Journeying Into Mystery

Over the past two years, the New Prague School Board has faced opposition from a small group of people of extremely conservative people. Their issues seem to be part of the playbook of DeSantis and his like in Florida, many of them based on white privilege fears of those different from them in culture, race, religion, and sexual gender. In the recent months, these parents, about 40 in number, have been attacking the New Prague School Board’s position of supporting the law, as dictated by the courts, concerning support of transgender students in the school system.

I have followed all these proceedings with great interest, and have reflected and prayed about them. In my reflection, I use as my mentor, Pope Francis I, who envisions a community of faith that welcomes inclusivity and diversity, as opposed to the repressive, exclusive Church of John Paul II and Benedict XVI. What I have copied below is my letter to the editor that is being published today in the New Prague Times. Of course, Pope Francis I uses as his mentor, Jesus Christ, who loved and embraced all rejected by his society and condemned by the rigidly conservative, religious authorities of his religion.

Here is my letter to the editor, which is being published today in the New Prague Times:

I am an ordained Catholic deacon, now retired after 42 years of active ministry. In my many years of ministry, I served many marginalized including the homeless, the LGBTQ+ community, the Latino community, and families trapped in dangerous domestic violence. I always felt welcomed and my life greatly enriched by those who live on the margins.

From the time I was a music major, I have known, and had many friends and colleagues who are LGBTQ+. I found that aside from a difference in sexual orientation, we all desired the same things in life: stable, loving relationships, financial security, affordable housing and healthcare. None of us choose our sexual orientation, it is how God created us.

There will be clerics and theologians who say they have the answers to everything. However, the real truth is that there are many things we really don’t know and are mysteries known only to God. What we do know definitively is that God creates only good, and that applies to all people regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity.

We all live in our own social ghettos, be they rural, small town, suburban, or urban. The ethos of our ghettos form our world view, and shape our fears and prejudices toward those whose race, culture, religion, and sexual orientation differs from ours. Ministerial assignments by the Archbishop compelled me to serve and to live in diversity. Ministry in a far greater diverse world, altered and transformed the world view I was taught as a kid. For this, I am eternally grateful.

The great gift of our Founding Fathers was to establish a nation in which plurality of religion, culture, race was welcomed, not persecuted. Diversity is good, not evil! We all need to break free from the singular world views that imprison us, and begin to engage with those different from us. When we do this, we find that many of our fears and prejudices taught us are unfounded or are lies. From my lived experience and knowledge, the fear of transgender classmates endangering our daughters and granddaughters are unfounded and baseless. As in past times, our daughters and granddaughters have far more to fear from their heterosexual male classmates. Jesus commanded his disciples to love one another as Jesus loved us, no exceptions. The time has come for those who call ourselves his disciples to actually live that commandment.

When I was a music major, while I was being classically trained on piano, I also listened to all sorts of music from blues to rock, folk music, piano rags and jazz . One of the albums I listened to over and over again was the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s album, Take Five. What made this album unique was the time signatures of the songs on the album. Duple meter (two beats to a measure … think fox trots, polkas, marches, in and most rock songs) and triple meter (three beats to a measure, waltzes being the most common example) is a main stay of most of our music, however, those meters were not found on this album.

Rather, this album was filled with music written in five beats to a measure, seven beats to a measure. The song, Take Five, composed by the quartet’s alto sax player, Paul Desmond, was a huge commercial hit (Google Take Five and listen to it).

I was studying music composed by classical composers, e.g. Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Debussy, who never used meters like that which was heard on the Take Five album. Out of all that listening to Brubeck quartet albums, I developed a great fondness for unusual meter, never thinking that some day I would be composing music with five beats to a measure or seven beats to a measure.

Over all my years of composing, I have strived to compose music in quintuple time (e.g. 5/4 time) and septuple time (e.g. 7/4 time). Like all music, some of the songs have been successful and some has not.

One of the first songs I composed with five beats to a measure was an odd kind of Mazurka, I wrote for my five grandchildren. A Mazurka is a Polish dance with three beats to a measure with a distinctive dotted rhythm. Chopin was well known for the Mazurkas he composed. However, I decided to play with the usual form and composed it with five beats to a measure, or, as I explained it to a friend, it’s like dancing as if you had three legs, not two. Here is the song:

Over the years, I have found that my most special songs, usually composed for my wife, Ruth, have been composed in 5/4 time. This song, in my opinion, is one of the best I composed as a present for Ruth in 2018.

A more esoteric song in 5/4 time was composed in 2017 for the Victims of Racial Violence (the presidency of Donald Trump with all its racial violence and mysogyny compelled me to compose 9 songs for the victims of his policies

From the same collection of music is a song I composed in 7/4 time for the Victims of Those Denied Medical Care (my revolt against the republican opposition to the Affordable Care Act). What makes this song all the more unique is that instead of it being composed in normal scales we often hear in music, e.g. major and minor scales, it is composed in a whole tone scale in which half steps in the scale are eliminated (in the normal major scale there is a half step between “mi” and “fa”, “ti” and “do”.).

Another song I composed in 7/4 time was the song “In the Beginning Was the Word,” from the collection of Advent/Christmas Music, “Songs for the Refugee Christ at Christmas.” The number seven is significant in religious theology and symbology (in case you were just thinking it was only significant in gambling dice games like Craps). In Jewish thought, Seven is the perfect number, e.g. being in Seventh Heaven. When Jesus is asked how many times one must forgive another person he answers Seven time Seventy times. In Catholic theology there are seven sacraments, seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, seven capital virtues with their corresponding seven capital sins, and so on. What is unique in this song, based on the Prologue of John’s Gospel, is that the 7/4 is divided in 3 beats followed by 2 beats followed be 2 beats. It sounds like 123 45 67. Here is the song.

In the collection of songs, A Paschal Journey, I composed the song “Mystagogy – On the Shores of Lake Tiberias.” The song is meant to be representative of the post resurrection account in John’s Gospel, of the Risen Jesus on the shore of Lake Tiberias (Sea of Galilee in the other Gospels), while the apostles are trying to fish. It is in this account that Jesus asks Peter three times,”Do you love me?” I wanted reflected in the song a rhythmic motif representing waves lapping up on shore. Try as I could, all the normal meter signatures did not work. However, 5/4 meter did. Here is that song.

In the collection of music “Musical Reflections on a Pandemic,” there is one song I composed in 5/4 meter. It is entitled “The Feast of Fools – A Pandemic Danse Macabre”. This song was inspired by all the idiots in my town who decided to have unprotected, unmasked graduation open houses at the height of the Covid Pandemic. Of course, whole families were infected and deaths occurred among those families. At one time, the line up of cars filled with adults and children at the Mayo Clinic testing area stretched down the highway. The sight of all these people who foolishly ignored medical science inspired this song. I composed it in 5/4 meter with the idea that the listener would feel unbalanced in the hearing of it. Here is that song.

In the past year, I have composed two more songs in 5/4 meter. The first is a Berceuse, which literally means a lullaby in French. Most lullabies (think Rockabye Baby) are in 3/4 meter. This one, though, is in 5/4 meter. Here is that song.

The second song in the same collection (Songs of the Servant) is far more dramatic and powerful. It is entitled Fantasia in B major. The powerful chords and melody have a regal, kind of unsettling effect upon the listener. Here is that song.

While there are many other songs I have composed in unusual meter, I conclude with this last song, “Canticle in Praise of Her.” This is a song I dedicated to the Holy Spirit. The song begins in the meter of 7/4. What is different from the other songs listed here, is the song changes meter in the middle. It goes from 7/4, moves to 2/4 and then segues again to 7/4. Here is that song.

I hope this little listening exercise in “alternative meters” intrigues you to seek out more music composed in different meters. If you would like more examples of these meters, begin with the Bernstein musical, West Side Story. The Prologue and the song, America, are beautiful examples of alternative meters. The piano and orchestral music of the Hungarian composer, Bela Bartok are also a trip through the alternative meters of Hungarian folk music. As I have gotten older I have found that in my composing of music, I derive a very special fondness for these two alternative meters.

Here we are again, another Holy Week. As a kid, I welcomed Holy Week because I was anxious to get to Easter Sunday at which my fast from chocolate would end … thankfully! Images of a large, solid chocolate Easter Bunny occupied a lot of my thought during that time, far more positive than the dreary Stations of the Cross we endured every Friday during Lent in which the Old Testament text, “I am a worm and not a man,” echoed through the old musty, incense smelling interior of St Andrew’s Catholic Church in which we gathered, and the painfully pitched Stabat Mater sung.

While there will be some adults who never graduate from their understanding of Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection than that they had as a child. For the majority of us, who have lived life with all its emotional, physical, and spiritual pain, we have a pretty good idea of the meaning of Paschal Mystery, though we may not necessarily state it using that theological term.

Our bodies and our souls bear the marks of our pain and suffering. I have a long scar on the back of my right hand that extends past my wrist, the result of two surgeries to try to restore full use of my right hand (only partially successful). I have a long, wide scar that stretches from behind my left hip and goes down to my left knee, the result of six surgeries due to a MRSA infection following a hip replacement (the incision opened so often that surgeons abandoned the use of staples to close it and used instead 50 lb fish line to stitch it back together). Scars on my right knee, right hip, right foot, and left ankle, all the metal and screws holding my breaks and joints together, mark the history of long and painful recoveries from those surgeries. In the midst of all the pain and recovery from all of this, I didn’t heroically offer it all up for the greater good. I asked, like most, when will this pain end? Will I ever be able to walk again? What will my life be like after I have recovered, whatever that means. What limitations will I now have to live with?

As a pastoral minister, I have been at the side of many people suffering losses. The enormous grief people suffer at the loss of a spouse, a child, and a parent. Those suffering from broken relationships in which life dreams have been ripped asunder by infidelity, domestic violence, and the abuse of alcohol and other addictive substances. Those suffering from chronic depression who courageously get out of bed every day and carry on, hoping that their meds will help relieve some of the inner pain with which they live.

All of us have our share of suffering and death. The brutal torture and execution of Jesus, as awful as it is, how can it compare to some of the torture and pain people have suffered in their lives, whether it be in the extermination camp of Auschwitz, imprisonment in a Soviet Gulag, or the “reeducation camps of Pol Pot in Cambodia? How does the passion and death of Jesus compare to the PTSD of war veterans haunted from the horror of war and the deaths they must have caused, or to the PTSD of those violently abused by family members and clergy? Are these not more horrific and long term than Jesus’ three hour tortorous death? My sister, Mary Ruth, suffered for 20 years from a chronic illness that was extremely painful, and my parents, stood at the foot of her cross as she suffered not just for three hours but for the majority of her life. I remember pointing this out to my mother. Just as Jesus didn’t deserve to die, nor did my sister deserve to have this chronic illness that caused her so much pain and eventually killed her.

Of course, I am not the first person to compare the events in Jesus’ life during that Holy Week to the horrific suffering people have experienced in their lives. No theologian has ever been able to explain how Jesus’ suffering and death somehow was worse and supersedes that of the suffering of the rest of humanity. However, a poet, Denise Levertov did.

On a theme from Julian’s Chapter XX

Six hours outstretched in the sun, yes,
hot wood, the nails, blood trickling
into the eyes, yes –
but the thieves on their neighbor crosses
survived till after the soldiers
had come to fracture their legs, or longer.
Why single out this agony? What’s
a mere six hours?
Torture then, torture now,
the same, the pain’s the same,
immemorial branding iron,
electric prod.
Hasn’t a child
dazed in the hospital ward they reserve
for the most abused, known worse?
This air we’re breathing,
these very clouds, ephemeral billows
languid upon the sky’s
moody ocean, we share
with women and men who’ve held out|
days and weeks on the rack –
and in the ancient dust of the world
what particles
of the long tormented,
what ashes.

---

But Julian’s lucid spirit leapt
to the difference:
perceived why no awe could measure
that brief day’s endless length,
why among all the tortured
One only is ‘King of Grief’.
The onening, she saw, the onening
with the Godhead opened Him utterly
to the pain of all minds, all bodies
sands of the sea, of the desert –
from first beginning
to last day. The great wonder is
that the human cells of His flesh and bone
didn’t explode
when utmost Imagination rose
in that flood of knowledge. Unique
in agony, infinite strength, Incarnate,
empowered Him to endure
inside of history,
through those hours when He took Himself
the sum total of anguish and drank
even the lees of that cup:

within the mesh of the web, Himself
woven within it, yet seeing it,
seeing it whole, Every sorrow and desolation
He saw, and sorrowed in kinship.
(from Breathing the Water, (c) 1984, 1985, 1986, 1987, by Denise Levertov, A New Directions Book.)

Conclusion

In the early 1990’s, I was at a presentation by Fr Raymond Burke, one of the most prominent Catholic biblical scholars. He had just completed a massive two volume work entitled, “The Death of the Messiah.” While it was a day of great scholarly wonder for me, the one thing that stood from that day was in the question and answer following the presentation.

The question that was posed was which was the REAL last words of Jesus? Was it Mark’s and Matthew’s, “My God, my God, why have your forsaken me?” Was it Luke’s, “Into your hands I commend my spirit?” Or was it John’s cry of victory, “It is accomplished!”

Fr. Brown, pondered the question for a moment then responded this way to it. “I have been a priest for many years, and have been at the death beds of many people. There are some people who die in despair (My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.). There are some people who die in resignation (Into your hands I commend my spirit.). And, there are some people who die victorious (It is accomplished.). It doesn’t matter what the “real” last words of Jesus were. No matter how a person dies, Jesus has already shared in the same death as the dying person.”

Or as Denise Levertov so poetically wrote:

“One only is ‘King of Grief’.
The onening, she saw, the onening
with the Godhead opened Him utterly
to the pain of all minds, all bodies
sands of the sea, of the desert –
from first beginning
to last day. The great wonder is
that the human cells of His flesh and bone
didn’t explode
when utmost Imagination rose
in that flood of knowledge.”

In other words, all the physical pain I have suffered, all the chronic illness, torture, persecution, poverty, domestic violence, grief that ALL people have suffered throughout the history of humanity, was lovingly and willingly absorbed by Jesus in his three hours of torture prior to his death. The suffering of our Paschal Mystery was subsumed into the Paschal Mystery of Jesus.

The one thing about the Paschal Mystery is that it does end in death. Rather, the ultimate end of the Paschal Mystery of Jesus is the resurrection! As we have shared in the suffering and death of Jesus, as St Paul so succinctly writes in Romans 6:3-4:

Or are you unaware that we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were indeed buried with him through baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live in newness of life. (New American Bible Revised Edition)

What this compels us to do is look less at the events and liturgies of Holy Week in a two dimensional way, but begin to look at them three dimensionally. Looking beyond the surface of what historically happened to the depth and mystery that exists in not only the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, but in our own life, suffering, death, and ultimately our own resurrection.

Have a Blessed Holy Week!

Julius Caesar had his Ides of March, I had my March 7th. Early on this day in 2002, Ruthie and I took our Great Pyr, Floyd, to the vets to be put down. Floyd, only 5 years old, had cancer of the bone on his right rear leg. Unlike smaller breeds who can get around on three legs, giant breeds cannot. We lifted Floyd up on the table, and embraced him as the vet administered the medication. Floyd’s death was immediate. Ruthie and I were both crushed. She went home to sleep (she had worked that night), and I called in to work and took the day off.

Luke had a class at the Eden Prairie VoTech that day. Around 7 pm, I left New Prague to pick him up from school. The weather was one of those drizzly/sleety days, so I was taking my time traveling north on highway 21. A string of cars passed me going south on 21, when all of a sudden, the last car in the string passed over the medium strip and hit me head-on. My Saturn was sent careening down a ditch and came to rest in a middle of a frozen corn field.

As the car came to rest, I checked to see whether I could wiggle my fingers and toes, and move my limbs. It was at that point I saw the dashboard jammed high on my left leg. I found my cell phone in the darkened car, called home and told Beth to wake up Ruth so that she could get Luke from school. Then, I phoned in the accident to the dispatcher. I calmly explained that I was trapped in the car, that I had a high break of my left leg, and that the doors would have to be cut away on the drivers side. I had no clue as to where my glasses were.

The only thing I was afraid of was letting loose a stream of profanity when they would eventually pull me from the car. The ambulance crew from New Prague got there. Someone came and cut away the doors on the driver’s side of the car. Bill Van Cur, from the ambulance crew told me that they were going to lower the seat and put a board under my back. He told me they were going to pull me out from the car and, it was going to hurt like hell. He was correct. To my great relief, the only exclamation I let loose was “Geeeeeeeeeeez!” I must have passed out because the next thing I remember was being in the ER at Queen of Peace Hospital and Dr Miller telling me, “We need to straighten your leg, Bob.” I asked for some morphine and he said, “We have already given you as much as we can.” Another 1-2-3, and he pushed down on my leg, and, yes, that hurt like hell. They put an air cast around the leg, secured it with duct tape (it does have many uses, doesn’t it?), and because it was sleeting too much, rather than air lift me out, we made the very long, slow ambulance drive from New Prague to North Memorial in Robbinsdale. Ruthie rode with me in the ambulance. Andy and Olivia followed the ambulance up to North Memorial.

It was a long night of pain, followed by surgery early in the morning for a femur nailing, and a two week stay in the trauma ward of North Memorial. I had a very high femur break. The only other thing that got hurt was my right hand and forearm. It really hurt. The hospital treated that with a brace. As I over heard the surgeon saying to another doctor later, the femur break was so high, the surgeon was surprised that the shock of it breaking didn’t kill me. It was a very long and slow recovery.

When I saw the surgeon at week eight following the accident, he wondered why I was still wearing that arm brace. I told him that my hand and arm hurt when I didn’t have it on (I was getting around on crutches at that time). He took and x-ray and said, “You need to the a hand surgeon ASAP.” Two days later, the hand surgeon told me that the impact of the accident shredded all the ligaments in my right hand. He could have restored my hand 100% had I had surgery around week four following the accident. The best he could do was restore 60% of my hand. Two days later, I had the first of two surgeries on the hand. Long story short, he was able to restore 60% of my right hand.

The news about the hand upset me more than the broken femur. As a professional pianist, I knew that with only 60% of my hand intact, I would never able to play at the level of performance I had once played. That was the greatest and most devastating loss I had from that accident. I read in the police report that the driver who hit me was a teenage boy who had no car insurance. He got distracted as he was changing the radio station in the car he was driving. Of course, he walked away from the accident unscathed and was sentenced to community service. My career as a musician was over.

 After a lot of time, I could play piano but was very limited as to what I could play. Over time, my hand surgeon explained to me, arthritis would set in and eventually end my ability to play piano altogether. He gave me 15 years more years of being able to play. I reached 17 years before it got to be difficult to play because of pain. Can I play today? Somewhat, enough to fake it for some people.

As far as the left leg is concerned, in 2011, the effects of the accident forced me to go in for a left hip replacement. The surgeon first had to remove the femur rod that had been pounded into my left leg in 2002 (the rod went from my left hip to my left knee). Because of a MRSA infection when I received the artificial hip, I soon was without a left hip for @ 6 months as the infectious disease doctor found an antibiotic that would kill MRSA and not kill me. From April of 2011 to the end of January 2012, I ended up having six surgeries.  Since January 2012 to the present, I have had to have an additional seven more orthopedic surgeries. All of these can be traced back to March 7, 2002, 21 years ago.

It is amazing the memories that can get imprinted on a body. Every year on March 7th, my body aches. I went to the grocery store today and as I was pushing that cart around the store, I could really feel it. As I type this out, my right hand is aching and the long scar that goes from my middle finger and down my forearm is still very prominent.

The day after the femur nailing surgery, the pastor with whom I was ministering, visited me in the trauma unit. He looked at me and the first thing he said was, “Where is the grace?” I told him that my initial impulse to his question was to punch him in the nose. However, trussed up by wires and tubes, that was not going to happen. I told him that I didn’t have a clue of where the grace was, but I would come to know.

So where is the grace from all these surgeries, pain, and injuries? I have lived to see my grandchildren born and grown up (the youngest just turned 13 years of age). Because my own body is broken in so many ways, it has enabled me to better minister to people who are broken themselves. As a broken man I am one with them in their own brokenness. As one who has physical limitations, I understand the frustration felt by others as they encounter the inability to do the things they use to do. And, over time, instead of slipping into bitterness over the loss of being able to do what I use to do, I have embraced gratitude in having once been able to do what I use to do. I am also thankful in being led by God to ways of performing, through computer programs, at the level I once was able to perform.

Of those of us ordained in September, 1994, only Dick Pashby and I are still alive. The feast days of my other classmates stretch from Thanksgiving through the middle of March. Jerry’s feast day is in late November, Tom Semlak’s is in December. Tom Coleman’s feast day is in January, By’s and Bill’s feast days are in February, John’s and Dominic’s feast days are in March. Mixed in with these are the feast days of many of their wives. Ruthie and I, Dick and Sandy Pashby, and Mary Beckfeld are the only surviving members of our class. The lives of these people have impacted my life positively in so many ways, not only during my time of formation but after ordination.

The importance of these men and women I thought imperative from the very beginning. I began diaconal formation with an MA in Pastoral Studies from the St Paul Seminary, and was told that I could skip many of the classes in formation. I responded by telling the selection team that I wanted to take the same classes as my classmates, for a couple of reasons: 1) not only might I learn something not covered when I was in graduate school, but more importantly, 2) the men and women in formation came from many different backgrounds, work experiences, and spirituality, and it was important for me hear, see, and reflect on what they learned from the subject matter we were studying. So very greatly, I honor the blessing of these people to me on their feast days (for non-Catholics the day of one’s death is consider a person’s birthday in heaven, hence it is a day to be celebrated) and the immense influence they have had on my life.

One might think that with the majority of these feast days occurring during the long, cold, emotionally oppressive Minnesota winter, it would be easy to move through a series of emotions, from depression at their loss to fond memories of long weekends in classes, meals, prayers which we shared together. Unlike those ordained with me, I was had already worked in church ministry for 17 years, so I was already hardened by ministry, well aware of the tremendous blessing and tremendous disenchantment in church institutional life. Yet, I, nonetheless, was just as caught up in the initial excitement of ministry as we all adapted our lives from that of very private, to lives that became very public. The other thing we all shared was disappointment as we encountered the reality of church ministry with all its inner politics and agendas both on the local and Archdiocesan levels, as well as tremendous affirmation by those we served. Over time we became acutely aware of feelings of betrayal by those in church authority (pastors and bishops), and a lack of appreciation of our ministry by bishops and some pastors. This required all of us to screw our heads on right about ordained ministry in the Church, namely, we were ordained to serve God and those whom God gave us to serve. I got to the point in which I didn’t care a whip as to what the bishop thought about deacons and the ministry deacons do.

Most ordained to the diaconate do not work full time in the Catholic Church. The majority of deacons work 40 hours a week in another job and volunteer ministry hours in a parish or in community service. Among my classmates was a lawyer, a couple janitors, a dentist, one who worked in business administration, one who worked for a newspaper, another who held a number of different jobs. Deacons in the Catholic Church were labeled the “new nuns”, in that they practically work for nothing, and that was true for all of my classmates except for me. I was different from the rest of my diaconal classmates in that I worked full time in the Catholic Church. Having worked as a lay minister for 17 years prior to ordination as an educator, a director of liturgy and music, and later as director of pastoral ministry, an adminstrator, and in my last assignment, as a pastoral associate, I was allowed by the Archbishop to continue to work full-time in the Church. The difference for me following ordination was that I was assigned even more to do in the parishes in which I worked … more hours of work, same salary. The most I made in salary was at St Hubert, at which I worked for 20 years, and it was a livable salary. However, with every reassignment by the Archbishop to other parishes, I lost $10,000 in salary with each move. Thankfully, my wife, Ruth, as an RN and made double the salary I had.

What follows below, while pertaining to my experience was the experience of my classmates, too. On those occasions following ordination, when we would gather for a meal, we would often share both positive and negative stories of our experiences following ordination. It was our way of providing support for one another that was lacking on the part of the Archdiocese.

THE EARLY DAYS OF ORDAINED MINISTRY

I recently drove by a place at which I was somewhat active in the days immediately following my ordination. I remember that visceral feeling of diving into ministry, hoping to have a positive influence in the lives of those I served. I was active not only in the parish I served, but I served on the Archdiocesan Liturgical Board, was a member of the Archdiocesan Deacon Council, and at one time, president of the Deacon Council, often found running around from the Cathedral to the Basilica of St Mary assisting at the many confirmations celebrated by the bishops.

Those days were very exciting, very exhilarating, but also were very exhausting. In chasing all over the Archdiocese attempting to be the super deacon. Those days are filled with stories of going nose to nose with the Archbishop on justice issues, helping to plan Archdiocesan liturgies, liturgical mistakes I made (I live by the motto that if you are going to make an ass of yourself liturgically, do a good job of it), diving into diversity, especially among the Latino immigrant community, the LGBTQ community, and others living on the margins. During that time of all those experiences, I learned the hard way the truth that was taught me on the first day of diaconal formation by Fr Steve Adrian. There is a certain folly among those newly ordained to focus on the smells and bells of liturgy, and less on the REAL ministry of the deacon. The words of Fr Steve Adrian in diaconal formation came back to me in the early years of ordination, “There are already too many males in the sanctuary during Mass. We don’t need you there. We need you serving those in the market place, in their homes, places of work, and places where priests are NOT welcome.”

What I was not as cognizant in all this activity and what Steve Adrian was covering was the toll it was taking on my family. I was rarely at home with my family, the burden of raising our four children falling on Ruth.

THE REALITY OF ORDAINED MINISTRY

Steve Adrian was absolutely spot on! As time passed, while I still assisted at Masses, weddings, funerals, baptisms, and grave site services, I found that the real ministry of the deacon was NOT wearing all the liturgical vestments, swinging thurifiers spewing incense, and so on; rather, the real ministry was that originally described in the Acts of the Apostles, chapter six, serving the needs of the disenfranchised and suffering. The real presence of Christ for the deacon is NOT the distribution of a consecrated host at Communion, but bringing the presence of Christ in human flesh and blood to people as the deacon holds the hands of a dying person, listens to a person going through broken relationships, marital and friendship, assist those in poverty, befriending immigrants, reassuring those confused and at times, lost. The real ministry of the deacon is outside a church building sanctuary, and placed in the midst of the world, which is the real and greater sanctuary of God.

In ministry, people come to you for numerous reasons, including answers to questions way beyond any one person’s knowledge, theological and non-theological. I felt it incumbent that if someone wanted spiritual direction, I had better know something about doing spiritual direction, so, off I went to school to be certified as a spiritual director. With people from Latin America began requesting baptisms, weddings, and funerals, I was off to study Spanish, one time away from my family for a period of time to do Spanish immersion. There is an excitement in going to school and increasing one’s knowledge and encountering new cultures and ways that people look at the world. In spite of the downside of lengthy papers to be written and comprehensive exams to be taken, education can be very addictive … and, also, very expensive. Again, while all of this was wonderfully exciting and personally fulfilling, however, doing all of this took its toll on my family.

THE DANGER OF CLERICALISM

It is easy to get an inflated ego when people think you are the pinnacle of theological knowledge. This inflated ego is what is known as the sin of clericalism, in which the ordained minister believes that because he is ordained, he sits at the right hand of Jesus. Humility is not always a virtue of the ordained, but something that is sorely lacking. Perhaps deacons are less prone to this sin because it is very clear that the church does not revolve around us as servants of Christ, but the temptation of clericalism is still there. I cannot speak for those ministering in other Christian traditions, however, in the Catholic Church, next to sexism, clericalism is one of the Catholic Church’s greatest sins. It is easy to build a false sense of self, clothed differently from those you serve, priests running around in archaic cassocks, all the liturgical garments with their accoutrements. The bottom line is that all of that masks the fact that the priest and deacon are just as human, with all its blessings and curses, as those they serve. We all put our pants on, one leg at a time. We are no different than those we serve. Just because we can throw an MA in Theology or Pastoral Studies behind our names, doesn’t make us immune from all that afflicts those we serve. The only way that clericalism can be irradicated is when all who are ordained acknowledge that they are NOT above those they serve, but that they are the SAME as they serve. Ministry is NOT about a POWER OVER relationship over those they serve, in which the possibility of abuse manifests itself, but rather a POWER WITH relationship with those we serve. At the very least, for the ordained deacon, the danger of clericalism is less than that for the ordained priest. Because deacons are rooted in family life, our wives and children have a way of keeping us honest and aware of our humanity.

THE REALITY OF ORDAINED MINISTRY AND ITS IMPACT ON FAMILY

With the exception of the last 9 years of ministry, I was gone six days a week from my family. Since the majority of my days were close to 10 hours, and 45 to 60 minutes away from home, six nights a week I ate alone, reading books while I ate a subway, or ate some macaroni salad from some local grocery deli, or at times, eating in a restaurant of a McDonalds. In fact, when I was assigned for the last time by the Archbishop to my family’s parish, I wondered if I would even be welcomed home by my family members and welcomed to eat with them again.

I remember a time when my oldest son, Andy, reprimanded me for being gone so much while he was growing up. It was well deserved criticism. All I could do was apologize. My only excuse was I was gone trying to help provide a home for my family. And, it was a “job” that paid extremely poorly for a family of six. During formation, we were preached to put family first, job second, ministry third. Lovely sentiments, however, the reality and expectation of the Church, both hierarchy and people in the pews is ministry first, job second, and family last. I remember I was in Chicago to do the funeral service of my brother. Two hours prior to my leading that funeral liturgy I was being pestered by parishioners about a funeral that would be later in the week. Many times while I was on vacation with my family, people would call or find me about a leaky roof at the church, or that there was not enough herbicide to keep down the weeds at one of the cemeteries. My family was always last. The one thing I finally had to be brutally hones with myself was that in my desire to serve the people in the parishes to which I was assigned, I neglected to serve the most important people in my life, namely, my family.

I recently was talking about this to my son, Luke. I told him my fear in being reassigned to St Wenceslaus of not being welcomed at home by him and his siblings. Luke told me, “I was so happy you were home with us again.” That was a feeling of great relief.

Over 42 years of ministry, I had a number of hospitalizations, some health related and some as a result of a car accident. While I was still working actively in ministry I had 12 surgical procedures, one heart related and eleven orthopedic surgeries. Since retirement, I have added five more orthopedic surgeries.

I knew it was time to retire when I was playing a Christmas Midnight Mass in a rural Minnesota parish. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are exhausting days. I had already been at two Christmas Eve Masses. I thought about two deacons who died preparing for Midnight Masses at Christmas and decided that I would be damned if I would die preparing for or assisting at a Midnight Mass. I had already sacrificed enough my family and my health for ministry. I decided that if I had the choice, I would prefer to draw my last breath in the presence of my family. I also had a good idea of who would be assigned as the next pastor of my parish, and I had neither the emotional, spiritual, and physical stamina to work for that individual.

Epilogue/Would I do it again?

I cannot speak for the rest of my classmates, but, knowing now what I know, would I do it again? Quite simply … yes, but I would do it much smarter. I would place my family first and not last. I would learn to say no … even to the Archbishop.

Of course, this all assumes I would be accepted for diaconal formation today. Given the present state of the Catholic Church and the diaconal formation program, I know I would be rejected by those selecting candidates to the diaconate. I am far too attached the real ministerial needs of the people, and less attached to the traditionalist issues that present day bishops embrace e.g. I care far too much for the real issues that are in the lives of people, social justice, and the environment than I care for hierarchical obsessions on birth control, and gay marriage. I feel far more comfortable on the margins of society among those many rejected by Catholic Church hierarchy, than I do in church sanctuaries, rectories and chanceries.

The diaconate, like marriage has changed my life so much for the better. I learned more about diaconal ministry from my wife, Ruth, than I ever learned in diaconal formation. Her life has been one of great service not only to my children, grandchildren, and I, but also to many of the elderly and veterans at the State Veterans Home in Minneapolis. She is far more a deacon than I ever have been, and I continue to learn by observing her and sitting at her feet listening to her.

There is that indescribable call of God that draws you to ministry. It is what drew me at first to be an educator in Catholic parishes and as a director of liturgy and ministry. It nagged me throughout the 1980’s until I finally began the process to enter diaconal formation, three times. Note: I was finishing up my MA in Pastoral Ministry the first time. The second time, Ruth was not ready to commit her life and that of our children to me being a deacon. The third time, we were finally ready to begin the process.

Diaconal ministry drew me into the lives of those who live on the margins of the Catholic Church. I am in awe and have discovered the littleness of my faith alongside that of my LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters who accept themselves as God created them, and live committed lives with their partners, and live a dedicated faith rooted solely in God, even while their Catholic faith of origin condemns them. I am in awe and have discovered the littleness of my own faith when I witness the incredible courage and faith on the part of many of my undocumented Latino brothers and sisters, who somehow navigate the difficulty of learning a new language, a new culture, and at times surviving the prejudice they experience as immigrants in the United States. These people place ALL their trust in God.

It was the diaconate that opened up for me that God is all merciful and all loving, far more merciful, understanding and loving than all the so called authorities in the Church. Jesus lived among the rejects and religiously unacceptable of his society. It is there at which I feel more at peace and feel loving presence of my God. the diaconate opened my eyes in ways that blew away all my preconceived notions of what Church really is. For that I am forever grateful.

Would I do it again? Absolutely! My prayer is that of a Franciscan priest, Fr Barry Schneider, for which I once worked many years ago. When the time comes when I die, and am called to stand before the throne of God, I desire, like all of my classmates to be judged more on how pastoral and accepting I was of those I served, than for being to rigid in orthodoxy. And I hope, that my brothers and sisters in the diaconate will be there to plead my case for me.

Today is the Feast of the Epiphany on which we remember the story of the visit by the Magi as accounted in the Gospel of Matthew. It is a story not found in any of the other three Gospels. Traditionally remembered as three wise men/astrologers, though the Gospel account does not mention their number, these Gentile men from foreign nations are led by a star to the birth place of the infant, Jesus, where they present gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the Holy Family. The story is Matthew’s way of telling his faith community, mainly Jewish Christians, that the revelation of who Jesus is, is revealed to the entirety of the world.

There have been many accounts of epiphanies in the Hebrew scriptures, all manifestations of God to humanity, focused primarily to the Hebrew people. However, as we read in the second chapter of Isaiah, God is not meant to be revealed solely to the Hebrew people but to the entire world, who will travel side by side to the mountain of God to feast, learn, and to end armed, violent conflict forever.

In a Christmas season filled with all sorts of epiphanies, it is important that we not just isolate epiphanies to scriptural stories. Within our lives there are multiple epiphanies that God shares with us. If we pay attention to the events of our lives, we will find, as I have, God’s revelations to us in uniquely personal ways. I would like to share one very personal and powerful epiphany that has directed my life for over forty years.

In summer of 1981, I was suffering from severe burnout, something not foreign to many of those who minister in the Church. For over two years, I worked seven days a week, often times from 7 am to 9:30 pm, teaching music or leading music at liturgies in the mornings and afternoons, and holding rehearsals or meetings in the evenings. I had only two weeks off a year. Because Ruthie had taken a leave from nursing, we were trying to race a family of five on an income of $9,000 a year. This was far below the poverty level in the United States. On the nights I didn’t have rehearsals or meetings, I worked part-time at a local liquor store, from 6 pm to 10 pm.

In the summer of 1981 I was in my second year of study at the University of St Thomas, St Paul School of Divinity working on masters degree in pastoral studies. Though the summer months were not as work intensive as they were in the other seasons, my time during the day was spent at the University taking classes and my evenings were spent studying and grinding out term papers and projects. My classes generally began at 8 am and often go to 3 pm. It was normally an hour drive from my home in New Prague to the University campus in St. Paul.

In the summer of 1981, suffering from severe burnout, I was driving up to St Paul, taking many country roads that curved and wound past the lakes and pastures, and fields of crops leading to the freeway. The day of one of my most significant epiphanies was in early June.

As I was driving on my way to the freeway, a journey of 20 minutes through these curvy, windy, roads littered with stop signs, I was praying to God to lift the burnout I was experiencing. The following is what occurred following that prayer on that journey.

As I drove, I suddenly found myself in a very dark place, blown about by high winds. The only thing that prevented me from being blown away was a piece of cloth that my right hand grasped. I looked to see what cloth I was grasping and discovered it was the hem of something that resembled a white alb. As I followed the cloth to its origin, I found that I was grasping the hem of the alb that clothed Jesus Christ, as imaged on the “risen Christ” crucifixes. Christ looked at me, and all I could utter to him was the word, “Help!” He smiled one of the kindest smiles I have ever seen, and with his right arm, he reached down and grasped me by my right wrist. He then pulled me up, but not on top of him, as one would lift a child. Rather, he lifted me up and pulled me up within himself, so that I soon discovered that I was looking through his eyes, my arms and hands encased in his arms and hands. I/we looked around me/us and as we looked down, I/we saw all these people being buffeted by the wind and hanging desperately onto the hem of my/our alb. I/we then began pulling people, one by one within us, just as I had been pulled up.

I suddenly came out of this vision and found myself driving north on the freeway, having no idea or remembrance of how I got there through all those curving country roads, and stop signs and merging onto the freeway. I found that my burnout was completely healed from my burnout that affliction totally absent. I, also, knew at that very moment what I was suppose to do for the rest of my life.

While I knew what my life’s work was to become, I still had no idea of how that would unfold in my life, but I knew that I was, at the very least, following the correct path. That path would lead me to another parish, and complete my graduate degree in pastoral studies, which would lead me to the diaconate and ordination as a Permanent deacon, to working with the poor, the disenfranchised, the LGBTQ community, the Latino community, those suffering from domestic violence, and later becoming a certified spiritual director.

Though I am now retired from active ministry with its 50 plus hour weeks, I have never “retired” from ministry. With all the many orthopedic surgeries since 2011, I am prevented from being as active as I once was, but I am still active, continuing my ministry to assist folks in many different ways. The epiphanies never cease, they just continue to evolve as I grow older, similar to driving on the curvy, winding roads through the countryside, never knowing what will be revealed around each curve.

Not all our “epiphanies” are as dramatic and profound as the one I had back in the summer of 1981, but if we pay attention to them, God will lead us as assuredly as God did the Magi which led them to that birth place of Jesus so long ago.

It is reported that Benedict XVI died today. There will follow prayers and Masses required by the Vatican on those in the Catholic Church for the repose of his soul. That is all right and proper. It is important to hold the dead up in prayer and honor their memory.

While what follows is critical of Ratzinger/Benedict, I do so acknowledging that the flaws and faults I possess are far greater than that of Ratzinger/Benedict. However, my flaws and faults however have not impacted the Catholic faith in the same manner as that of Ratzinger/Benedict. I also acknowledge that he sincerely lived the faith in which he believed, in spite of the damage I believe he has done to the faith.

Ratzinger/Benedict’s Legacy

However, in many ways, Joseph Ratzinger as the head of the Doctrine of the Faith and later as Pope Benedict XVI, did, in my opinion, a lot of damage to the Catholic Church. He, along with John Paul II, tried to dismantle the very needed reforms of Vatican II.

Political and Theological Legacy

His politics and traditionalism coupled with that of John Paul II was a detriment to the Catholicism in the Latin America, with them often supporting the bloody reign of many Latin American autocrats and dictators over the advancement of people’s rights in many Latin American nations. Their utter condemnation and persecution of bishops like Oscar Romero, who was later declared a martyr for the faith and made a saint by Pope Francis I, is a scandal to our faith. Their utter condemnation of Liberation Theology, which Pope Francis has praised as an important contribution to the Catholic faith, is also a black mark against them.

Liturgical Legacy/Damage

Benedict/Ratzinger was a Traditionalist whose Motu Propio allowing priests to celebrate the Latin Trindentine Mass, has done such great harm to the liturgy of the Catholic Church, that Pope Francis issued his own Motu Propio condemning the celebration of that form of Mass. Note, many American bishops have ignored Pope Francis’ order to end the celebration of this Mass and continue to allow it as sign of defiance toward Pope Francis. Priests celebrating this Mass, willy nilly, continues to divide and prompt Catholics to seek either other Catholic parishes or leave the Catholic Church altogether.

Dominus Jesu and the End of Ecumenism

As head of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, Ratzinger/Benedict issued a declaration named “Dominus Jesu”. In my opinion, this declaration of his ended the ecumenism of Vatican II. In this declaration, Ratzinger/Benedict stated that salvation is only through the Catholic Church. I am no great theologian, but I consider this statement as heretical. Salvation is ONLY through Jesus Christ and not isolated to very flawed religious institutions. This statement written by Ratzinger and approved by John Paul II is a back slide to the days in which was popularly taught that everyone not Catholic would not be saved.

Male Exclusiveness and Church Exclusiveness

Ratzinger/Benedict also ended the use of inclusive language in Church documents and liturgies. As Pope he preached and wished for a very exclusive Church that was smaller and more faithful (in contrast to the inclusiveness of Jesus in his earthly ministry modeled by Pope Francis).

Response to Criminal Sexual Abuse by Clergy

He did try to get John Paul II to do something about the criminal sexual abuse committed by Catholic clergy and religious. However, John Paul II was too influenced by the conservative politics and money that these religious orders and institutions had to do anything to end the damage done by the clergy in these organizations.

Ratzinger/Benedict as Administrator

As Pope Benedict, Ratzinger proved himself to be a poor administrator, and incapable of stopping the corruption that was rampant in the Roman Curia. It has been through the efforts of Pope Francis that the Vatican Bank is no longer laundering money for the Mafia, financial theft etc by high ranking Cardinals in the Curia, and many of those guilty of sexual crimes to innocent and vulnerable children and adults,have been held accountable and thrown out of the Church.

Conclusion

While I believe that Ratzinger/Benedict has been a millstone around the neck of Pope Francis who is trying to reestablish the teachings and liturgical practices of Vatican II, Pope Francis has been very gracious toward Ratzinger/Benedict.

As much as I have dislike what Ratzinger/Benedict has done to the Catholic Church in his capacity as head of the Doctrine of the Faith, and as Pope, I pray that he rests in peace and is experiencing the abundant mercy and love God will extend to me when I die.

Given the politics of making saints in the Catholic Church, with the exception of historical saints established centuries ago, I am pretty picky as to whose feast days of people I actually will acknowledge as legitimate saints. and also acknowledge that God is far more forgiving and merciful than I. So, I have put together my own calendar of saints that will never have the political clout nor the money to push them through the canonization process. People I know to have been saintly in their lives, who strived to live Jesus’ commandment to love by welcoming the stranger, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, giving drink to those who are thirsty, caring for the sick, and, visiting those imprisoned.

Two such saints are Deacon Frank Asenbrenner and Barb Ciresi, whose feast days are today.

Frank died on this day in 2014. He and his wife, Margaret, who preceded him in death, were married 52 years. They were parents to eight children. Frank’s primary job for many years was as a band director at Hill Murray High School. He later became principal of Hill Murray. I first met Frank at St Rose of Lima parish in Roseville, MN where he directed the church choir. Not only an accomplished band director and musician, Frank was also an accomplished performer on the accordion. The annual St Rose of Lima choir party often featured Frank playing polkas etc on his accordion. At my wedding dance, Frank joined the band on stage and jammed with them on accordion. I believe Frank was one among the first class of ordained deacons in the Archdiocese of St Paul and Minneapolis. Ruthie and I attended Frank’s wake where we encountered the deacon couple of Jerry and Barb Ciresi.

Barb died on this day in 2018. Barb and her husband, Jerry, were members of my diaconal ordination class. At the time of her death, Jerry and Barb were married 54 years. Barb was a registered nurse by profession. She worked at various hospitals as a nurse in neo-natal, obgyn, and later as a hospice nurse. As a nurse she was not only professional in her care, but equally compassionate in her care. In addition to her vocation as a nurse, she and Jerry were parents to four children. She also raised and bred English Springer Spaniels and was often sought after for her professional expertise in the care of English Springer Spaniels. Jerry worshiped the ground upon which she walked. Like my wife, Ruthie, Barb worked night shifts. I remember Jerry telling one Valentine’s Day about greeting her return from work by making sure the driveway was shoveled clear of snow and placed rose petals on her pillow. He utterly adored her. Barb also had a sharp mind and could be incredibly critical of men in authority, not only those male doctors with whom she had to work, but also critical of male clergy in the Catholic Church. It was on more than one occasion that she mentioned that these authoritarian males could benefit by cutting of their hanging participles. Needless to say, Barb was a force to be reckoned with and a person to be respected. Barb later in life began to suffer from a gradual onset of dementia. It was very difficult for Jerry when Barb needed to be placed in memory care. I believe a big part of Jerry’s heart died when Barb passed away on this day. Jerry died on November 22, 2020, almost two years after Barb’s death.

Not that I suffer under the delusion that this blog is sought out in any wide way, one resolution for me this year is to post more on this blog. Every now and again, there is a problem with with Word Press. Thankfully, I got it cleared up. Wishing you all peace throughout the upcoming New Year!

Bob Wagner

When Ruthie and I first got married, we had to create our own Christmas season traditions. In my family, we usually set up the Christmas tree on the first Sunday of Advent, and the tree would stay up (mom or dad faithfully watering it everyday) until the feast of the Epiphany. In Ruth’s family, much more traditional, her dad and/or brothers would cut down one of the trees on the farm, and set up the tree on Christmas Eve. Since we got married on December 27th, our first Christmas together was almost a year after we got married. By that time, Andy was born and we were in a little town that time forgot on the southwestern Minnesota prairie called Jeffers. We waited until it was almost Christmas to buy our first tree. By that time, most tree lots were empty and what we got resembled the tree on the Charlie Brown Christmas special, with a good portion of the needles falling off the tree as we dragged it into the house we were renting. From that time forward, we decided to create our own Christmas tradition, with the Christmas tree and decorations being put up on Gaudete Sunday, Rejoice Sunday, in the Catholic liturgical calendar. We usually had a little Christmas decoration party as we put the lights on the tree, and decorated the house.

LATER TRADITIONS

Because I was the director of liturgy and music for Catholic parishes, much of my time, with planning beginning in July and August, and rehearsals beginning in September, during Advent was preparing for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. By this time, I became a member of Minnesota Public Radio (when there was only the Classical Station). I use to get a magazine called “Minnesota Monthly” which would publish all the programming that the stations would air. Because we were so poor, I could not afford to buy albums of music I loved, but I could buy a lot of blank cassette tapes which I could record music on the air. Especially at this time, Minnesota Public Radio would air a number of Christmas concerts. I would try as best as I could to record those concerts on cassette tapes so I could listen to them when I was not busy with rehearsals. Alas, many of those concerts would air while I was busy conducting rehearsals and I would have to rely on my kids (Ruthie was working nights as an RN so she was usually trying to catch 2 or 3 hours of sleep before she had to leave for work) to press the record button on the boom box to record the concerts. That was hit and miss at best. Sometimes, I was able to rerecord the concerts if they were aired on a Saturday afternoon.

One of the concerts I looked forward to every year was the Christmas concert put on by the Dale Warland Singers. This choir was exquisite! I think over the years, I was only able to record two full concerts … much to my chagrin. Later, they released a lot of their music on CDs, and I would buy them as soon as they would be released. The other concert/liturgy to which I looked forward was the Christmas Eve broadcast of the Kings Choir doing Advent lessons and carols, with a Christmas address by Queen Elizabeth. Of course, I rarely heard this on Christmas Eve because I was up to my neck in Christmas Eve Masses and generally wouldn’t get home until 1:30/2am Christmas Day (only to get up at 6 am to get ready to leave for the first Christmas Day Mass). MPR would replay the lessons and carols usually in the afternoon on Christmas Day and then I would record and listen to it.

TODAY

Sadly, by the time I retired in 2019, Dale Warland retired and the choir disbanded, so there were no longer any of their concerts on air. I would like to say that I listened to the lessons and carols last year, but I had Covid and was awaiting surgery on my broken right foot … so I was not quite in the Christmas spirit. I have accumulated either by CD or downloaded from online much of the music I use to look forward to from 1977 to the present. I have created on my two tablets all this Christmas music to play and listen to from this Sunday through Epiphany.

I began listening this afternoon. Mind you, there is none of the commercial Christmas garbage that has been inundating most commercial retail outlets since the day after Halloween. There will be no chestnuts roasting on anything, and as far as “my momma kissing Santa Claus”, hell no! These are Advent and Christmas carols that have been around long before all the commercial Christmas jingles and Frosty the Snowman specials. These carols have a way of creating an aural space of contemplation and joy, and stir the human soul in an incredible way.

May these remaining weeks of Advent be one of contemplative joy leading to Christmas for you!