Month: September 2019

REFLECTION FOR THE 26^TH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME, YEAR C

The readings of this week build on those of last week. Who is the God we adore? Do we adore the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Lazarus the beggar? Or, do we adore the god of wealth and greed, or Mammon, the name Jesus gave the god last week? Who we adore will be evidenced in the way we love our neighbor.

This week we are presented with a very familiar parable of Jesus from the Gospel of Luke. It is the parable of the rich man and the beggar Lazarus. The story compares the rich man who ate well, dressed well, and had all the luxuries that life offers. Outside the door was the beggar, Lazarus, covered in sores and starving to death. Jesus points out in the story that the rich man’s dogs ate better than the beggar outside his door. For his part, the rich man had no compassion for Lazarus, nor aided the beggar in any way. The one thing in which the rich man and Lazarus shared was they died at the same time. Lazarus went to heaven, and the rich man to Hell. Though Lazarus wanted to alleviate the suffering of the rich man, he was prevented from doing so by the great divide between heaven and hell. The rich man pleaded with Abraham to forewarn his family to live better lives than he, lest they, too, be as tormented for eternity as he. Abraham responds, “If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead.”

It is presumed in the parable that the rich man fulfilled all the ritual demands of his Judaism. He observed the outward sign of his religion by going to synagogue on the Sabbath, honoring the rituals and food laws of his religion. All this did not spare him from eternal damnation because he did not love and care for his neighbor. As we examine our own lives, are we guilty of the same. We come to Mass on Sunday, we pray our prayers. To the outside observer we demonstrate our Catholicism. However, if we ignore the needs of the poor and those most in need, we will find ourselves in the same unpleasant place as the rich man in the parable.

Our worship of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is only validated in the way we serve and love our neighbor. Jesus makes this very clear in the Great Commandment. But it is also something that is emphasized by the Paul and James.

In his first letter to the Corinthians (11:17-22), Paul condemns the Corinthian community for the sin of the rich man in the parable for today. They are ignoring the needs of the poor within their own community. “In giving this instruction, I do not praise the fact that your meetings are doing more harm than good. First of all, I hear that when you meet as a church there are divisions among you, and to a degree I believe it; there have to be factions among you in order that (also) those who are approved among you may become known. When you meet in one place, then, it is not to eat the Lord’s supper, for in eating, each one goes ahead with his own supper, and one goes hungry while another gets drunk. Do you not have houses in which you can eat and drink? Or do you show contempt for the church of God and make those who have nothing feel ashamed? What can I say to you? Shall I praise you? In this matter I do not praise you.” Paul continues that this behavior robs the words of consecration of their validity. Those guilty of this eat and drink their own damnation.

James emphasizes this all the more in his letter. He writes (2:1-8), “My brothers, show no partiality as you adhere to the faith in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ. For if a man with gold rings on his fingers and in fine clothes comes into your assembly, and a poor person in shabby clothes also comes in, and you pay attention to the one wearing the fine clothes and say, “Sit here, please,” while you say to the poor one, “Stand there,” or “Sit at my feet,” have you not made distinctions among yourselves and become judges with evil designs? Listen, my beloved brothers. Did not God choose those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom that he promised to those who love him? But you dishonored the poor person … However, if you fulfill the royal law according to the scripture, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” you are doing well.”

James warns his community to not follow the example of the rich man in the parable. (James 5:1-5)  “Come now, you rich, weep and wail over your impending miseries. Your wealth has rotted away, your clothes have become moth-eaten, your gold and silver have corroded, and that corrosion will be a testimony against you; it will devour your flesh like a fire. You have stored up treasure for the last days. Behold, the wages you withheld from the workers who harvested your fields are crying aloud, and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts. You have lived on earth in luxury and pleasure; you have fattened your hearts for the day of slaughter.”

Then James tells the community that if they truly believe, their faith will be proven in the way they minister to those in need, their neighbor. “What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and has no food for the day, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, keep warm, and eat well,” but you do not give them the necessities of the body, what good is it? So also faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead. Indeed someone may say, “You have faith and I have works.” Demonstrate your faith to me without works, and I will demonstrate my faith to you from my works.” (James 2:14-18)

Last but not least, Mary, the Mother of Jesus, speaks the same message in her great Canticle of praise, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my savior. For he has looked upon his handmaid’s lowliness; behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed. The Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is from age to age to those who fear him. He has shown might with his arm, dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart. He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly. The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped Israel his servant, remembering his mercy, according to his promise to our fathers, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.” (Luke 1:46-55)

This message of Jesus, the prophets, the apostles, Paul and James, are pertinent to those of us who call ourselves disciples of Jesus. This is especially so when the message that is preached by our culture and some of our politicians is one in which the individual self is glorified to the detriment of the poor in our nation and on our borders. It is not enough to just say our prayers and go to Mass on Sunday. To say we worship God and ignore the needs of the poor, then, as James states clearly, our faith is dead and worthless. Our faith and our works must match, otherwise we are nothing more than a “noisy gong and a clashing cymbal”. (1 Cor. 1:13).

Is the religion in which we believe all words and no works? If it is, then we may suffer the same fate as the rich man in the parable today. To paraphrase the words of Abraham to the rich man at the end of the parable; if we will not listen to Moses and the prophets, and, I might add, Jesus, Paul, and James, then neither will we be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead. We have been forewarned.

It was this past Wednesday, September 25th, that Ruthie turned to me and said, “Yesterday was your 25th ordination anniversary.” I looked at the calendar and realized I had forgotten that day. Usually, milestone anniversaries don’t get overlooked. I suppose three surgeries in a time span of 12 weeks has a way of refocusing one’s attention.

A lot of time has passed since that momentous day. I have changed in so many ways. I remarked in a note to a friend that at the time of my ordination, I thought I had a good idea of what I was getting myself into having already worked 17 years for the Church and knowing all the grace and goodness of the Church and all the shitty part of the Church as a human institution. Of course, I hadn’t a clue. As in all things of life, were we to know all the good and bad of every life changing decision we make, e.g. working in a new job, moving to a new community, getting into a relationship, we would probably never make any decision or change at all. I can honestly say, knowing what I do know today, I would still seek to be ordained a deacon.

It has been an incredible adventure in faith. Were I not ordained as a deacon I would never have had the opportunity to grow in my faith and meet so many people of great faith. I would never have gotten to know the tremendous faith, courage, and friendship of the many Latinos I have come to know. I would never have been moved by the lives and faith of those in the LGBTQ community, the homeless, the disenfranchised, the ex-offenders, and so many wonderful people who changed my life utterly. I would never have learned how to cope with my own limitations and my own health crises were it not ministering to so many people challenged by health, by grief, and so many other challenges. These people ministered to me more than I ministered to them. The presence of God in their lives have illuminated for me that same presence of God in my own life.

Getting into diaconal formation took approximately a year. Ruth and I went through the application process twice. After many interviews, 8 hours of psychological tests with an in depth follow up with a psychiatrist, we came to our last interview with the selection team. On our drive up to the interview, Ruthie told me in the car that she wasn’t ready for me to start diaconal formation. I always respect everything about Ruth and I said, we will take ourselves out of formation. Upon meeting with the selection team, I told them that Ruth wasn’t ready for this commitment and I withdrew my application. They told me to wait and reapply. A couple of years later, Ruth was ready and we did most of the application process all over again and we were accepted into the program.

We met with our selection team twice a year. I remember the team asking Ruth whether she was okay with me becoming a deacon. She replied, “He is already doing diaconal work. Nothing is going to change much for the family and I.” Truth be told, Ruth is better qualified to be a deacon than I.

After three years of many classes, retreats, many nights away from family, the time for ordination arrived. It was the summer of 1994 when Ruth and I went with the rest of the class to meet with Archbishop Roach. It was then we signed all the papers that would connect our lives with the Catholic Church in ways we never thought possible. I remember when it came to signing the paper stating that should our wives die, we would remain single and celibate the rest of our lives. With the exception of the one bachelor in our class, John Mangan, all pens paused as we consider the commitment we were making. With our wives standing behind us, their right hand on our right shoulders, our pens descended and we sighed and then we signed.

The Thursday and Friday before our ordination (our ordination was on Saturday, September 24, at 10 am), our diaconal class gathered at the Mary Hill house (mansion) on University Avenue for our ordination retreat. Bishop Larry Welsh was our retreat master. It was a powerful time for Ruthie and I, and I believe all of our class. Bishop Welsh told us of his own spiritual journey. How is own alcoholism led him into behaviors he would never have done sober, and how it nearly ended his ministry as a bishop. Having resigned as bishop of Spokane, he began his recovery living at the Basilica in Minneapolis, working at Branch 3 of Catholic Charities ministering to the homeless, and just being with people, none of whom knew he was a bishop. On Easter, the rector of the Basilica asked Welsh to preside as bishop at one of the Easter liturgies. As he walked in procession in vestments, miter and crosier, one of his homeless buddies shouted to him, “Larry! I didn’t know you worked here!” Bishop Welsh taught me that our sinfulness can be a path to greater growth and strength as people of faith. Larry Welsh was a very humble man, and was a tremendous help to me as I began my ministry as a deacon. The other thing that both Ruth and I took away from the retreat was a great love for tomato basil soup. The chef that was hired made a tremendous tomato basil soup and though everyone begged for his recipe, we had to get use to the disappointment of not getting his recipe.

I was as nervous and excited the day of my ordination as I was the day of my wedding to Ruth. The day was cool and cloudy. Getting to the Cathedral was a bit of hassle. President Clinton was in town and some of the major thoroughfares to the Cathedral were blocked by the Secret Service and police because of the President’s motorcade.

I have often said that getting ordained was similar to getting married, only this time I was wearing the long white dress. Many of those ordained with me were wearing knee pads having been warned that the hard marble floor of the Cathedral sanctuary was hard on the knees. Of the Mass, I remember kneeling on that hard marble floor. Laying prostrate on the floor as the prayers were prayed by the Archbishop over my class and I. I remember getting up, kneeling before the Archbishop and placing my folded hands within his, promising him my obedience to him and his successors. And, then, the moment (pictured above) when he placed his hands on either side of my head, and prayed the prayers of ordination, ordaining me a deacon. After the ordination ritual, we rejoined our wives, now as ordained deacons and worshipped with them for the rest of the Mass.

I had composed a special hymn for the ordination Mass, dedicated to Trish Flannigan. Trish, administrative secretary to the diaconate and diaconal formation of the Archdiocese was a de facto member of my ordination class and to this day remains a good, dear friend and a part of my diaconal family. The hymn (heard above as it was heard at the Cathedral that day) is a sung Trinitarian prayer, asking God to bless us in our ministry to those God is sending us to serve. In 2018, I decided to reimagine the same hymn as music for solo piano. There is the piano version of the same hymn.

The homeless guy that nearly drained the communion cup (Deacons are liturgically the minister of the Blood of Christ at Mass), the wonderful reception held for me at St Hubert by choir members, friends, and staff, following the ordination Mass, and my first Mass as an ordained deacon at St Hubert will remain in memory to the time I die.

While I can speak only from my own experience, initially it is easy to get caught up in the liturgical role as a deacon. I have served as a deacon at many Archdiocesan Liturgies (confirmations, ordinations, Chrism Mass and so on), and of course, at many Masses on the parish level. I have baptized many babies, and witnessed many marriages. I have presided over many wakes and funerals. But truth be told, to be ordained to put on a long white dress and wear a diagonal stole is not what it means to be a deacon. It is just a small part of a more important ministry.

Being a deacon is going into places where priests may not often be welcome. It is going to places where others may feel uncomfortable. It is sometimes being a religious target for those who are angry at God, religion, and the Church. It is often ministering to people at the lowest times in their lives, when they are hurting the most. Helping women and children out of dangerous domestic violence situations. It is often just being a quiet listener as folks pour out their lives to you. It is being in the most sacred place of all, that interior place where a person encounters the God who created him/her. There are those intimate secrets that people will reveal to you that they will not even reveal to their spouse. Being a deacon is clothing yourself in the social justice doctrine of the Catholic Church, being a thorn in the side of those who are unjust, including civil authorities (and Church authorities) and speaking out publicly to the injustices perpetuated by others, even when it is not popular. It is the reporting of physical, sexual abuse of minors by family, clergy, to the authorities (I have done both over 25 years). It is long hours, being on call 24/7, hours away from family on Christmas, Easter, and other major times in a life of a family.

Being a deacon is about often being and feeling ignored, unsupported, and forgotten by the Chancery (not always a bad thing, mind you). It means sometimes being rejected by people you serve (especially those whose faith life is stuck in a pre-Vatican II Church). It means not receiving much in the way of affirmation. It means doing your ministry and not being recognized for the ministry you do because most of it is not public and behind the scenes.

What a deacon is not, is getting sucked into the superiority, demi-god mindset of clericalism. It is not about wearing a Roman Collar and getting the high places at the table or a celebration. If a deacon gets all caught up in the smells and bells of liturgy, and the glory that clericalism demands, then the deacon is worthless.

Why on earth would anyone want to be a deacon, if the life of a deacon is challenging and has it own level of negativity? I remember all this being presented to Ruth and I by our selection team when we were in formation. The selection team didn’t mince words. They basically told us that the life of a deacon is hard, often without much reward publicly, often without much support from chancery, sometimes abuse by those you serve and so on. The team always ended with the question, “Knowing this why on earth do you still want to be ordained a deacon?”

This is a good question. Why on earth do I want to be a deacon? Am I a masochist in some S & M relationship with the Catholic Church? No. It is hard to put into words.

To answer the question, I felt called to be a deacon by God. Not some crazy Michele Bachmann thing where she believed God spoke to her to be a member of the House of Representatives or to run for the presidency. God did not speak to me in a specific way. Rather, it is knowing deep inside me that I was being called to something different. I knew this even as a young adolescent. I went on a retreat and knew that I wasn’t called to the priesthood. Besides, I REALLY like girls, and looking at Ruthie, you can understand my great attraction to her.

It was that same feeling I had when I knew that I wanted to marry Ruthie. I just knew. I knew that I was being called to something more and could not get rid of that feeling even when I wanted not to be bothered by it or tried to ignore it. I felt called to something deeper. Then, the diaconate was restored to a permanent ordained order in the Church. Having discovered this, I just knew that it was to the diaconate to which God was calling me. Like I said earlier, I had a good idea of how the Church as a human institution, uses, abuses and casts off people who serve the Church, just like any business or human institution. Yet I still felt called to serve this institution we call the Church.

It is all couched in mystery. It is in that realm of God, when ones journey is dictated by a dream (a la the prophet Daniel, or Joseph, spouse of Mary, the mother of God), by an angel (a la Gabriel and Mary). You just know and cannot explain it. It dogs you everywhere you go. You can’t escape it. You just know.

Secondly, the deacon embodies Christ as Servant. We are joined to Christ, the Suffering Servant of Isaiah. The suffering, the rejection, etc of Jesus is that depicted of Isaiah’s account of the Suffering Servant. Accolades, affirmation, and places of honor are not meant to be the path of those who are called to be servants either of God or human manors. As Jesus said in the Gospel, you are just being a good servant. You are just doing that which you have been called to do. Nothing more. Expect nothing more.

At the same time, Jesus will say, well done good and faithful servant. Receive the reward awaiting you. It is this becoming one with Jesus, The Servant of God, that makes the diaconal ministry so powerful, and helps when you get shit on sometimes by the institutional Church and those you may be called to serve. It is this powerful “oneing” with Jesus, to use the term of Julian of Norwich, that sustains the deacon during the lowest times of ministry and offers hope.

I remember coming home from St Hubert, the Sunday following my ordination. Ruthie plopped on the couch in the living room. She looked at me and asked, “Being a deacon mean being a servant, right?” I replied, “Yes.”. She then said quietly, “Good. Serve me.” If only I served her as much as she has served me. If only I served her as much as I served those assigned to me as a deacon. Now that I am retired, perhaps, I can begin to serve her in the manner she deserves.

REFLECTION FOR THE 25^TH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME, YEAR C

I find it interesting that on United States money we imprint the words, “In God We Trust”. Giving the surface upon which it is printed, I find the words almost an oxymoron. In the history of our nation, it has been proven that for many in our nation, it is not God in whom we trust, it is the money upon which the words are printed. So I ask, in whom do we place our trust? God or money?

In the reading from Amos (Amos 8:4-7*), we hear the prophet condemning the wealthy of his time who place more trust in their wealth than in the God who created them. In fact, their religious rituals are nothing more than rituals devoid of all spirituality. The words spoken in their rituals are empty. They wait impatiently for the Sabbath to end so that they can abuse and cheat the poor. “We will buy the lowly for silver, and the poor for a pair of sandals; even the refuse of the wheat we will sell!” Their greed is so abominable that God responds with these words, “The LORD has sworn by the pride of Jacob: “Never will I forget a thing they have done!”

In Paul’s 1^st letter to Timothy, we hear Paul asking Christians to pray for those in government so that all people may live in peace. Then He follows that up by stating very clearly that there is only one who is Lord of heaven and earth, whose power overshadows those of earthly leaders. That one is Jesus Christ.

In the Gospel, Jesus addresses clearly that the greatest false god that humans worship is wealth/greed. Jesus challenges his followers that they must make a clear choice as to whom they will serve. Will they serve God, or will they serve wealth/greed? They cannot serve both.

Every time we turn on the news, we are presented with those who serve God and those who serve wealth and greed. Both God and wealth/greed are served equally by those appointed and elected in our government. We see the horrendous impact of wealth and greed in the policies of our government. The denial of climate change, the systemic deregulation of that which protects our environment, benefits economically the interests of the petroleum, natural gas, and coal industries. The deregulation of our financial institutions benefit only the wealthy and greedy and cheat and bankrupt all others. The defunding of the safety nets that protect the poor, the elderly, and the unemployed of our nation, for example, the defunding of food stamps, programs like Head Start, unemployment, the assault on the Affordable Healthcare Act, Medicare, Medicaid, on Social Security, benefit the big pharmaceutical and insurance companies. This is just a sampling of the choice of wealth/greed being served in our government.

If we begin to examine the policies of many of the conglomerates of our nation and the world, wealth/greed is overwhelmingly the god that is most greatly served. God’s words we hear in the first reading from the prophet Amos are very pointed. “Never will I forget a thing they have done!”

It is easy to blame all the woes of our world on the wealthy and greedy that serve in world governments and world conglomerates and industries. However, to quote the great philosopher, Pogo, “We have met the enemy and he is us!” It is necessary to examine how we might be as guilty as the wealthy and greedy, albeit in lesser ways, of the same idolatry.

On a personal level, it boils down to whether we adopt a lifestyle that models that of Jesus, who came to serve God and those most in need, or whether we adopt a model of life that serves our own self-interests only. Are our lives governed by the Great Commandment of Jesus to love God with all our minds, strength, and hearts? Or are our lives governed by Original Sin, best described by Norm Peterson from the television comedy, Cheers, as, “It’s a dog eat dog world and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”?

We have to reflect on that which motivates us to do the things we do. Do we hoard what we have, or are we willing to share from our abundance with those who are in need? Do we hoard use the gifts that God has given us to benefit only ourselves? Or, do we use our God given gifts to benefit others? Is everything in our lives defined by the question of “What’s in it for me?” Or, our lives defined by the question, “What’s best for all concerned?” These questions begin to define whether we live idolatrous lives worshipping wealth/greed, or whether we worship the one, true God.

In my ministry to the Latino community, I remember one family who was experiencing some car trouble. I asked my friend whether he needed some assistance. He said no. There was a Latino mechanic that lived in the same building who fixed the car. When I asked my friend how much it cost, he told me that the mechanic fixed it for nothing. Then, taking down a framed picture from the wall, my friend took $40 that was taped to the back of the picture and said, “You can’t eat nothing.” And, then gave the money to the mechanic. This is how we live lives that worship God.

In whom do we trust? God or money? We can’t do both.

REFLECTION FOR THE 24^TH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME, YEAR C

Throughout sacred scripture, God’s unilateral mercy and compassion are on display for us. The Sodom and Gomorrah stories are few and far between. From the moment that God cut a covenant with Abram, God reaching out to Israel through the prophets, to the Incarnation of Jesus, God’s relationship with humanity is less about fire and brimstone, and abundantly more about God’s love, mercy, and compassion. We hear so often that God loved humanity so much that God’s only Son was sent to redeem us. The Lord’s Prayer is all about God’s unlimited love and compassion.

The only ceiling that God’s mercy and compassion has for us is determined by us. Jesus tells us that the love and mercy we give to others will be the standard by which God’s love and mercy will be given us. This is very important. In the judgment of the nations (Mt 25:31-44), Jesus graphically describes what eternity will be like for those whose love, mercy, and compassion is like that of Christ’s and whose love, mercy, and compassion is contrary to that of Christ’s.

Our starting point is that of the apostle Paul in his 1^st letter to Timothy. He writes, “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. Of these I am the foremost. But for that reason I was mercifully treated,
so that in me, as the foremost, Christ Jesus might display all his patience as an example for those who would come to believe in him for everlasting life. (1 Tim 1:15b-16)

If we are to receive the fulness of God’s love, mercy, and compassion, we must not be blind to our own sinfulness. We, like Paul, must acknowledge it and own it. One of the greatest gifts of married life with my bride, Ruthie, is her ability to affirm me for being loving and to address me at those times when I am unloving. She keeps me honest and grounded in my humanity.

There will always be those for whom we have absolutely no sympathy, much less want to extend our love, mercy and compassion. Oh, how much we may want God’s wrath blaze and consume them, as described in the first reading. Think of how the early Christian community regarded Paul who was implicated in the murder of the deacon, Stephen, and countless other Christians. Do you not think they might have harbored feelings of resentment and even hatred toward Paul? Yet, God called them to forgive Paul, and he, in turn, became a mighty champion of the Christian faith.

I am no different than anyone. There are those toward whom I feel great resentment for wrongs committed against me. Yet, in spite of all this, I, as a disciple of Jesus, have to acknowledge that Jesus loves them as much as Jesus loves me. They might be the lost sheep after whom Jesus leaves his flock to recover, and over whose repentance all the angels will rejoice.

It may irk me that as much as they might repulse me, and I might generate enough ill will that I would wish them to account for their sins in eternal darkness, Jesus thinks otherwise. Am I as able as Jesus to forgive all the harm they may have caused me? I don’t know. I hope so, for it is what Jesus is calling me to do (though I may vomit a little in my mouth as I am doing so … alas, I am still human).

The scriptures make it clear to us that if we are ever to heal from the injustices and harm others have caused us, that healing can come only by forgiveness. Those who have witnessed the execution of those who murdered a love one will attest that the satisfaction the death of the murderer provided is at best temporary and heals nothing. In the end, vengeance only consumes our lives and makes us bitter. True healing is only found by walking a path of forgiveness. Jesus commands us to love one another and pray for those who persecute us. To love as Jesus loved requires us also to forgive one another as Jesus forgives us.

TIME TRAVEL: BERNSTEIN’S MASS*

I sit in my time machine
and dial my tablet to 1971,
Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts,
and take my seat in the vast theater.
With great anticipation I await
with Jacqueline Kennedy Onaissis
the great work of musical theater
she commissioned Leonard Bernstein
to compose, a living musical
memorial to her late husband,
MASS: A Theater Piece For
Singers, Players and Dancers.

This is no Mass of my memory,
Missa Solemnis, Mass in B Minor,
nor anything that would ever
spill from mind to quill to paper
by Mozart, Schubert, or Palestrina.
A formal choir, a street choir,
a boy’s choir, dancers, rock musicians,
assemble on stage, two orchestras,
one on stage, the other in the pit,
cavalcade of motion, bright colors,
tonal colors, a brilliant and messy
litter of musical styles: chant, rock,
classical consonance, Jazz, blues,
atonal dissonance and electronic.
I ponder what I am witnessing:
prayerful profanity? Sacred sacrilege?
Thrilled, stunned, captivated, repulsed?
No, no this is no Mass of my memory.

Built upon the musical block of
the old Latin stoic, emotionless
Proper of the Tridentine Rite,
juxtaposed with English language
tropes, probing, questioning,
doubting, condemning blind faith.
Music shaping stoic belief
with life influenced disbelief.
The celebrant’s desperate attempt
to move, persuade, instill faith
into an atmosphere of escalating cynicism.
Sung rebuffs of “Where is God” –
in mass genocide, in terminal
and chronic illnesses, in the
torture chambers of dictators,
the families of the disappeared,
in poverty stricken ghettos,
in the racism of Jim Crow,
in cultures of excess?

The doubt and disbelief crescendos,
in a cynical circle dance to Agnus Dei’s
Dona Nobis Pacem, “Grant us Peace,”
the singers dance, the dancers sing,
a whirl of accusation against a God
who promises peace but in whom
none find peace. A chaotic peace,
chaotic demands for peace
assail and tear at the celebrant,
his soul as ripped as his vestments,
holding the sacred species,
as a shield to ward off
in desperation the sonic assault
of anger and disbelief.
In frustration and defeat,
chalice and monstrance cast
to the floor, shattering, spilling,
broken shards of Christ’s body,
mixed with that of his own.

How well have I experienced
my own soul shattered,
my spirit’s blood spilled
by the people I served,
by the Church I served,
used, abused, and abandoned.
How many times have I raised
my arms to the heavens
and cried, “Dona Nobis Pacem!”
Then,
nothingness.
Silence.
Gathering the shards
of my broken self,
carefully, trepidatiously,
fit them together, and
like the broken celebrant,
hand grasped by an innocent,
return to ministry,
parting with my abusers,
with an empty “Pax Vobiscum”.

My time machine whisks me back,
no longer in my theater seat,
but my red chair at home.
Incredulity and condemnation,
cheers and jeers, praise and
admiration echoes from the
now distant past premier.
I bask in its sacred acrimony,
uncanny its wondrous prophecy.
The Church more chaotic peace,
than Dona Nobis Pacem.
The ordained offspring of
John Paul and Benedict,
clericalism parading about
sanctuaries, a sanctimonious
La Cage aux Folles. Demigods
adorned in gold lamay,
evoking Latin as it were magic,
their backs to the people,
their magician arms waving
about trying to return
to a time when priests
were thought demigods,
stripped of all humanity,
though well we know
by the lives shattered
by their sexual sins of the past,
their broken human nature.
Present day demigods
seek peace built upon
a false past. Their
Pax Vobiscum as
empty as their
mythological memory
of what was once.

What truth is gleaned
by Bernstein’s Mass?
It was composed by
a broken composer
for the broken widow
shattered by the deaths
of her assassinated husband,
her assassinated brother-in-law,
and a nation broken
by war, prejudice and violence.
God’s Dona Nobis Pacem
is not the domain of those
who are whole,
but on the fingertips
of our broken fingers.

(c) 2019, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

*As quickly as it was recorded, I bought a copy of Leonard Bernstein’s Mass in 1971. The family record player was in the finished basement of my parent’s home and I spent a countless amount of time listening to music there. I must have worn out that double LP set of the Mass. It was so out of the realm I knew as sacred music. It was sacred and profane at the same time. It was disturbing, musically transporting, captivating, and wonderfully corrupted by modern musical idioms. I have listened to it now and again over the years, but after forty-two years of church ministry have had the freedom to REALLY listen to it again, with a reflection on my experience juxtaposed with that of the celebrant.

My chair,
at times over
the past twelve weeks
my prison cell.
Seven weeks more
before my sentence
is completed.
But today,
my chair is going to be
my time machine.

Not flashy and gaudy,
with a Christmas display
of flashing, colorful lights,
nor as threatening as that
celebrated machine of H.G. Wells.

I sit in my time machine.
With headphones and
tablet, I am able to
travel to Vienna to hear
Mozart and Beethoven,
to be in the audience
with the screaming horde
witnessing the Beatle’s
first appearance at
the Ed Sullivan Theater.

Perhaps I will sit
in the historic Carnegie Hall,
for the 1938 Jazz Concert
with Benny Goodman, Lionel
Hampton, Gene Krupa,
Harry James and Teddy Wilson,
hearing in person, “Sing, Sing, Sing”
and, “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon”.

Or shall I travel to the Civil War
battlefields of Stephen Crane,
to Guadacanal, or Iwo Jima,
to Ireland and William Butler Yeats
speaking his magical words?

Shall I travel inter-dimensionally
to Asimov’s Foundation, or
Frank Herbert’s Dune, and
the future worlds of Heinlein,
with a detour to Tolkein’s
Middle Earth, dodging orcs
and spending a day with
Tom Bombadil and Goldberry?

The gift of time and
Inter-dimensional travel.
Where shall I travel today?

© 2019, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

Were I to be as kind
as my father,
who saw God’s face
equally in the rich
and the poor alike;
Whose honesty was
impeccable, whose
integrity could never
be challenged, who
worked always for
the greater good;
Whose wisdom was
greater than Solomon’s;
Whose compassion and
love defined his every
action and word.

Were I to be as kind
as my mother,
who had such great
trust in God,
in whom her twelve year old self
found comfort and love
at the deaths of her mother and sister;
Who taught in the ghetto
schools of Pittsburg,
Whose knowledge never
inflated her ego but
compelled her to serve
others in love,
Who centered all on her
husband and family,
Who invited the friendless
to her family’s table at home,
And took them in as her own;
Who continued to comfort
those lost and forgotten
even at times she felt lost;
Whose compassion and
love defined her every
action and word.

Yet, I am not my
father and my mother.
I am not their identical clone.
They loved me and taught me,
fed me and shaped me,
then let me go out on my own.
I must choose to be honest
as my father, to see
God’s image in every face,
to place great value in personal integrity,
and to work for the greater good.
I must seek God’s wisdom in all things,
and, like my mother, trust God
in all of life’s tragedies and joys,
To seek out God in the poor,
give all to my family,
and, welcome the friendless
around my family’s table at home.
I must choose to comfort
the lost and forgotten,
even at times I feel lost,
to choose to allow compassion
and love to define my every
action and word.

(c) 2019, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

*I have been thinking of my mom and dad a lot, the last couple of months. I have thought often of the lives they led. In spite of the great adversities they experienced personally, the deaths of parents and siblings, the Great Depression, poverty, a World War, religious discrimination etc, they never allowed their adversities to color their lives negatively. Rather, it seems the adversities compelled them to define their lives in a positive way, to make a better world than the one in which they grew as children.

We often hear such sayings like “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” While children may choose to adopt the values and attributes of their parents, the truth remains that many children also choose to do otherwise. In the end, we are not clones of our parents. It is always a matter of choice. In the end, it is for us to choose the direction of our lives and how we respond to the tragedies and joys. I far prefer to be remembered in the way others remember mom and dad, people whose compassion and love defined their words and their actions.

You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?*

For those who have followed my blog via Facebook (though Facebook is making this increasingly difficult), this has been a very difficult Summer. A broken ankle, three surgeries on that ankle, the most recent on September 6^th, and another projected 7 weeks of healing, and watching my favorite season, Summer, pass by my window as I sit in my chair, has been an experience of varying degrees of frustration. There are times I sit here stewing in my lack of independence.

Ruthie, my loving bride of almost 45 years, has been remarkable, helping me in a myriad amount of ways, from fetching medication, food, water, emptying urinals, helping me bathe and more. My gratitude for all the love I have experienced from Ruth, family, and friends has far out-weighed the pain and inconvenience this injury has caused me.

Ruthie likes to have a lot of background noise around her, hence, her favorite cable news station is on quite a bit (thankfully not the mindless dribble of Fox Cable News). Every now and again, there is a respite from Cable News with sojourns into HGTV and DYI TV. One can only see the same old episodes of Chip and JoJo Gaines (Fixer Upper), ugly Americans, spoiled by opulence, trying to assimilate to life in other world nations (House Hunters International), or Tarek and Christina play out the real life drama of their broken marriage while flipping houses in Orange County, California (Flip or Flop) so many times before going brain dead. Cable television is not quite the panacea of entertainment we would like to think it is. HBO keeps on playing the same films, most of them either depressing, sophomoric, or uninteresting.

Into this bog of intellectual, moral, and mindless decay (reminiscent of the dead marshes that Frodo, Samwise, and Gollum cross getting to Mordor, Lord of the Rings), is the corruption, the crimes, the racism, and the crimes against humanity being perpetrated upon our nation and the world by donald trump and his administration. And, anyone with any brains and common sense knows that it is only going to get worse as we get closer to national election of 2020. I feel like taking out my old Cold War comedy records with Tom Lehrer singing his song, “So long, mom. I’m off to drop the bomb, so don’t wait up for me.” (Note: At the height of the Cuban Missile Crises, Lehrer believed that we wouldn’t have time to have a popular “war” song, as we had had for all the “other wars” because all the earth would be obliterated in one gigantic nuclear flash. So, he decided to create one.)

As I was praying morning prayer today, I came upon this passage from the first reading for Mass.

“So, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, walk in him, rooted in him and built upon him and established in the faith as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving. See to it that no one captivates you with an empty, seductive philosophy according to human tradition, according to the elemental powers of the world and not according to Christ. For in him dwells the whole fullness of the deity bodily, and you share in this fullness in him, who is the head of every principality and power.” (Col 2:6-8 NAB)

As my lengthy introduction to this verse demonstrates, all that is on television is for the most part an “empty, seductive philosophy according to human tradition.” It is amazing how easily we, as human beings, get sucked into the mindless world of television; the equally empty, mindless, empty, racist world of donald trump and those sucking up to him for political favors, and, theatrical works being past off as “art” on HBO.  It all comes up empty, especially when we have to confront the horror of all the mass shootings in the United States, the human and physical devastation of global warming with Hurricane Dorian, and the plight of immigrants throughout the world fleeing the poverty and violence of their homelands.

Perhaps we flee into these worlds as a way of escaping the vapidness of our own existence. Perhaps, we seek to escape the horror of human violence around us. Is it any wonder that people seek escape in the myriad amount of drugs? While much of the blame for the current opiod epidemic is rightly placed on the criminal behavior on Big Pharma, it is very tempting to reach for a couple of 5 mg oxycodone tablets. However, the 60’s taught us that Timothy Leary’s axiom, “Turn on, tune in, drop out,” accomplishes only self-destruction. The drug and alcohol culture is just a vast seductive wasteland of empty human philosophy littered with human self-destruction.

You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you say, “What’s mine?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone?”

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

It was really driven home last night as Ruthie and I were watching HGTV’s “A Very Brady Renovation”, as a stable of HGTV’s favorite fixer-up celebrities, along with the original cast of the Brady Bunch television show, were trying to transform the home the show used for “outside” shots, into that which was built on the sound stage of the show over 40 years ago. I felt my brain cells leaking out of my ears as one of the “Brady kids”, now in his 50’s, tried to match paint to the original house color portrayed on the television show. Really??? Over and over, everyone kept on repeating it was “very important” to get the color correct, as if the balance of world order depended on whether it was the exact shade of pukey cream or not. It was at this point when I turned to Ruthie and said, “Who really gives a shit?” The television show was crappy and mindless in the 70’s and nothing has much changed since it was, thankfully, removed from television.

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

While I am sure the world of Paul’s Colossian community was not as consumed by our current mindless activities, they had their own set of equally mindless, 1^st century activities and empty human philosophies. Though they may not have had the news pundits and “authorities and experts” gathered in television cable news stations of our world today, the Greeks equally loved philosophical debates and discussions (Paul related how he got involved in these debates as he preached the Gospel). What is historically clear is humanity remains easily duped and captivated by the empty promises of “human tradition.” It speaks volumes when the late night comedians, like Steven Colbert, John Oliver, and Seth Meyers, point out the folly of much of what we see and hear on television. How sad that it is the comedians who speak truth, not those experts upon whom we rely for our news. As my son, Andy, once said to me, “If I really want to know what is truthfully going on, I will watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.”

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, “Here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan”

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

I find that I must take Paul’s words to heart to receive, walk, root myself and build upon the faith I have received in Christ Jesus. For it is only in Christ in which I will experience the fullness I need in my life. If I don’t, I will be no better off than the clueless, self-important “Mr Jones” of Dylan’s “Ballad Of A Thin Man.”

Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “NOW”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says, “How?”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home”

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

*Copyright © 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music

On days in which I find myself emotionally down, I seek out hope. I seek out joy. As many who have listened to the music of Beethoven, I fell in love with the music of this most irascible genius, this tortured soul, who found himself living in a musician’s living hell, the world of complete deafness. If this man could draw from within himself the joy to compose the great Ninth Symphony, I can draw from his music the joy and the hope to persevere even in the darkest of days.

FREUDE: AN ODE TO BEETHOVEN’S NINTH SYMPHONY

1. AN AWAKENING

An awakening,
seventh grade science,
a Bell Lab film, “Our Mr. Sun”
a closeup of the Sun,
a rolling, bright ball of gases,
yellow, orange, reddish colors
exploding, bursting, solar
flares erupting like
a fountain of molten lava
into the darkness of the
surrounding universe.

My class was transfixed
upon the images of
beautiful violence and
explosions, magnetically
drawn into the yellowish
orange and red gases.
But it was not the image
that captivated me.
It was the music.

Orchestra, chorus, rising
in a tidal wave of sound
as brilliant as the image
on the screen, its harmonic
rhythm modulating, rolling,
changing, a harmonic
solar flare that grasped
my heart in such a way
that, long after the film
wrapped itself around
its receiving reel and
the projector shut off,
the music continued to
sound in my inner ear.
Its aural presence
I carry with me through
the remaining classes
of the day, wondering,
“What is it? Who composed it?”

Was it by accident?
A fluke chanced listening
to an unknown classical
music album? Who knows?
But that music, that
orchestral choral music
which I carried with me
for six years, I, suddenly,
encountered again.
I know her name, and
I greet her with the
kind of embrace reserved
only for the most
intimate of lovers.

No longer a mystery,
this stranger in my memory,
I had to know every turn and
shade and characteristic of her,
like an infatuated lover
who maps into tactile memory
the contour of his lover’s body,
the softness and scent
that arises from the
surface of the skin
he gently caresses and kisses.
Finally, after six years,
I know the name of the one,
about whom I have dreamt,
whose voice is etched into
my memory, to be the
most beautiful of all created music.

2. BORN OF BONN

Ludwig Von Beethoven,
Bonn, Germany born, son
of a drunken, shit of a father
who projected upon his son
the hope and celebrity of
another musical child prodigy.
Forced to practice piano
for many hours, late into
the night, beaten bloody
for every wrong note,
every wrong rhythm,
is it any wonder you
developed such a strong
distaste for authority?

Fleeing from a hellish Bonn,
you studied with the musical
minds of your time,
establishing yourself,
a virtuoso pianist, composer
of the future, with some
wanting to thrust upon you
the mantle of the fallen Mozart.
Unlike Haydn, and many other
composers, you disdained
and refused to be indentured
and mastered by church or nobility,
no servant’s entrance for you
who walked through the same
door of the nobility, a move
that had doomed Mozart
to an impoverished death
to be buried among
unknown paupers.

Scorned nobility recognized
the genius you possessed,
supporting your musical
revolution in a class enslaved
world. Napoleon’s revolution
spreading like an infection
across nobility populated Europe,
your “Eroica” symphony
initially dedicated to him
until the truth was revealed,
his name violently scratched out
in the score, when you discovered
the old world order very much alive
and well under a different guise.

Conflicted, fractured family relationships,
Fur Elise, nobility born, stripped
out of your arms, her duty
to family more important
than the love you shared.
Irascible and impatient,
demanding and insulting,
the growing specter of silence,
the nightmare of all musicians,
spreads over your life,
an aural blanket snuffing out
all sound, abruptly ending
your life as a performer.
That which would defeat many
did not end your life,
you turning away from that
outside you, turning instead,
inward, your inner ear hearing the pitches,
the rhythms, the orchestration
which you scratch with quill
and ink onto pieces of manuscript,
hearing that which your
physical ears deny you.

It is in this darkness of silence
your created much of your
greatest music, creating that
which you could never conduct,
that which you would never hear.
In this world of isolating silence,
in which was created this
musical beauty who captivated me,
for whom I longed, for whom I sought,
it has been written that at
that first performance, deaf
to the sound of chorus and orchestra,
unaware that the music had ended,
your contralto soloist gently
turned you to face the standing
audience, applauding and
shouting your acclaim.
At the age of fifty-six years,
you set aside your ear trumpets,
set down your pen and conversation
books, and entered into that
eternal conversation with God,
who loved you into creation.

3. FREUDE

“Freude” (Joy) leaps from the page
of Schiller’s poem, “Ode to Joy”,
cuts through the concert hall.
The bass soloist singing “Freunde!”
(Friends), set aside the words of
hate and violence, put on
“Fruede” (joy)! Is is our
common oneship in the
family of God that must
unite us as people of Freude.
Variations on the Ode to Joy
theme, not that sorry excuse
of a hymn, an abomination
that kills joy, rather than
instill joy. No! but in glorious
layers of melody, tone colors,
the words of Schiller’s poem
leaps off the orchestral score,
inviting, invoking, compelling
the listener to gaze beyond
the human self, gaze beyond
the horizon, to peer beyond
the stars, to reach out
with human hands, touching,
then kissing the face of God.

The language of your music
provided the translation of
Schiller’s German poem,
long before I read its translation.
On the dark, dismal days
of my Sophomore year, I would
sit by the phonograph and listen,
getting new strength, new resolve
to continue, to persevere in
my study of music. I sat,
on the steps of the packed
symphonic hall at which I ushered,
my arms wrapped around my knees,
my eyes closed, listening to the
Freude of your symphony.
And, for days following,
be on a musical high,
more powerful than the
trip of any narcotic, or
acid induced magical mystery tour.

Today, one of those dark days
of later life, facing grim days,
I sit, my ears encased with
sound cancelling headphones,
and put on your Ninth Symphony.
The soloist bass’s voice rings,
the German “Freunde” (Friend) resounds
as it is sung, my hope restored.
My spirit soars as I am drawn
back to the seventh grade science class,
the Bell Lab film and the music.
I reintroduce myself to that
beautiful music beauty
that captured my heart
and in whom I have found
hope, and, yes, Freude.