Today is the Feast of the Epiphany, so named because it comes from the Greek term meaning manifestation--because this celebrates the day upon which Christ's divinity was manifested to the gentiles. It is when they had their epiphany. The gentiles. The non-Jews. Here they are represented by the magi, a somewhat mysterious band of astrologers who came to pay homage to the newborn messiah.
Jews are the people of the book. The people of the Word. God comes to them in dreams, in words, in prophecies. God reveals truth by telling the truth. Telling instead of showing.
The people around them--the gentiles--learned truth through nature. They read the entrails of animals, for instance, and they look to the stars. And so the Magi saw "his star at its rising." They went to Herod and asked him where the child might be found--note that Herod asked the scribes about the prophecies about the messiah--not the omens from chicken bones, but the prophecies. Bethlehem, they informed the Magi.
So the people of the book deliver the message to the people of nature about the coming messiah. The Magi go to Bethlehem, find Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. They bring gifts representing Christ's station of priest, prophet, and king (frankincense, myrrh, and gold). All seems well. They're about to return to Herod to tell him about the child but then....
But then they are warned in a dream. Suddenly they aren't getting their truth from nature, from stars, from astrology. They are told. They are warned in a dream not to return to Herod, and they don't, returning to their own country by another route.
In this moment, they become part of the People of the Book, of the Word. They become grafted onto God's Chosen People. They are, in essence, the first Christians, the first converts. Who knows what they go and do when they get home (to Iran, perhaps?). Who can be sure of anything--their number, their intentions, their existence--but the story is still True. We are all part of the People of God by our belief in the incarnation, death, and resurrection of Christ. The story of the magi shows us how. We are to listen to God's word. Listen.
Reminds me of that oft-quoted preface to the Rule of St. Benedict: Listen, my child, to your master's teachings, and incline the ear of your heart.
The magi listened and followed what they heard. May it be that I take the time to incline the ear of my own heart and do the same.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
3/365 The Magi
Posted by Bridgett at 6:18 AM 0 comments
Labels: meditation, Sunday
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
9/365 CLOTW and Selfish Desires
CLOTW is my abbreviation for Children's Liturgy of the Word. We restarted this program at my parish after a small seasonal program had been disbanded. Sr. Hildegard gathered up a group of parents and other interested child-oriented catechists to take a few Sundays every semester and be in charge of presenting the Word of God to children, ages 4-10. This is done down in the basement of the church, with a rug where the children sit, a candle on a stand, and an ambo/lectern of sorts.
We were kind of a large crowd of catechists and helpers the first year but have dwindled down to a bare-bones operation. It essentially means I will miss at least 1 homily a month, sometimes more. Leading Children's Liturgy still "counts" for Sunday mass--I'm still participating in the liturgy--but I think I'm going to have to start attending the 7:30 a.m. mass if I'm going to not resent this service.
See, I really like our pastor. Really. And not just because he is personable and I served on his first parish council and trust him and all that--not just because he's a good person and a great priest and we're so fortunate he's at our parish and so forth. He could be all that and fall flat at the pulpit, but he's good at that too. I really like listening to good preaching, and he pulls it off more often than not. Almost always, actually, I go home ruminating on what's been said. I love words and people who use them well, whether written or spoken or sung (or in any combination). So it's hard to know that I'm going to walk out with a gaggle of children and head down to the dim basement to try to present the gospel to them in a way that is child-oriented and lovely...because I miss out on the adult version upstairs that I yearn for.
But I'm reminded of something I read by Fr. Dominic Garramone OSB (the Fr. Dominic from the PBS bread baking show--another one of my steps along the way in the summer of '06). He was complaining to his abbot that helping an elderly monk at the liturgy of the hours was seriously detracting from his own prayer life. The elderly man could barely see the pages, was always getting lost in the office books, kept forgetting Dominic's name--in other words, being a big pain in the rear. Dominic insisted that he could "hardly pray" while helping out this monk. The abbot pointed out to him that without his help, that monk could not pray at all. It is unlikely that the children I share the gospel with down in the basement of the church are going to go home and ruminate on my words. It is doubtful that the things I say will be of any great and wonderful importance. But if it allows them to more fully participate in the mass (and if it, frankly, lets their parents have a moment upstairs to more fully participate in the mass), then it is worthwhile. Even if I miss out on the good stuff once in a while.
So I'll suck it up and enjoy it. Because in the end, I always do.
Posted by Bridgett at 3:21 AM 0 comments
Labels: homilies, Sunday, volunteering
Sunday, October 9, 2011
18/365 Stream of Consciousness from Mass Sunday
Here, I've got the door. Ah, there's Yvette. I'll take the program from her so I don't have to engage in conversation with Jim. She bought girl scout cookies last year. I'll have to have Sophia talk to her after mass. I hope my hair isn't too bad. It's been so hard to deal with. I wish my striped cardigan had been clean. Ah well. Three days of Mike out of town and a crazy week.
There are my parents. But I like sitting in the front. I think that's probably fine. Hey. We're sitting up front. I know it's warmer here. Yeah. Nobody up front yet. Third pew sounds better than second. We won't bother Lucien if we're in the third pew. At least not as much. Ah. I don't know this opening song. Hmm.
I don't know her. Why is she sitting next to me? The next pew is empty. So is the one behind me. Can't she see the two kids? Coach bag. Like I care. Why do I look at labels when I'm oblivious to their meaning? I can't help reading words, though. Can't help it. I wish Maeve would stop clinging. Good. She's lying on the pew. That's fine. I'll just let her until children's liturgy begins.
Opening song. I can hear my own voice better here than usual. Leo. So cute. I wonder if I'm bothering the woman next to me. I wonder if she is a regular here and I'm too focused on people I already know and so I don't know her and it will be awkward to introduce myself later and find out she's been in the parish 32 years or something. I don't think so, though. The sign looks better over there. I don't like it behind the ambo where it was earlier. I wish there were a way around the sign.
The green. The deacon matches, almost. Maybe all the way. Is it the same green? I think there's more of a woven pattern on Miguel's. The poinsettias are fine. I can toss them out or I guess bring one home later this week. Maybe tomorrow since we're off school. I don't know. I know this gloria. Do we sing the gloria during Advent? It seems like it was a while. We sing it during Christmas though. Gloria. Brian's smiling at Leo. So cute.
Maeve is asleep. Asleep. Jeez. Breathing? Yes. She's taking up the whole pew. Yeah, sit by us. That's a great plan. I guess I'll sit in front of us when it's the first reading. She's not going to children's liturgy. Not if she falls asleep in 5 minutes like that.
Yup, watch me. Sitting up in the next pew. Ah well.
Is that Isaiah he just said? I've never heard it said like that.
Ah, Paul has the responsorial. He's gotten so much better with time. What a nice guy.
Becky reads so slowly. I need to slow down when I read. I wonder if I should reiterate to Sr. Hildegard my willingness to be a reader. Many gifts. Is it a reminder in the positive or the negative? Of course I'm in charge of plants. Not one of my gifts, really.
I hope Miguel has the homily today.
Why does John's gospel refer to Mary as "Jesus' mother" instead of by name? Do whatever he tells you to. Wow, that about sums it up. I love that she ignores his response...or maybe she knew he would do something if she asked. But does that mean he'd done things before? How would she know he could help, if not? The apocryphal gospels have all sorts of cockamamie miracles early on. I just can't see him going around doing little favors for the neighbors, though. Honey could you fix this pitcher. Wait, that was Benedict. Or was it Scholastica?
Ok, time to head up here. I wonder what Joel will be like. I should have been going to RCIA all along. I hate picking up midstream. But there are so many obligations. Wow, in these shoes I'm taller than he is. Do I carry the book of the gospels out held up high like for Children's Liturgy? I guess I'm just going to assume I do. I hope I don't look stupid. I'm walking too fast.
And then we headed down to the rectory basement for dismissal catechesis and a nice chat. Good Sunday.
Posted by Bridgett at 3:27 AM 0 comments
Labels: Sunday
Friday, October 7, 2011
24/365 It just slipped out of my mouth.
I was rushing into church Sunday morning. Just so you know, I'm always rushing into church Sunday morning. Sophia attends an atrium in the next neighborhood over and she gets out at 9:45. Just enough time to speed down Grand and scan the parking lot impatiently for a space. How I remember with fondness the leisurely walks to church 3 years ago. Not anymore. We're always in a hurry now.
Hildegard is standing in back. The procession is assembling. I smile and nod at them and she asks, "Are you children's liturgy today?"
"No," I remember back to the email. "Today is Jessica and Eva. But if they're not here, I'll do it."
We quickly moved past them and up the side aisle to the second pew, where we've decided to camp out a while. The entrance song plays. We pass the baby, we get Maeve settled. And then it hits me. I just totally volunteered to fly by the seat of my pants at children's liturgy. I guess I finally did make the decision to be that person. In a good way, I mean.
Posted by Bridgett at 8:07 PM 0 comments
Labels: children, Sunday, volunteering
Sunday, September 25, 2011
45/365 Valentine's Day In Review
Today I ran Children's Liturgy and therefore missed what Mike called the "best homily I've heard in ages," brought to you by Fr. Lawrence while Miguel is in Haiti.
Wait. Yes--Miguel is in Haiti at a hospital working as a chaplain. His latest tweet (that would be "thing he posted on twitter") reads: I'm sleeping on a cot outside w a mosquito net. Brushed my teeth on the side of the "road". I am not a camper. I could have guessed that last line but frankly, I'm speechless when it comes to international mission trips of all sorts. It would be enough for me to say "I am not a missionary" in any statement I would make and that would be enough said. So I'm living vicariously through tweeted moments he sends into the ether and hoping he makes it back ok. I spent two years hoping that about Sophia's godparents when they were in Nicaragua.
But yes, Fr. Lawrence filled in. He's wordy, but I've been consistently pleased with what he's had to say. Today, Mike said, was no different.
"Best homily I've heard in ages" is not anything like what happened in Children's Liturgy. I prepared for the wrong year. How could I be so stupid? I realized sitting in the pew before mass began what I'd done and I quickly scanned the readings. So I went downstairs and faked it. I hate that. I hate not being prepared. But I read the readings and the gospel and did a tiny introduction to Lent. Then we reread Jesus' statements and put them into context as best we could. We went upstairs and the homily wasn't finished. Timed it bad on top of everything else. Jessica and I stood in back with the kids and showed them the statues and tried to explain why these were in our church. Then we released them. It was already almost a quarter to 11 and he was still talking.
I spent the rest of mass wrangling Maeve. She was impossible. My theory that sitting closer to the front would help is proving to be a failure. But I fear that if I give up and sit in the back, none of my children will have an inkling about what's going on. I could take her back to the new cry-room of sorts, in the Utah Vestibule, but it's become a baby ghetto. It's chock full of toddlers running amok and parents chatting. Not what I had hoped. It has separated the children, putting the gates up. I won't go back there anymore, alas, because it wouldn't be at all like being in church. Too bad--it was perfect with the rocking chairs and quiet lighting. The gates seemed like a good plan to me but now, well, I'll just say that it's not for me anymore.
So I wrangle her in the pew and whisper sweet nothings into her ear. Like: If you can't sit still we will not go downstairs for a donut. Or, everyone can hear you when you speak out loud, you must whisper, you are 5 years old. I want to add stronger threats but she's got my number. She's just the kind of kid to yell things like "don't hit me again Mommy!" and that would be just perfect.
At the end of mass, we're standing in that lag time between the prayer after communion and dismissal, when announcements happen. Fr. Lawrence announces that he has 4 announcements and a blessing for Valentine's Day. And then a trumpet starts playing. Somewhere. It isn't the trumpet player standing next to Bev at the piano. I'm too far up front; I never see who did it. So Lawrence blesses us first, which is always awkward for me in a way that other blessings are not. I detest holidays that are simply self-congratulatory events, like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day and 4th of July. Yay, I have a good life--but not in a thanksgiving kind of way, you know? More like "yay I have a good life and you should praise me for it." But he blessed us and I never found out who the trumpeter was.
We walked out with Maeve throwing a silent tantrum because she didn't get to go down for a donut...just the start to a day of Maeve tantrums and fits and rages.
Maybe like that character in Flannery O'Connor, I need someone to bless me every damned day of my life.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
103/365 Children's Liturgy Moment
I wake up early enough on Sunday to check to be sure I'm not in charge of Children's Liturgy. I'm not. I've missed so many homilies the past two months. Please not today as well. But no, luck on my side, I get to sit at church and listen instead of do.
End of the opening prayer, Fr. Miguel invites children up to be dismissed for Children's Liturgy. There's Sr. Edith, standing up there with the lectionary. Lots and lots of kids come up. A huge number. They head back and I realize she's alone. I can't recall who her help was supposed to be, but she's not there. A mom is heading back with her 3 year old (maybe?)...there will be another adult. I catch Hildegard's eye. She shrugs, not knowing either.
The first reader is approaching the ambo. I should head back. I should go downstairs with Edith and all those kids. I should. But. I. Don't. Want. To. Mike is in the back with Leo and both my girls are downstairs and I have a moment. I can listen and be here.
I look back at Hildegard one more time and she kind of shoos me away with her hand. Don't go. I have permission. Or at least I have a similar opinion.
It strikes me as we stand for the gospel that this might be one of the Sundays the deacon is going to give the homily. In which case I should have taken one for the team and gone downstairs. I hold my breath. And it turns out just fine.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
117/365 Bev and Arizona
Our entrance song was half in Spanish, half in English.
Our communion song dealt with themes of basic Christian values and how we are Christ to each other.
By the end, as I was watering plants, I wondered, did these two choices have anything to do with the new Arizona law?
I asked Bev, our music director, who shook her head ruefully. "No, they were chosen long before that law was passed. So it must have been the Holy Spirit."
Must have.
Then she said the only good thing about the law? It makes our state seem not as bad for a change.
Posted by Bridgett at 7:31 AM 0 comments
Sunday, June 26, 2011
160/365 Utah Vesti-friggin-bule
The law of unintended consequences is at play here.
One thing, a minor thing, but still a thing that I always liked at our parish is that we didn't have a cry room. We didn't have a glass-walled piped-in-sound enclosure for mothers and infants to sit and sort of be a part of things. And because we didn't have that, babies were a part of our community just like everyone else. Yes, an unruly toddler would be taken to the back, and a crying baby would be handled out in the vestibules. But there was no assumption that children would be neither seen nor heard.
As time went by, though, and more children did appear in our church, the Utah Vestibule was set aside as a place for a mother to sit with a tired crying baby. A place for toddlers to look around for a moment as a distraction. Still a part of the community, still seen and heard, but a nice place, cleaner than before, without dangerous mechanical objects or giant statues or dead plants in the way.
Then a member of parish council made the suggestion that the room be made into an even more child-friendly space, with gates at the two doorways and a rug covering the tile floor. I saw this and thought, that is really smart. That way, a wriggling toddler could be placed on the floor a minute to walk around but not be able to run up the aisles and disturb everyone else. I thought it was so nice that we had this spot, not a cry room but still a place to go. It seemed brilliant.
But like all technical and scientific advances, there were unintended consequences. Through the winter and spring, it became a place for the choir to dump their children--with spouses or babysitters, but there were too many older kids. Kids brought toys and threw them around or fought over them. Cabinets got opened and the contents dumped. Food came and got ground into the rug. Children hung on the gates and squealed.
I began to notice more and more mothers of small babies, the ones who used to go back to that room and nurse or rock, were standing in back instead. I wouldn't go in with Leo unless it were empty. Fathers took their young toddlers out onto the front porch, or downstairs to the basement.
I walked in today, and there were four kids already there, before mass began. One was the wife of the parish council member. The other was the choir babysitter with two children of one of the choir members and one from another (the "babysitter" is actually the wife of one of the singers--not like a teenaged girl or something). Two of the kids, though, were 5, and had taken the furniture apart to build a fort.
I'm a teacher and am not afraid to call out errant children, even in front of their caretakers. This does not make me popular, but it keeps me sane. I told them they weren't doing the right thing, and I rearranged things so that this wasn't her playroom. They had brought lots of toys, and the babysitter explained to me that she had brought even more to leave here in the room for future children. So the floor resembled a sloppy daycare room and Leo proceeded to fight over a puzzle piece with one of the other toddlers. But that didn't bother me as much as the 9 year old who just walked in and started playing alongside the other school aged children, or the two boys who just showed up, with no parents, and started climbing on the gate.
I shooed them away, but they came back after I'd had enough. The family whose baby was baptized today showed up in back with their older child, and a few other children from their entourage. Adults sat around and chatted. There was no connection at all to being at mass. A traditional cry room with piped in sound would have been better. The kids reached critical mass, and I walked out with Leo to pace in back instead.
Gone was the distraction and in its place was a noisy mess. My father commented to me on his way out after mass that he probably could find a cheap swingset to stick in there if we wanted to. He had been sitting about 6 pews from the front and could hear it all the way up there.
When you create an attractive nuisance, children are drawn to it. Children weren't drawn to the Utah Vestibule before--it was a place to sit quietly for a moment before moving on to some other distraction. Now Maeve asks me why she can't "go back and play in the playroom" since she has age-peers sitting back there doing that very thing.
Maybe the families of some of those toddlers wouldn't feel welcome if we didn't have a cry room. That's what Astrid suggested to me. But maybe if the whole community realized that children are part of the Kingdom of God, we wouldn't feel like we had to be necessarily separate from the childless adults in the congregation. And maybe there's a way to make a room like that work--maybe limit it to toddlers and babies and their parents only. Maybe take away the gates, or the rug, or both. Make it less like a family room in your basement and more like church.
I walked up to Fr. Miguel after mass and expressed my annoyance. He put it back on me (fairly): how do we make the change, how do we educate or dictate or whatever needs to be done to make the place welcoming to parents of somewhat unruly children without creating a loud and obnoxious nuisance that draws in older children and parentless children to come play?
I'm thinking about it. I think taking the gates away would be a good start--as nice as they were when Leo was by himself or with one other child back there, they make the room an easy place to dump your kid and stand around and chat. Simply taking the gates away would make it far less attractive, and maybe make parents realize they need to do more with their kids at church than just bring a bunch of toys and let them jump on the furniture.
It's like free parking. Everybody likes free parking. Can't get enough of that free parking, and so there's never enough. But if you charge people to park, then some people will walk or ride a bike. If we build a room designed like a nursery that takes away all adult responsibility, tired parents are going to drop that responsibility like a hot potato. But the room pre-gates was never treated like that. You could nurse a baby back then without being disturbed. A parent and toddler might wander back for a minute to sit and look at a book, but parents had to be engaged because they were, essentially, paying for parking--it wasn't a free ride. Parents of seriously unruly children would have to take them outside or hold them in back like I had to with Leo today. Parents won't see those gates and think "I'll just let my kids wander back there and play."
Because this was, yikes, totally over the top. And I know the child-free amongst the congregation heard all that noise and were not impressed. Critical mass, like I said. We need a better way.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
187/365 The Unfinished Samaritan
Today's gospel was the Good Samaritan. As Fr. Miguel put it, it is pervasive in the linguistic environment. Everyone knows this parable: a man falls among thieves...lies dying by the side of the road. The Levite walks by. The priest walks by. The Samaritan doesn't walk by.
But instead of the usual homily, perhaps all the homilies I've heard on this, actually, discussing Samaria and the unclean nature of blood and the idea of neighbor, Miguel pointed out something I never noticed. The story is left with "tune in next week" and there's never a next week. It's like the last episode of Soap. Is Jessica killed by the firing squad? We don't know. We never learned the ending.
Ok, maybe not quite like the last episode of Soap. But Jesus leaves us hanging. The Samaritan, who has to go about the rest of his life, whatever he was setting out to do, leaves the man with the innkeeper, providing for his care until he returns. He promises reimbursement if expenses get out of hand. And then he leaves.
One thing before I go on--he leaves. The Samaritan doesn't derail his whole life, his family's life, his household's care, in order to be the martyr here. He doesn't take this man's life over and make his daughter marry him and be In Charge. He gets him past the brink of dying, knows he has other things he still has to do, and promises to return. I think this is a good lesson for all of caretaker types. Do what needs to be done but don't put yourself in the position of primary caregiver and neglect your own needs or those people who depend on you already. Especially don't do that if there is someone else to share the burden (even for pay like the innkeeper).
Miguel didn't dwell on that, though. He brought this around to the idea that life is a journey and there are many things and people we encounter. And we don't know the ending. We can't. We don't know if the Samaritan comes back. We don't know if the innkeeper cheats him. We don't know if the man fallen among thieves in the first place is a good guy or not. Is he thankful? Does he repay the Samaritan? Does he sneak away in the middle of the night?
I think Jesus leaves it open like that because it doesn't matter. What happens down the line, while interesting in retrospect, perhaps (how I came to be here kind of questions), doesn't have any bearing on the present. We live now. We have to act now. We can't fully follow Christ if we're worried about unintended consequences.
Posted by Bridgett at 11:19 AM 0 comments
188/365 BASIC after mass
After mass I turned to Sophia and told her she could go downstairs for a donut. And then found myself pulled into a conversation with Missy on my way to join her. I didn't know what my in-laws had planned and I thought they could figure that out and let me know. Missy has a way of making me engage her, even though every conversation takes effort.
It always has. If she wasn't a current parishioner I would have more things to say, funny insane things that Jessica and her sister have shared with me. But funny things about former parishioners can be amusing and kind of like a car wreck, but current parishioners fall into a different category. I don't want to stir our tidy little anthill. But just to say that Missy takes some overly polite handling.
We discussed books. I am shamefully not well-read in the areas of religion, politics, spirituality, and so forth these days. I have some Benedictine books on my list, and a ton of juvenile fiction of course, but I'm not reading, say, the most current biography of this or that political leader from the last century. I don't know much about the history of liberation theology or people closing down torture rooms in Myanmar. Or whatever (I'm just making this up). So I often find myself caught in a conversation with Missy that begins, "What are you reading?"
She is never very impressed with what I'm reading. She is one of the people in my life who fit into the "disappointed with Bridgett" category. Lots of people make assumptions about who I am based on a couple of encounters. It seems that my Jill of All Trades status confuses them. Perhaps I don't portray myself well. I tend to use camouflage to hide my secret identity. But I think some folks assume that because I share, say, their intense hatred of winter squash, or their love of magical realism, or a casual interest in matrix design, that I am just like them. Or that I would also share 99% of their other interests, hobbies, passions, and loves. Missy is one of these folks. She doesn't get me, and we don't see each other often so she doesn't have much of a chance to get me. We don't see each other often because she drives me crazy. And this becomes a cycle, like an old BASIC program:
10 INPUT "What are you reading these days?", R$
20 PRINT "I see."
30 PRINT "I don't know", R$
40 PRINT "I am reading the newest biography of liberation theologians who shut down torture rooms in Myanmar."
50 PRINT "Goodbye. I wish we could talk more."
60 GOTO 10
She recommended three books. She even spelled the last name of one of the authors. The author had a common noun as a last name. I told her those sounded like a plate full for the summer. She smiled, blinking at me. And then it was over.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
202/365 Going to mass all alone
So it's worth it, even if the 7:30 mass is kind of deadly. I find myself almost falling asleep at a couple of points, I'm just so overtired from my week. But I sit in my pew and don't wrestle anyone, don't shush anyone, don't walk out to the back to listen to the homily on one of the hearing-impaired listening devices while my child runs around on the front porch of church screaming with joy because he's not trapped in the pew.
After mass, Miguel asks me why I'm there. I explain, with the laundry to do and I'm there already and so forth, but he's right. I don't belong in 7:30. I'm a 10 o'clock girl, in more ways than one. Ten doesn't feel like an obligation the way 7:30 does.
But it was good yesterday because of the lack of distraction. And the guitar they've brought in for music is much better than the former arrangement of bad piano and bad organ and bad reedy soprano voices. To top it off, I knew all the songs, which never used to happen at the early mass. So I was pleasantly surprised that way, too.
Still, though, I'm back at 10 next week.
Posted by Bridgett at 8:22 AM 0 comments
Labels: Sunday
Sunday, May 22, 2011
208/365 Making Sense of Ecclesiastes
You know that old phrase that we've been saying probably since there were enough people speaking the same words: why do bad things happen to good people? Today's first reading at church was from Ecclesiastes. Vanity of vanities, all things are vanity. You work hard and crap happens to you anyway. Awful crap sometimes.
Ecclesiastes is a fascinating little book--most non-Catholics know it from the passage about a time for everything under the sun. A time to sow, a time to reap, a time for Crosby Stills and Nash to sing a song. From the introduction in the New American: Merit does not yield happiness for it is often tried by suffering. Riches and pleasures do not avail. Existence is monotonous, enjoyment fleeting and vain; darkness quickly follows. Life, then, is an enigma beyond human ability to solve.
But we all try to solve it. We all puzzle around things that happen, trying to make sense out of the suffering and loss around us, as well as what seems like ill-gotten gains by those we deem unworthy. We read into happenstance and coincidence and wonder at God's plan. At our best moments, we simply hope to understand someday and come to a peace with the unknowing.
This was all very poignant this morning at mass because Mike's aunt and uncle, Sheila and Bill, lost everything in a house fire yesterday. Everything is gone except the people who lived there--themselves, a son and daughter-in-law, and their 3 year old grandson--and their vehicles and whatever else they kept in the garage. Everything else burned up in a house fire so hot it was still burning 8 hours after the fire department arrived. By the time Sheila's brother saw it (he lives on the same property, in rural Illinois) and called 911, it was too hot to even get the dog out. All gone.
It will take them years, maybe decades, before they come up with a mental inventory of what they've lost. My mother-in-law keeps calling with updates and I can't even give her minimal responses like uh-huh because I'm sobbing on this end of the line.
This morning three parishes heard Ecclesiastes and the gospel parable about the wealthy man who tears down his barns to build bigger ones, and then took up a collection for Bill and Sheila. Three parishes because they share one pastor, and the boundaries between parishes are pretty fluid. Each of the three have relatives in attendance, friends, people who knew them from when. St. Catherine's, the parish they personally belong to, is a building about the size of my living and dining room. Seriously. Everyone there is related to you one way or another. After mass they gave Bill the collection and there was a lot of money--hundreds of dollars from one of the most impoverished counties in Illinois and one of the tiniest parishes I've ever known of. Bill said he had money in his pocket he didn't even know from where. Again, hundreds of dollars people just pressed into his palm when they saw him in the past 24 hours or so. Sheila said she hated taking from people, but really, when this happens, all people want to do is feed you and try to do something to ease the suffering. And it's not like they have a place to put donations that aren't cash, after all. Ma in Little House on the Prairie, as she cooks up the seed potatoes because they've been forced to move on from Indian territory, sighs and says there is no great loss without some small gain. Maybe that's so.
But they will--my father-in-law is a contractor, as is probably already known here--and he said once the insurance comes through, they could get a house up fast. Like a long weekend kind of fast. Mary Helen asked if we'd come down. My goodness I wouldn't miss that for anything.
The author of Ecclesiastes has something here, too:
If one falls, the other will life up his companion. Woe to the solitary man! For if he should fall, he has no one to lift him up. So also, if two sleep together, they keep each other warm. How can one alone keep warm? Where a lone man may be overcome, two together can resist. A three-ply cord is not easily broken. [Eccl 4:10-12]
Posted by Bridgett at 12:13 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
222/365 Mission Priest
"Hey there Laura," I wave in the grocery store parking lot.
"Hi Bridgett, what are your parents' names?"
I tell her and she nods, repeating them. "They sat behind us at church today."
"Yeah," I look up and away. "We skipped. Mission priests. I just can't do it."
She laughs at me. "It was long," she agrees.
Posted by Bridgett at 5:11 PM 0 comments
Labels: conversations, Sunday
Monday, May 2, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
265/365 Water and Wine
"Did you notice the new deacon getting things prepared at the altar?" I ask Mike as we set the table for dinner. He looks at me, not sure what I'm talking about. What I'm talking about is mixing water and wine. Why I'm thinking about it is because we're almost out of chocolate milk, so I'm mixing it with white.
"Yeah, he poured wine in all the cups, but only dripped water into the one." Our last deacon used to drip water into each cup; Fr. Miguel puts it in the pitcher before he pours out into different cups.
I never noticed this until Sr. Hildegard pointed it out. She would sigh and talk about good practice and bad practice and liturgy and say, "It's a ritual, not a recipe."
It stuck in my head. Now I watch every time. What is this or that priest going to do? And what is the correlation between good preaching and ritual vs. recipe.
I bet you can guess.
Posted by Bridgett at 6:55 PM 0 comments
Friday, April 8, 2011
277/365 The 10 Lepers
Thoughts on the story of the one thankful leper/story of the 10 lepers. You know the story: Jesus heals ten lepers. Tells them to go see the priests (go to the Temple) and show themselves to prove their cleanliness. They run off, but one, upon realizing he's been healed, returns to Jesus and thanks him. Jesus asks him, a Samaritan, why only one returned? But, having no answer, Jesus simply tells him his faith has saved him.
It's paired with the almost identical story of a healing of a Syrian named Naaman by Elisha. Naaman begs to give Elisha a sign of his thankfulness--but Elisha says no. He won't grow rich from the work of God. So, thwarted, Naaman instead asks Elisha for two mule-loads of earth so he can take it back home and worship God, the one true God, he realizes now.
Huh. He takes home dirt.
In the ancient world, gods were still tied to place (in fact, it's sometimes still true, with centers of religion in different parts of the world). Naaman felt that if he was to worship God the right way, he would need to do it in that place--and if he can't be in that place, he will take that place home with him. Which I guess is kind of like water from Lourdes or pieces of the "true cross." Pilgrimages. Those sorts of activities and desires to be in a certain place to be closer to God. So Naaman goes home with some of the place that belongs to God, and I don't know anything else about Naaman.
So then in the Gospel, there are some more lepers. Jesus sends them, again, to a specific place to be readmitted into the community. One, however, returns, and gives thanks to God at Jesus' feet. The word in Greek is the same as the word for Eucharist. Thanks reserved only for God. Jesus does not correct him as Elisha did for Naaman. And the Samaritan has come to realize that place doesn't matter: the person of Christ does.
Posted by Bridgett at 6:57 PM 0 comments


