Two stories to share about an unexpected combination: soccer and seminarians:
in Rome:
http://nbcsports.msnbc.com/id/17314774/
retiring from the MLS to enter the seminary:
http://www.pjstar.com/sports/x1655095420/From-soccer-to-seminary
Happy Reading!
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Worth Everything
What made matters worse is that I missed a bachelor party this weekend in Denver. Now the truth is, I couldn't find a ticket out to the Mile High City for much less than $500 and I don't have that kind of money to spend on a single weekend. But it was hard knowing I was one of only a few close friends NOT making the trek out to celebrate our buddy's upcoming nuptials. Especially when I thought about how long it had been since we got the guys together, were able to kick back and relax, reminisce about the good ol' days, and catch up on what life has brought our way of late.
It was hard to miss out on all the fun, the fellowship, and precious time with good, good friends. But you have to make those kind of decisions when you get married. It just isn't fair to leave your wife at home, having to do all the packing by herself. And it isn't quite responsible to drop $500 on a flight for a single weekend when we have bills to pay.
Relationships require sacrifice. And a lot of times, when we're talking about a romantic relationship, time with a loved one, whether a boyfriend or girlfriend, fiance or fiancee, husband or wife that means time with friends (and even family) gets cut.
I think we begin to notice this in high school, but it definitely occurs in college and the years afterward. Your friend starts dating someone new and all of a sudden, you stop seeing them as much. They have plans with their significant other, which means going out together on the weekends isn't going to happen quite as often. Even phone conversations get cut short, especially if your friend is WITH their significant other at the time. Calls get ignored and texts go unanswered. Your friend is making a decision: my significant other is more important than these other relationships. What we have is worth these sacrifices. Even if it might hurt some feelings or cause some other friendships to fall by the wayside.
This is exactly what today's Gospel is all about. The kingdom of heaven, Matthew tells us, "is like a treasure buried in a field, which a person finds and hides again, and out of joy goes and sells all that he [or she] has and buys that field. The kingdom of heaven -- spending all eternity with Our Loving Father -- is such a gift, such a prize, that we ought to sacrifice EVERYTHING else just to make sure that we never lose it. How we spend our time and who we spend it with should reflect that everything else in life comes second to our relationship with God. Because that is what determines how we spend eternity.
So sure, going to Liturgy, making time for prayer, sitting with Scripture, and serving others in need may not always be as much fun as our other alternatives. But sometimes you just have to spend the weekend packing instead of having a blast in Denver.
It's certainly no coincidence that today's First Reading (1 Kings 3:5, 7-12) is about Solomon's opportunity to ask God for ANYTHING he desires. Solomon chooses not a long life, fame, fortune, or power ... but wisdom.
These readings are tied together so that WE realize that REAL wisdom involves the realization that our love relationship with God ought to be not just an important relationship in our lives, but THE MOST IMPORTANT relationship in our lives; worth sacrificing time and energy from other things. In fact, our love relationship with God is worth everything. Everything.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Eucharist in the News (Again)
As Schue posted on this blog, Professor Paul Zachary Myers, from the University of Minnesota Morris, made good on his promise to desecrate the Eucharist [http://www.catholicleague.org/release.php?id=1465]. A quick Google search shows that this has caught the attention of a number of Catholics (especially in the blogosphere), but hasn't yet received much secular press. I am guessing, again, this is a result of the sensitive nature of the topic: freedom of speech and religious intolerance.
To be sure, what Prof. Myers has done is lamentable, disturbing, and hurtful. But in some way, so has the response by a number of Catholics. Myers reports receiving loads of hate mail and even death threats. And although my heart goes out to those who believe themselves to be standing up for the Eucharist (and in so doing, for Christ) and speaking out against this tragedy, I cannot endorse such a despicable response. No life is worth threatening and violence has no place (well, okay, it has a place, but only as a LAST resort in self-defense) in our faith. I can't understand the logic if those who think:
A. this man offended me
B. this makes me angry
C. therefore, he deserves to die
It's important for Catholics to hear that although such an instance might merit a dose of righteous anger, that anger need not take the form of hatred or violence. Anger can fuel action, but that action can spur positive change. There is no doubt that great leaders like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, and Dorothy Day were angered by what they observed in our world -- and many times, from people who stood outside their faith tradition. But that doesn't mean that they resorted to violence to make their point.
All the more, when we DO act in the name of our religion, for the sake of the Eucharist, or in defense of Christ, we need to make sure that our STYLE matches our CONTENT. In other words, we're the biggest hypocrites in the WORLD if we invoke hatred or violence in the name of our Savior who constantly professed tolerance, peace, mercy, forgiveness, and LOVE.
And it doesn't take a Scripture specialist to know what Jesus thought of hypocrites.
My friends, we have WORK to do!
To be sure, what Prof. Myers has done is lamentable, disturbing, and hurtful. But in some way, so has the response by a number of Catholics. Myers reports receiving loads of hate mail and even death threats. And although my heart goes out to those who believe themselves to be standing up for the Eucharist (and in so doing, for Christ) and speaking out against this tragedy, I cannot endorse such a despicable response. No life is worth threatening and violence has no place (well, okay, it has a place, but only as a LAST resort in self-defense) in our faith. I can't understand the logic if those who think:
A. this man offended me
B. this makes me angry
C. therefore, he deserves to die
It's important for Catholics to hear that although such an instance might merit a dose of righteous anger, that anger need not take the form of hatred or violence. Anger can fuel action, but that action can spur positive change. There is no doubt that great leaders like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, and Dorothy Day were angered by what they observed in our world -- and many times, from people who stood outside their faith tradition. But that doesn't mean that they resorted to violence to make their point.
All the more, when we DO act in the name of our religion, for the sake of the Eucharist, or in defense of Christ, we need to make sure that our STYLE matches our CONTENT. In other words, we're the biggest hypocrites in the WORLD if we invoke hatred or violence in the name of our Savior who constantly professed tolerance, peace, mercy, forgiveness, and LOVE.
And it doesn't take a Scripture specialist to know what Jesus thought of hypocrites.
My friends, we have WORK to do!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
WYD
Half a world away, in Australia, 500,000 Catholics are celebrating World Youth Day. For more about the events and experiences, you can visit: http://www.wyd2008.org/.
Looks like Pope Benedict XVI is going to continue the tradition established by the ever-charismatic Pope John Paul II. Not to say that WYD will be the same without the pope who was celebrated like a rock star (I can still hear those "JP II, we love you!" chants), but good for Benedict for realizing what a gift this is, not only for our youth, but our Church. We still haven't seen the effects of past WYDs in Denver, Rome, Toronto (etc.) subside ...
Benedict also announced that MADRID will be the home of WYD 2011. Returning to Europe is a bit surprising, considering Cologne just hosted in 2005, but it's consonant with the goal Benedict declared during his first public address as pope, and his desire to re-evangelize Europe. At this rate, I wouldn't be shocked to see Paris be named the host city for WYD 2014!
Though I have to say, it'd sure be nice to see a Central or Latin American -- or even African -- WYD! If Vatican II was about the Church realizing its global identity (rather than one as a colonial Church based in Rome), Sydney was a step in the right direction.
Let's hope we see more of the same in store for 2014.
Looks like Pope Benedict XVI is going to continue the tradition established by the ever-charismatic Pope John Paul II. Not to say that WYD will be the same without the pope who was celebrated like a rock star (I can still hear those "JP II, we love you!" chants), but good for Benedict for realizing what a gift this is, not only for our youth, but our Church. We still haven't seen the effects of past WYDs in Denver, Rome, Toronto (etc.) subside ...
Benedict also announced that MADRID will be the home of WYD 2011. Returning to Europe is a bit surprising, considering Cologne just hosted in 2005, but it's consonant with the goal Benedict declared during his first public address as pope, and his desire to re-evangelize Europe. At this rate, I wouldn't be shocked to see Paris be named the host city for WYD 2014!
Though I have to say, it'd sure be nice to see a Central or Latin American -- or even African -- WYD! If Vatican II was about the Church realizing its global identity (rather than one as a colonial Church based in Rome), Sydney was a step in the right direction.
Let's hope we see more of the same in store for 2014.
Judging Less, Tolerating More
Last November, I was sitting at my desk, working on a paper, when I heard a noise in the kitchen. I thought it was kind of strange that something was making noise in the kitchen since I was the only one home. But since I was the only one in the apartment, I figured the noise couldn't be of much consequence. So I kept on typing. And I kept hearing a noise. I thought to myself, "Either there's a mouse in the kitchen, or someone is at my kitchen window." But we had mice traps all over the place, so I couldn't imagine how a mouse would survive in the kitchen. And we lived on the second floor of an apartment building, so even though there was a fire escape outside our window (which, incidentally, went all the way down to the ground), I figured it had to be my imagination.
But the noise continued. I felt like a babysitter who had just watched a scary movie and just knew there was a murderer outside the house, looking in through one of the windows.
The noise wouldn't go away. So I got up, walked into the kitchen, and saw a man entering our apartment through the kitchen window. I was shocked.
The moment he saw me, he jumped back, onto the fire escape, and started running down the stairs. I ran to the window. I was still flabergasted. But I managed to shout out,
"Yeah, you better run! You better not come back, either. I'll call the cops!"
He didn't seem too impressed -- or intimidated. He yelled back, over his shoulder, "Go ahead!"
So I did. And the cops came. And they never found him.
I was seething mad. Why did this guy think he could break into our apartment? What gave him the right to violate our home and take our stuff? My wife and I alternated between anger and feeling vulnerable.
I could have rationalized this anger in many ways. The actual incident wasn't that bad, but the "what ifs?" were terrifying. What if I had waited two more minutes and he made it all the way into our home? What if he had a weapon? What if I hadn't been home? What if I hadn't been home but my wife was? It made me sick to think about how much worse it could have been. That didn't help my anger or feeling violated.
It took me a while to cool off. To stop thinking about the awesome moves I could have used to neutralize the attacker and make him beg for mercy, had I another chance at the encounter. To stop thinking about the cops catching him and throwing him in jail. To start thinking about what this man's life was like and why he felt so trapped, so cheated, so desperate that he needed to resort to this kind of illicit behavior to get by. To start thinking about his needs and his motivations.
I'm not exactly proud of how long it took me to stop being angry and start trying to be understanding. But this is just another instance of the axiom: we judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions. We constantly give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, but rarely extend that courtesy to others.
That's not to say that what this man did was right. And there is such a thing as righteous anger. But at the same time, especially in light of Jesus' parable in today's Gospel (Mt. 13:24-30), we need to be less judgmental and a whole lot more tolerant.
The parable about the wheat and tares (probably the bearded darnel, a weed known to look a lot like wheat until the final stages of maturity) reminds us that malicious acts are a part of life. Bad things happen to good people. But that doesn't mean we ought to retaliate against, dominate, or isolate those who choose to do wrong.
In today's Gospel, Jesus reminds us that ours is not to judge. Neither is it our place to weed out those we might not agree with, who pose a threat to us, or who are different from us. Our role and responsibility is to be tolerant and trust that God -- the only one to fully understand people's situations and motivations -- will be the just, merciful judge when it matters.
That doesn't make us any less responsible for our own moral thoughts and deeds. In fact, it makes us all the more accountable. Today's Gospel is not only a reminder that we ought to focus on doing what is right, true, and good, but also that we must be tolerant of others, no matter if they offend us or hurt us on purpose or by accident.
The world would be quite a different place if we focused on being more tolerant and less judgmental. If we judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions, can you imagine how different the world would be if we tried to do the opposite?
But the noise continued. I felt like a babysitter who had just watched a scary movie and just knew there was a murderer outside the house, looking in through one of the windows.
The noise wouldn't go away. So I got up, walked into the kitchen, and saw a man entering our apartment through the kitchen window. I was shocked.
The moment he saw me, he jumped back, onto the fire escape, and started running down the stairs. I ran to the window. I was still flabergasted. But I managed to shout out,
"Yeah, you better run! You better not come back, either. I'll call the cops!"
He didn't seem too impressed -- or intimidated. He yelled back, over his shoulder, "Go ahead!"
So I did. And the cops came. And they never found him.
I was seething mad. Why did this guy think he could break into our apartment? What gave him the right to violate our home and take our stuff? My wife and I alternated between anger and feeling vulnerable.
I could have rationalized this anger in many ways. The actual incident wasn't that bad, but the "what ifs?" were terrifying. What if I had waited two more minutes and he made it all the way into our home? What if he had a weapon? What if I hadn't been home? What if I hadn't been home but my wife was? It made me sick to think about how much worse it could have been. That didn't help my anger or feeling violated.
It took me a while to cool off. To stop thinking about the awesome moves I could have used to neutralize the attacker and make him beg for mercy, had I another chance at the encounter. To stop thinking about the cops catching him and throwing him in jail. To start thinking about what this man's life was like and why he felt so trapped, so cheated, so desperate that he needed to resort to this kind of illicit behavior to get by. To start thinking about his needs and his motivations.
I'm not exactly proud of how long it took me to stop being angry and start trying to be understanding. But this is just another instance of the axiom: we judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions. We constantly give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, but rarely extend that courtesy to others.
That's not to say that what this man did was right. And there is such a thing as righteous anger. But at the same time, especially in light of Jesus' parable in today's Gospel (Mt. 13:24-30), we need to be less judgmental and a whole lot more tolerant.
The parable about the wheat and tares (probably the bearded darnel, a weed known to look a lot like wheat until the final stages of maturity) reminds us that malicious acts are a part of life. Bad things happen to good people. But that doesn't mean we ought to retaliate against, dominate, or isolate those who choose to do wrong.
In today's Gospel, Jesus reminds us that ours is not to judge. Neither is it our place to weed out those we might not agree with, who pose a threat to us, or who are different from us. Our role and responsibility is to be tolerant and trust that God -- the only one to fully understand people's situations and motivations -- will be the just, merciful judge when it matters.
That doesn't make us any less responsible for our own moral thoughts and deeds. In fact, it makes us all the more accountable. Today's Gospel is not only a reminder that we ought to focus on doing what is right, true, and good, but also that we must be tolerant of others, no matter if they offend us or hurt us on purpose or by accident.
The world would be quite a different place if we focused on being more tolerant and less judgmental. If we judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions, can you imagine how different the world would be if we tried to do the opposite?
Friday, July 18, 2008
The Eucharist in the News
Some of you may have heard the Eucharist has been in the news lately.
[For those of you who missed these stories, this article sums it up: http://www.catholicleague.org/release.php?id=1459].
Catholics believe the consecrated host to be the Real Presence of Jesus Christ. The institution narrative of the consecration hearkens us back to Jesus' own words the night he was betrayed, "This is my body ... This is my blood ... Take this all of you and eat it (or drink it) ... Do this in memory of me." Obviously, then, the Eucharist is not only a symbol of something holy, it is, in and of itself, the Holy of Holies.
We're not sure if Paul Zachary Myers recognizes this. If he does, and he still wishes to do harm to the Eucharist, we cannot ignore or be silent about his intention. If he doesn't fully grasp the impact of his words or the magnitude of his deeds, perhaps this is an opportunity for him to better understand why Christians hold the Eucharist so dear.
This post by Paul Zachary Myers deserves a response. And not just one of anger or indignation. This is especially true because the Eucharist itself is a symbol of communion and Jesus' self-offering and self-gift, "to be given for all." It would be entirely incongruent and inappropriate to respond with violence in the name of this perfect offering, the forgiveness of sins.
This is not to say that we should not stand up for the Eucharist during this persecution. When I was forwarded this article, the first passage that ran through my mind was Matthew 10:32-33 ("Everyone who acknowledges me before others I will acknowledge before my heavenly Father. But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father"). But I also couldn't help but wonder how many Catholics really believe in the Real Presence of the Eucharist. And if Catholics don't really believe, doesn't that, to some extent also dishonor what we say, do, and celebrate during the Liturgy? In this regard, I'd tend to agree with Flannery O'Connor, who once wrote of the Eucharist, "if it's only a symbol, then to hell with it!"
In any event, this story is important on many levels and for many people. In sum, this is a teachable moment. Not only for Catholics, about believing what we say and do at the Liturgy of the Eucharist, but also about how we treat and deal with religious symbols and rituals. Especially when we might not fully understand or appreciate what those symbols or rituals represent.
In any event, this story is important on many levels and for many people. In sum, this is a teachable moment. Not only for Catholics, about believing what we say and do at the Liturgy of the Eucharist, but also about how we treat and deal with religious symbols and rituals. Especially when we might not fully understand or appreciate what those symbols or rituals represent.
And then, how do we respond and proceed when such limits are crossed? Can you imagine if Paul Zachary Myers had written this about the Bible, the Torah, or the Koran? That might generate a whole lot of anger, but what good would come of it? If this is a teachable moment, then let's make sure we educate -- and not alienate -- people! The question, though, is how?
I invite your comments and insights.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Feast of St. Bonaventure
I was asked to share a reflection today, on the Feast of St. Bonaventure. We used Matthew 5:13-16 as the Gospel and this is what I shared:
People ask me why, of all things, I study theology and I’m never able to provide a short answer, but it almost always starts with the same story:
The summer before my senior year of high school, I spent several weeks building a school in the Dominican Republic. Soon after the ten of us students arrived in the DR, Fr. Terry Brennan, SJ, our high school Spanish teacher, led us on a tour of Santo Domingo. We took in the beautiful capitol city via a nice, big, air-conditioned van. The tour was quite pleasant until we headed for the city dump. Here, in a place called Cien Fuegos (or “100 Fires”) we passed through heaps of perpetually burning trash. I remember staring at all that garbage and just being amazed by all the things people had thrown away and wondering if I could find a way to breathe without inhaling the awful stench.
I couldn’t imagine why we had come to this place until I began to recognize that I wasn’t just looking at piles of garbage, but little tiny homes made of cardboard, corrugated metal, clothes, and old appliances. We turned a corner and suddenly we were upon a group of kids at play. It almost didn’t register: people lived here. Children lived here.
The van slowed to a halt and Fr. Brennan told us to get out. What? No. Not us. A bunch of white American teenagers. What on earth would we say or do? No sooner than the van had stopped than all the children fled. They disappeared into their garbage homes. We were all alone. Fr. Brennan insisted: get out of the van and walk around. I couldn’t believe my ears.
Reluctantly, self-consciously, awkwardly, we got out of the van. What we thought smelled bad before, we realized had actually been masked by the air conditioning. The searing heat and revolting stench almost took my feet out from under me. We took a few timid steps away from the van, and soon, the voices returned.
The children – previously partially or completely naked – returned wearing clean clothes and gigantic smiles. They grabbed our hands and asked us to play with them. Several children began climbing my arms and legs and instantly made me a human jungle gym. All I could think about was the way they smelled and how skinny they were … and how they just never stopped smiling. These children shared their salt and light with us in such a way that we forgot we were in a garbage dump.
That is, until a man came up to Fr. Brennan and asked us to follow him to his home. We hadn’t the foggiest idea why. But he took Father by the hand and marched us through the dump, past little tiendas selling chips and soda and cigarettes, past the ditches oozing with rainbow-spotted water and food scraps where children washed and collected water. And then he invited us into his home, a tiny little shanty, not six feet tall, separated in half by a close-line with rags and blankets draped across it. To the right were heaps of old clothes, bunched up to make a mattress and some pillows for him, his wife, and children. To the left, on the dirt floor, a single table and chair looked rather lonely. And then the man pointed to the wall, where a framed picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was displayed. The man held out his hands, smiled, and said, “Hermanos, rezemos: Brothers, let us pray.”
On a trip where we had been sent to serve and give, we were served and given an earth-shattering opportunity to behold what faith, hope, and love looks like and feels like firsthand.
This story is especially meaningful for me today as we celebrate the Feast of St. Bonaventure, whose legacy is one of both piety and learning. That man and those children in Cien Fuegos could have been embarrassed, afraid, jaded, or angry. They could have ignored us, written us off, and assumed that we wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. But that man’s piety – in such a desperate and disgusting place – was a bold and moving demonstration of his salt and light … and has served as the inspiration for my own piety and learning.
For Bonaventure, piety and learning were more than goods to be pursued in their own right; instead, when applied to each other, they serve a greater good: our piety constantly enriches our learning of the depth and breadth of God’s love and our learning enhances our piety such that our love for God builds and grows and overflows through love for one another.
In much the same way, as we find in today’s Gospel, salt and light are goods in and of themselves and accordingly, when Jesus calls us the “salt of the earth” and “the light of the world” it is at once both purposeful and powerful. Salt was and is used as a spice and preservative; because it was so valuable, it was used as currency. Here Jesus tells us that we are valuable, precious, and in-demand. Much like light. In our day and age, where, with the flip of a switch we can light up an entire building, stadium, or city block, we’re a bit removed from the millennia when people rose with the sun each dawn and worked until the last rays of light at dusk. The darkness left people unable to work, read, or visit; it left them feeling vulnerable and afraid of whatever or whomever prowled about at night. Light provided protection against hidden dangers or obstacles; it served as a beacon to guide a weary one home; and if need be, it prolonged the day so more work could be done.
And this point – about work – is what we cannot miss today. In this passage which immediately follows the Beatitudes in Matthew’s Gospel, when Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth … You are the light of the world,” this is not the same as the ideals we are given in the Beatitudes for directions for how we “ought” to live or a way of saying “This is what you can be if you try really hard …” Even today, in this place, Jesus looks you in the eye and says, “Yes, you. YOU! Just as you are. Already. YOU are salt. You are light.”
But this is more than a pat on the back; it’s also a kick in the pants because today’s Gospel is not only about who we are, but what we do with who we are. In other words, our identity as salt and light is tied up with our mission to be disciples. And in Matthew’s Gospel, discipleship is more than just piety and learning; discipleship means doing what Jesus does: teaching and healing.
We teach and heal as salt and light and when we apply our salt and light, we serve a greater good. Our salt brings spice to the ordinariness of life; it promotes gratitude and generosity in a world turned in on itself. Our salt cultivates perseverance in the face of adversity or persecution; it provides the spunk for continuous conversion and challenging the status quo. Our light exudes comfort, peace, and hope in a world that has grown irritable, discouraged, and doubtful. And just as brilliant as our collective light can be when we gather together, so also a single, unflinching flicker can be most poignant and profound when surrounded by the bleakest, deepest darkness.
Our salt sustains us and the light we bear ensures that no matter the hour of day or night, the time is always right to roll up our sleeves and get to work. What is more, when Jesus says “You are the light of the world” and “You are the salt of the earth,” he is not just talking to you or me, but to you and me; indeed, to all of us. This plural “you” conveys a mission of not just service, but solidarity: sharing our salt, spreading our light, and inviting others to do the same. This means looking for and finding the salt and light in every single person we meet and in places we might not expect it – even a garbage dump in the Dominican Republic – and making use of that salt and light to teach and heal, to be taught and be healed.
Today, as we hear Jesus affirm us as salt and light, let us also pay heed to the challenge that our salt and light must reach out and be put to use always and everywhere – but especially where the world needs it the most.
You never know what piety and learning it could inspire.
People ask me why, of all things, I study theology and I’m never able to provide a short answer, but it almost always starts with the same story:
The summer before my senior year of high school, I spent several weeks building a school in the Dominican Republic. Soon after the ten of us students arrived in the DR, Fr. Terry Brennan, SJ, our high school Spanish teacher, led us on a tour of Santo Domingo. We took in the beautiful capitol city via a nice, big, air-conditioned van. The tour was quite pleasant until we headed for the city dump. Here, in a place called Cien Fuegos (or “100 Fires”) we passed through heaps of perpetually burning trash. I remember staring at all that garbage and just being amazed by all the things people had thrown away and wondering if I could find a way to breathe without inhaling the awful stench.
I couldn’t imagine why we had come to this place until I began to recognize that I wasn’t just looking at piles of garbage, but little tiny homes made of cardboard, corrugated metal, clothes, and old appliances. We turned a corner and suddenly we were upon a group of kids at play. It almost didn’t register: people lived here. Children lived here.
The van slowed to a halt and Fr. Brennan told us to get out. What? No. Not us. A bunch of white American teenagers. What on earth would we say or do? No sooner than the van had stopped than all the children fled. They disappeared into their garbage homes. We were all alone. Fr. Brennan insisted: get out of the van and walk around. I couldn’t believe my ears.
Reluctantly, self-consciously, awkwardly, we got out of the van. What we thought smelled bad before, we realized had actually been masked by the air conditioning. The searing heat and revolting stench almost took my feet out from under me. We took a few timid steps away from the van, and soon, the voices returned.
The children – previously partially or completely naked – returned wearing clean clothes and gigantic smiles. They grabbed our hands and asked us to play with them. Several children began climbing my arms and legs and instantly made me a human jungle gym. All I could think about was the way they smelled and how skinny they were … and how they just never stopped smiling. These children shared their salt and light with us in such a way that we forgot we were in a garbage dump.
That is, until a man came up to Fr. Brennan and asked us to follow him to his home. We hadn’t the foggiest idea why. But he took Father by the hand and marched us through the dump, past little tiendas selling chips and soda and cigarettes, past the ditches oozing with rainbow-spotted water and food scraps where children washed and collected water. And then he invited us into his home, a tiny little shanty, not six feet tall, separated in half by a close-line with rags and blankets draped across it. To the right were heaps of old clothes, bunched up to make a mattress and some pillows for him, his wife, and children. To the left, on the dirt floor, a single table and chair looked rather lonely. And then the man pointed to the wall, where a framed picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was displayed. The man held out his hands, smiled, and said, “Hermanos, rezemos: Brothers, let us pray.”
On a trip where we had been sent to serve and give, we were served and given an earth-shattering opportunity to behold what faith, hope, and love looks like and feels like firsthand.
This story is especially meaningful for me today as we celebrate the Feast of St. Bonaventure, whose legacy is one of both piety and learning. That man and those children in Cien Fuegos could have been embarrassed, afraid, jaded, or angry. They could have ignored us, written us off, and assumed that we wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. But that man’s piety – in such a desperate and disgusting place – was a bold and moving demonstration of his salt and light … and has served as the inspiration for my own piety and learning.
For Bonaventure, piety and learning were more than goods to be pursued in their own right; instead, when applied to each other, they serve a greater good: our piety constantly enriches our learning of the depth and breadth of God’s love and our learning enhances our piety such that our love for God builds and grows and overflows through love for one another.
In much the same way, as we find in today’s Gospel, salt and light are goods in and of themselves and accordingly, when Jesus calls us the “salt of the earth” and “the light of the world” it is at once both purposeful and powerful. Salt was and is used as a spice and preservative; because it was so valuable, it was used as currency. Here Jesus tells us that we are valuable, precious, and in-demand. Much like light. In our day and age, where, with the flip of a switch we can light up an entire building, stadium, or city block, we’re a bit removed from the millennia when people rose with the sun each dawn and worked until the last rays of light at dusk. The darkness left people unable to work, read, or visit; it left them feeling vulnerable and afraid of whatever or whomever prowled about at night. Light provided protection against hidden dangers or obstacles; it served as a beacon to guide a weary one home; and if need be, it prolonged the day so more work could be done.
And this point – about work – is what we cannot miss today. In this passage which immediately follows the Beatitudes in Matthew’s Gospel, when Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth … You are the light of the world,” this is not the same as the ideals we are given in the Beatitudes for directions for how we “ought” to live or a way of saying “This is what you can be if you try really hard …” Even today, in this place, Jesus looks you in the eye and says, “Yes, you. YOU! Just as you are. Already. YOU are salt. You are light.”
But this is more than a pat on the back; it’s also a kick in the pants because today’s Gospel is not only about who we are, but what we do with who we are. In other words, our identity as salt and light is tied up with our mission to be disciples. And in Matthew’s Gospel, discipleship is more than just piety and learning; discipleship means doing what Jesus does: teaching and healing.
We teach and heal as salt and light and when we apply our salt and light, we serve a greater good. Our salt brings spice to the ordinariness of life; it promotes gratitude and generosity in a world turned in on itself. Our salt cultivates perseverance in the face of adversity or persecution; it provides the spunk for continuous conversion and challenging the status quo. Our light exudes comfort, peace, and hope in a world that has grown irritable, discouraged, and doubtful. And just as brilliant as our collective light can be when we gather together, so also a single, unflinching flicker can be most poignant and profound when surrounded by the bleakest, deepest darkness.
Our salt sustains us and the light we bear ensures that no matter the hour of day or night, the time is always right to roll up our sleeves and get to work. What is more, when Jesus says “You are the light of the world” and “You are the salt of the earth,” he is not just talking to you or me, but to you and me; indeed, to all of us. This plural “you” conveys a mission of not just service, but solidarity: sharing our salt, spreading our light, and inviting others to do the same. This means looking for and finding the salt and light in every single person we meet and in places we might not expect it – even a garbage dump in the Dominican Republic – and making use of that salt and light to teach and heal, to be taught and be healed.
Today, as we hear Jesus affirm us as salt and light, let us also pay heed to the challenge that our salt and light must reach out and be put to use always and everywhere – but especially where the world needs it the most.
You never know what piety and learning it could inspire.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Some Seed Fell on Good Soil
Today's Gospel (Mt. 13:1-23) is the famous parable of the Sower. But just because we hear it every year doesn't mean that we fully understand it. That's because Jesus was speaking to a people who lived on, worked on, ate from, and depended on the soil. The closest most of us ever get to planting, cultivating, and harvesting our own crops is going to a Farmers' Market. Or enjoying the air-conditioned luxury of Whole Foods. Not exactly the same thing.
So to fully understand the deep and rich meaning of today's Parable of the Sower, we have to think about what it means to dedicate oneself to the back-breaking labor of working on and living on the land. Fertile soil is one thing, but producing crops is quite another. And that requires a lot of time and energy.
Not that I have loads of personal experience of this myself. But my mom is a dedicated gardener. And my dad's no slouch, either. And because they cared about planting a garden, that meant we kids had to care, too. So every Spring meant roto-tilling our garden, planting seeds, watering the seeds, picking the weeds, and then ... after three months of repeating the watering and weeding stages, the Fall finally meant picking fresh asparagus, beans, peppers, tomatoes, squash and the like. And because the harvest was always bountiful, we eagerly anticipated the Fall. But because of all the work that it required, we always dreaded the Spring.
That's because Good Soil -- the kind of good soil we read about in today's Gospel -- is no accident. Good soil takes commitment, hard work, meticulous attention to detail, and lots and lots of patience.
So it is with faith. We may claim a strong faith in God -- or at least a strong enough foundation to trust in God's plan and have faith in His love for us -- but our personal faith is not the result of chance, luck, or fate. It's the result of commitment, hard work, careful concern for our well-being, and lots and lots of patience.
The truth is, we can't take all the credit for our "good soil." We have parents and friends to thank. And probably a coach, neighbor, teacher, or catechist, too. Someone who worked with us, cared for us, and helped cultivate in us an amenable spirit so that the Spirit could take root in our lives and yield fruit in what we think, say, and do in the world.
So our "good soil" isn't the end of the story. We can't just be satisfied knowing that the Seed (the Word) has taken root in our lives. We have to continue to dedicate the time and energy to cultivate the soil so that it continues to be nourished and revitalized, given life-giving water through the Sacraments and the weeds of temptation and sin rooted out.
What is more, just as we have many people to thank for cultivating our own "good soil," so we have a responsibility to cultivate and enhance the soil of our friends and family. We do this for their own good, so the Seed can take root and bear fruit. And we also do this for our own good, because a single patch of good soil is not sustainable in the desert or hostile territory. Together, our many hands, strong commitment, hard work, and patience build up the Body of Christ.
And when I say the Body of Christ, of course I'm talking about good soil. But now that you're an expert in deciphering parables, you knew that already.
So to fully understand the deep and rich meaning of today's Parable of the Sower, we have to think about what it means to dedicate oneself to the back-breaking labor of working on and living on the land. Fertile soil is one thing, but producing crops is quite another. And that requires a lot of time and energy.
Not that I have loads of personal experience of this myself. But my mom is a dedicated gardener. And my dad's no slouch, either. And because they cared about planting a garden, that meant we kids had to care, too. So every Spring meant roto-tilling our garden, planting seeds, watering the seeds, picking the weeds, and then ... after three months of repeating the watering and weeding stages, the Fall finally meant picking fresh asparagus, beans, peppers, tomatoes, squash and the like. And because the harvest was always bountiful, we eagerly anticipated the Fall. But because of all the work that it required, we always dreaded the Spring.
That's because Good Soil -- the kind of good soil we read about in today's Gospel -- is no accident. Good soil takes commitment, hard work, meticulous attention to detail, and lots and lots of patience.
So it is with faith. We may claim a strong faith in God -- or at least a strong enough foundation to trust in God's plan and have faith in His love for us -- but our personal faith is not the result of chance, luck, or fate. It's the result of commitment, hard work, careful concern for our well-being, and lots and lots of patience.
The truth is, we can't take all the credit for our "good soil." We have parents and friends to thank. And probably a coach, neighbor, teacher, or catechist, too. Someone who worked with us, cared for us, and helped cultivate in us an amenable spirit so that the Spirit could take root in our lives and yield fruit in what we think, say, and do in the world.
So our "good soil" isn't the end of the story. We can't just be satisfied knowing that the Seed (the Word) has taken root in our lives. We have to continue to dedicate the time and energy to cultivate the soil so that it continues to be nourished and revitalized, given life-giving water through the Sacraments and the weeds of temptation and sin rooted out.
What is more, just as we have many people to thank for cultivating our own "good soil," so we have a responsibility to cultivate and enhance the soil of our friends and family. We do this for their own good, so the Seed can take root and bear fruit. And we also do this for our own good, because a single patch of good soil is not sustainable in the desert or hostile territory. Together, our many hands, strong commitment, hard work, and patience build up the Body of Christ.
And when I say the Body of Christ, of course I'm talking about good soil. But now that you're an expert in deciphering parables, you knew that already.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Like a Child
Starting graduate school last Fall was a bit intimidating. I was surrounded by very, very bright students. Students who had studied much more theology than I had. Students fluent in the language of complex theories, precise hermeneutics, and classic metaphysical or ontological debates.
But I did not want to be intimidated. I wanted to show that I, too, belonged in graduate school. So after my first class at Harvard Divinity School, I walked up to the TA and made sure to use big words. I enthusiastically thanked her for her "trenchant" remarks to begin our class discussion.
"Trenchant?" she asked, a bit puzzled.
"Oh, no." I thought. I didn't use the right word. Now I look like a complete moron.
In fact, "trenchant" isn't exactly inappropriate in that context. But it is a bit unusual, if not awkward. And it took me a few weeks of graduate school to learn that although we have much to learn from Rahner's notion of the supernatural existential, the intricacies of Christology and soteriology, nuanced exegetical findings, and deep and rich tradition of Sacramental theology, our faith shouldn't be confined to big words or complicated theories.
Today's Gospel (Mt. 11:25-30) brings us back to the crux of our theology and reminds us that it's not about only about the theoretical, but also the practical. In other words, theology isn't just about books and knowledge, but about everyday experiences of grace. That's because theology is something we do.
This reminds me of another story:
There once was a young man who embarked on a journey to consult a sage about the meaning of life. After his long journey, he arrived at the home of the sage. The sage greeted him and offered him some water. The young man happily accepted. The sage took out a glass of water, put it on a table before him, took a pitcher of water, and began to pour it into the glass. Because the glass had already been filled, water spilled everywhere. The young man shouted, "But sir, the glass is already full!" The sage replied, "I know. And so are you. You are too full to learn from me."
We get a similar lesson from today's Gospel. It is easy for us to come to God confident and reasurred by all we have learned or all we think we know. But it is also easy to fall into a trap of thinking that we can know enough or even everything about God. My Foundations of Systematic Theology professor, Fr. Richard Lennan, taught me a valuable lesson early last year: no matter how much we study or what we think we know about God, God is always bigger. Always.
So it is actually quite dangerous to get caught up in theories and theologizing. Holding onto these studies can make us feel proud and confident in our faith, but it can also prevent us from learning further.
This is not to say that no one should waste their time learning about God or that Catholicism is somehow anti-intellectual. Instead, that we need to be careful about our studies and temper them with experiences in the world, in which we are constantly surprised by the goodness ... and unexpectedness of God at work in our life. This ultimately reminds us to rely on God's grace and not a specific definition of grace.
So today, instead of focusing on what we know or think we know about God, let us be like the "little ones" Jesus talks about, filled with awe and wonder, ready and open to receive God's grace and grow in it.
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