stunned disbelief. Was she SERIOUS?

Indeed, she was.  I do believe she learned a great deal during college and while completing her required internships, etc., about the plight of the everyday life of men and women everywhere, and that most people don't have maids. Anywhere.

I am ashamed to say, however, that even as I laugh at the incident now and even somewhat nostagically recall discussions with my friends on the "spoiled brats" at my college and everywhere...well, my house is made of glass, too.

Maybe it finally shattered today. At the very least, it cracked all over and will have to be replaced.

Sure, I grew up poor and "maid" was the word Mom used when establishing her role as Mother and not servant of we messy children. And sure, I had to work my butt off to pay for college (a debt that STILL has about $5,000 left to be paid off, but let's not discuss the grad school loans that will come due in 6 months on top of that...), but even so, I have just as big a sense of entitlement as those students did.

Oh, yes, my sense of entitlement is HUGE. I don't know where it came from, but have to admit it was in place even when I went to college.  I got financial aid and loans because I EXPECTED it and decided I DESERVED it. I decided I DESERVED to go to college, then DESERVED to get a good job with my degree...and on down the line.  Losing my "dream job" early on, the one I worked so hard for, was actually as devastating as it was because of my overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

The Human Plague of Hidden Hubris

If we all truly look at ourselves, we will recognize this same hubris. Maybe the rich kids in school had their entitlement influenced by their family's money or importance or other factor. But we poor kids, well, our likewise overdeveloped sense of entitlement (and the obvious superiority I described above) arose from knowing there was money for us because of our poverty, and the mistaken sense that we were "better" because we'd learned "values" and a "work ethic" from our working-class/ impoverished families.

Just last night, and a little today, some co-workers and I were speaking of this sense of entitlement we all have, how our pride gets in the way of all the different things we think we need to control. Not just out of a proper perspective of turning out a good product, doing good work, etc., but how the outcome reflects upon US in the eyes of OTHERS.

It's very easy to fall into the trap of doing some kind of good work or advancing some kind of program not for the good of the parish or the city or the school or other group, but out of a sense of misguided Pride in ourselves.  Although we may start out with the proper intent and ends in mind, it is very easy to lose focus and continually die to ourselves.  What may have started out as a meritorious thing can quickly descend into an occasion for Pride, in which we are seeking our own glory, instead of God's.

All of us seem to think we're actually entitled to a good reputation, respect and esteem of others! 

The last time I checked, though, holiness has NOTHING to do with how we appear in the eyes of others or what they think of us.  It has nothing to do with whether we have college degrees or a big house or even whether we live in an abandoned van down by the river with seven homeless cats and a wounded bird.

Perhaps one of the first things we need to really evaluate in ourselves is our sense of entitlement, and how ingrained it is in everything we think, how we live, what we do...in every moment.  Why do we get impatient when sitting in traffic?  Entitlement. Why do we get impatient when waiting for someone to call us back?  Entitlement. Why do we become put out when someone stops by our office without an appointment when the time might be inconvenient to us?  Entitlement.  Why do we become upset when someone else wants to use the computer or the phone or the TV?   Entitlement.

The Truth is this:  we have a lot more importance in our own eyes than we do in another person's estimation of us as they evaluate priorities in the circumstances of their own lives.  The unfortunate reality of human nature is that we ALL suffer from this plague of entitlement, and we feel put-out or put-upon when someone else's own sense of entitlement happens to collide with ours, literally or figuratively.  In our own tendency to be wrapped up in our own affairs and hubris, we actually forget the virtues of justice, mercy, and humility, all bound together by charity...which reminds us that true holiness is deferring to others and remembering we are called to serve, not to BE served.

NECESSARY ASIDE: 

Fr. S. at Clerical Reform has an INCREDIBLE post on this particular facet of Pride today.  Go read it!  I have to admit I  found his post to be timely given my ponderings and realizations of the last few days, am grateful for his commentary, and would love to sit down with a cup of coffee and discuss the theological implications of this very large topic with him.  Ah, the limitations of the internet:  often human interaction is limited. But then again, who ever said we were even entitled to the internet?  More on this in a moment....

Pride in Discernment 

As I wrote this post, another point hit me pretty hard, and because I know I am not alone in facing the difficulty of vocational discernment, I have decided to bring it up as well.

I've written before of the GIFT of Vocation, that it is something unmerited, and it's something I often forget to consider as I continually seek God's will for me.  I often complain about how hard it is, how exhausting, and how much I wish I could just put it aside and just "move on" with my life.  Never mind the fact that I can't "move on" if I don't know where I'm going!

Thus, in my prayers and thoughts this afternoon, I queried, "Why do some of us struggle so much with discovering our Vocation?"

The Answer:   Entitlement.

Ouch. Oh....ouch. Ow. Bleeding profusely now, and deservedly so.

When, exactly, did I get a sense of entitlement about such a great gift as a Vocation?  And when did I lose sight of the fact that the very SEARCH for it is a HUGE grace from God?

I've been realizing, more and more, how BIG my sense of entitlement is, and it's a painful process to evaluate everything in my life, taking a look in that mirror of my own estimation in my eyes, and recognizing I've been staring at my image in a distorted circus mirror for a very long time. 

The Remedy

Everything is Grace. Everything is a personal Gift from God.

There's nothing new here, nothing I haven't seen or read or heard, and it's nothing new to you, either. 

Maybe the problem is that even though it's not new, I've become so fascinated with the circus mirror that I  never put it aside long enough to actually embrace the reality of my own lack of importance in the face of God. Now that my perspective (again, by Grace) has been changed a little, now I can internalize, maybe, the Truth.

Yes, Jesus died for me, and my struggle with accepting that comes from the same pride that makes me depend too much on myself for everything. It's that sense of entitlement, that, at its core, is whispering, "You don't NEED a Savior...you're ENTITLED to one!"

Oh, it's painful to realize this, but necessary.

If we don't put this terrible, soul-killing, disordered sense of entitlement aside, we can't ever learn to depend on God. The loving God who knows our pride and our lack of humility, but STILL chose to die on the Cross especially in the face of our hostile lack of gratitude.

I'm going to continue pondering this, for as long as it takes. It will take YEARS to root out all the tendrils of entitlement that have taken over my life, but I'd rather spend the time NOW than have it burned away from me in the purifying fires of Purgatory. Which, by the way, is yet another Mercy of God's Justice that I don't deserve and to which I am not entitled.

Everything is a gift. Every moment. Every "inconvenience", every blessing.

Thank you, Jesus.  

Amen.