A Year Later

This time a year ago a little plane brought me from the Green Mountain State to Washington D.C. and then to the balmy reaches of Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport.  I did not know what the Summer would entail, but I knew that a heart open to how God could be speaking and moving in me, in the Edmundites, and in the people of Alabama was what would make the Summer.  It proved to be one of the most formative times of my life, filling me with a deep sense of renewal, clarity of vision, and gratitude for all the people I had come to know and love in the course of these months.

Yet last August, when I returned to Vermont, something felt different.  Something had changed.  I knew I had to go again to Boston.  Something pulled at my heart to be at the School of Theology and Ministry, to reside in the Assumptionist Center, and to continue living with that sense of radical openness that had first led me to Selma.  Without revealing too many details, some good changes were coming about in the Society and I was thrilled to have another young seminarian join us in our studies.  On top of this I had just had an incredible experience living and working with some great priests and brothers.  It was this happiness, this lack of bitterness or frustration, this clarity, that allowed me to realize I had a decision to make, and that I was now free to make it.

In October I parted ways with the Edmundites.  I had been very scared of this decision, thinking that people would be mad or frustrated with me, that I would not be able to make it "on my own," and any other number of fears that cross the mind when one makes a major life change.  Yet the exit process was one wholly pervaded by grace.  I felt so blessed and loved as I said my farewells.  I came to understand it not so much as "leaving" but as "being called forth" to wherever God may be leading me.  Yes, there was pain.  Yes, there was sadness.  I loved these men dearly, and they had effectively been family for three years.  I had so many places I could call home, so many new brothers both old and young, and had come to know countless other wonderful people along the way of this three year journey.  But I was ready to go and see where God next beckoned me.

It is hard to believe it has been a year since I got off that plane.  It feels like another life, and it in so many senses it was.  I am discovering anew who I am as a layman, yet I take with me what I learned and much of whom I had become in religious life.  At the heart of that is prayer.  A deep sense of trust in God, grounded in prayer.  This has brought me through much in the seven months since I was dismissed from my temporary vows, and I know God will bring me through much more.  Scary things.  Exciting things.  Things I cannot now, as I could not a year ago, even imagine.  But with that I move forward in faith, in hope, and in love, always seeking to remember to pause, to rest in the silence of the Divine, and to remain open to where he may lead.

I'm Staying

When I first arrived here, I was at a very difficult point in my life.  For some months I had quite seriously been considering leaving the Society of St. Edmund for a variety reasons into which I will not here delve.  Suffice it to say that I was feeling very discouraged in my vocation.

I recall talking quite extensively with my spiritual director and she kept encouraging me, "Just go to Selma this Summer and see where the Lord takes you from there."  And here we are at the end of my Summer internship at Queen of Peace.  This has been one of the most important and blessed experiences of my life.  I've had so many opportunities to see so much of what Edmundite life entails--the prayer, the community gatherings, the bickering and laughter, the work we do, the people we minister to and with, and the hope in Christ that inspires my brothers to continue being who they are and doing what they do as Edmundites.

For the past few years I had been so focused on how I could give and how I could serve that I had nearly forgotten how to receive.  I just finished going through Henri Nouwen's The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming.  In it he focuses so much attention on how in order to truly love and give we have to first learn to be loved and to receive love.  That is so much of what this Summer taught me.  Sure the work was great; there are so many ministries with which we are involved here.  But what has really been crucial was being clobbered (ever so lovingly, of course) over and over and again with God's overwhelming grace and love.  If there is one word I could choose to describe this Summer it would be just that: graced.  There have been so many little surprising "God moments" in these past few months.

When I first came down here I did not know what to expect, nor did I really know why I came down here.  I just knew I needed to.  Two thoughts on this:
1) I understand now that it was God's loving hand that guided my heart here.  It is God who knows--far more than I ever could--what I need.  And let me tell you, I needed this Summer.  It gave me so much perspective on countless things, my vocation not being among the least of these.  I have been blessed in so many ways that I never would have expected.
2) I'm glad I didn't know what this Summer would entail.  Trying to figure all that out would have just left me grasping at some feigned sense of control.  Another word I could use to describe this Summer is freeing.  When you hit an emotional or spiritual low point, surrendering yourself to God is perhaps the most freeing thing one can experience.  It is such a step of trust.

I recall the feeling of "calm excitedness" that pervaded my life when I first decided to move to the Edmundite House of Formation some years ago.  That notion of being curious, nervous, and thrilled, yet still at such peace.  A good friend and spiritual guide said, “That feeling is more often than not God speaking to us and beckoning us forward."  That is how I feel about this Summer experience. That is how I feel now about being an Edmundite. That is how I feel about going back to the community in Vermont tomorrow. That is how I feel about returning to seminary, doing CPE, and whatever else the Lord may have in store for these next years.

I have a renewed perspective.  I have so much more hope and vision about my vocation.  I have learned again how truly loved I am and how utterly graced my life is.  For this I thank all the people who have been part of my life this Summer, especially Fr. Steve and Bro. Peter, without whose wisdom and guidance I probably would have lost my mind.  And mostly I thank God for one cold day in March in which the idea of coming here was slipped into my mind.

The graves of our three brothers who died this year.

The view from our hotel on a brief vacation.

Sr. Cecile turned 86 this Summer, so we had a party.

St. Paul said to only boast in Christ, but since I'm not
St. Paul I will say that I make a pretty excellent lasagna.

Fr. Steve and I after mass yesterday.

This is our buddy Austin.  He came to mass
every day.  He likes ringing the bells
during mass and scaring the squirrels away
from our bird feeder.

The place I know I can always call my Southern home.

Tomorrow morning I get on a plane to fly home.  I am so excited to see my brothers in Vermont and to be once again in the Green Mountains.  But I am going to miss so much here.  It is difficult to leave, especially once you've settled in.  That is just part of religious life.  People and places pop into your world, sometimes only for a brief period of time, and you learn to love them and eventually let go; though wherever God may lead me next there will always be a special place in my heart for the people, for the Missions, for Selma.

Unexpected prophets

When we hear the word prophet, the almost immediate thought that comes to mind is the typical Greek myth of the Oracle at Delphi, where someone, overcome with a certain... fit of madness... proclaims what is to happen in the future. We get the image of someone who is divinely granted a vision of what will come regardless of the circumstances. The words “fate” and “inevitability” may come to mind with the notion of prophet.

And yet, in the Judaeo-Christian tradition, prophecy means something quite different. The prophet was someone who lived on the fringes of society, a place that according to Sacred Scripture was rather important and even dear to God. How much of the Old (and New) Testament is concerned with care for the poor? The orphaned? The widows? The immigrant?

All those who could be described as marginalized—whether spiritually, economically, physically, or emotionally—are of particular importance to the God of justice and love. For it is here, with the oppressed and the broken, with all of humanity, that God has become flesh and made his dwelling among us. And from here, we hear the cry of the poor. The cry for healing. The cry for justice.

The prophet in the Judaeo-Christian is someone who, living on the fringes of society, abides in a particular closeness to God, the God who takes on human brokenness and brings it in closer to himself. From here the prophet is voice of the marginalized. The voice of those who have no voice due to the powers that be. The voice of justice. It is the prophet who cries out to the leaders and the people that sin is being waged against those incapable of defending themselves. It is the prophet who calls the people back to right relation with God, which in Greek is the word dikaiosune. Often this word is translated simply as justice. But it is something much deeper than that. It means righteousness, integrity, being in right relation with God, being in accord with God. This is the role of the prophet: to live among those marginalized in whatever way and to call out for their dikaiosune.

Today we hear of Jesus' rejection in his home town. The people bicker, “Well isn't that just the carpenter's kid? Wasn't he just a few years ago out in the streets chasing his brothers and sisters? What makes him so special? Does he think he's better than us?”

From this I hope to leave you with a few questions for this day and every day that follows:

First, who are the prophets that walk among us whom we least expect? Who are the prophets we may have grown up with, that we work with, or see at the grocery store? Who are the prophets—those calling us to right relation with God, to dikaiosune—that we may pass by each day as they sit sunken in their poverty, clinging to the slightest, but dwindling thread of hope?

Second, do we, as Jesus shows, not honor the potential prophets in our towns, our workplaces, our own homes? Do we snicker at those who may be called to that path, thinking they will look down on us as if being a prophet was something “better”? Or do we encourage them to follow that vocation? Do we listen to what they say, to how God may be speaking through them to our world, our towns, our homes... to us? Do we allow the Holy Spirit to call forth through our prophets those things in us, in our communities, that need to change? That allow for dikaiosune to enter into our lives?

And finally, what of you? What about each of you sitting here in this chapel? How will you be a voice for the voiceless today, tomorrow, and the rest of this year? How will you be a voice crying out in the wilderness to prepare the way for the Lord? How will you be a witness to the truth that is Christ?

Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his native place and in his own house.”

And he did not work many mighty deeds there

because of their lack of faith.

My favorite place here

I am sitting in a marginally cushioned chair in a window-laden room right off of our dining room.  It gets very hot in here due to the rather significant amounts of Alabama heat and rather significant numbers of windows in this particular place.  Usually I have to turn the air conditioning on for an hour (at least) before the room touches upon remotely bearable.  It is generally as hot, and not on rare occasion, far more hot than a car that has been sitting in the sun all day.  It also takes a tad bit longer to cool down than your standard grade automobile, for it is about two and a half times the length, and five times the height of Fr. Steve's little sedan.

That being said, this is my favorite place in Selma.  It is where I come to read, to write, to pray.  It is here that I sat every morning when I visited during my novitiate (about three and a half weeks) and would watch the birds scrambling and pushing each other out of the way to get to the feeder.  The room overlooks our "yard" which is really just a small patch of grass with shrubs around it to block out some of the noise of traffic and the neighbors who like to blast Biggie Smalls and Lil Wayne all day and night.

This is my thinking spot.  This is my spot.  And it is here that I sit at 7:02 p.m. central time, writing my last homily of my Summer internship at Our Lady Queen of Peace.  Tomorrow, after Fr. Steve proclaims the gospel, will probably be my last time preaching until I am ordained a deacon in some two and a half years or so.  It is bittersweet.

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Two weeks ago, the director of the Southern Mission called Fr. Steve up and told us of a fellow, 50 years old, who for quite some time had received one hot meal a day from our "Meals on Wheels" program run by Sr. Margaret.  He was dying of cancer.  It had initially started in his lungs and then spread all throughout his body, leaving him rather emaciated, frail, and difficult of speech.  What the director specifically told us was that this man had been raised Catholic, gone to Catholic schools all his life, and then one day just stopped going to Church.  The dying man was hoping to get Last Rites--Reconciliation, Anointing of the Sick, and Eucharist.  That is precisely what Fr. Steve did.  Two Sundays ago, on July 21, 2013 at about 11:45 a.m., this fellow was welcomed back with full blessings and much joy to the Church.  He was hardly about to speak due to the advancement of the cancer, but you could see and feel the look of joy, relief, and comfort that he felt in coming home, in receiving Christ again after all this time.

One thing that struck me was that though he had not being going to any Church for quite some time, he was not so lost as might have been thought.  Each time he had surgery for the rapidly progressing cancer, he would come back to a home with no family--they had all either moved away or died--and go to bed.  Each time he had surgery he would wrap his tattered old rosary around his wrist and pray, "I know that even though no one else will be here in the morning, you will be, my Jesus."  All these years away, all those Sundays where he had no spiritual home, and he still had that mustard seed of faith.

The second time we went back to see him he looked even weaker, but there was a certain peace about him.  "My momma had three strokes and a heart attack in the final years before she died.  For the last few months she couldn't even walk.  But never..." (he paused to gasp for air) "... never did she stop smiling.  She had her faith.  That's just the way she is.  And that's what I know I gotta be."

I don't know if we will see him again--either tomorrow or perhaps Monday before I leave--but I praise God that this man was beckoned back to Christ, to pray and be lovingly held by the motherly embrace of the Church.  I thank God that even though he has no blood-relativesphysically at his side, Sr. Margaret and Fr. Steve--his spiritual relatives--are there to see him through until he goes home to his Father.

As weird as this may sound, I think this is one of the most beautiful ministries of the Church: to be there in whatever way--whether that be a funeral, bringing communion, consoling a family, or just listening--for someone who is dying.  Death comes about only on an individual basis.  Even when a bunch of people die at once, it is still individual people who are dying.  And yet, in some way, be it ever so simply, our task is to pray with and for, and even just simply to be with those dying in order that they might know they belong.  Not to some rigid institution or even a group of a few hundred people on Sundays, but to God almighty, to the One who always has been, always is, and always will be Love itself.

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I leave in four and a half days.

What is it to be great?

Christian mothers, like all mothers want to see their children be successful. They want to see them do well in school, to get a good job, to have a family, and to be generally satisfied in life. They want their children to be close to Jesus. To be near him at all times. This is nothing surprising for us.

The mother of James and John wants what most mother's want. She wants to see her sons succeed, and in a more particular sense she wants her sons at Jesus' side.

But there is quite a startling difference in the request of James and John's mother. They seek more than a good life or contentment. They seek to gather glory unto themselves, to be seated on Jesus' right and left, i.e. to be calling the shots alongside the Messiah in his kingdom. They want to secure positions of authority. Fundamentally, they do not understand what this new king is all about.

Jesus, picking up on this quite quickly, notes how typical rulers use their authority in such a way that it makes their subjects feel the burden of power. And then in comes Jesus' deal breaker:

It shall not be so among you.

It shall not be so among you.

Rather, whoever wishes to be great among you shall be your servant.

Jesus completely flips our conventional notions of power upside down. Nothing he is or does is what we would expect when we hear the words ruler, king, or savior. Look at his life:

He is born in a stable on the outskirts of a town.

He grows up in a family that makes their living with their own hands.

His proclamation as king is an entrance into Jerusalem, not on some majestic war horse, but a mere donkey.

He hangs out with sinners, tax collectors, and the possessed—the societal rejects of the time.

His coronation is mockery and a crown of thorns.

He was crucified as a criminal.

Some king, many scoffed and understandably so.

But this is who Jesus is. And if he really is who he says he is, and who we profess him to be, then this is who God is. This, the traveling preacher and healer who, abandoned by his closest friends, died on a tree, is what God is. And that is radical.

We talk of how incomprehensible the incarnation is, of God taking on human flesh and weakness. And yet, how often do we forget the sheer absurdity—folly to the gentiles, a stumbling block for Jews, as St. Paul says—of what this looks like? The God of all becomes a man? He comes not to praise himself, but to serve others? He dies? And this somehow glorifies the Father?

The very thing we hear James and John request is the very thing Jesus rejected when he was tempted in the desert—stability, security, and power. He does not run around flaunting his authority, telling the world how amazing he is. Instead he goes about proclaiming the kingdom of God, something which takes on flesh in feeding the hungry, freeing those wracked by evil spirits, healing sickness, reaching out to the unreachable. For what is the incarnation other than God reaching out to the unreachable, to the lost... to us? Jesus is a servant. He is the servant. He is what God wants to communicate to us each day, in each moment, in this Eucharist. He is God who is none other than Love in humble service.

The Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.

Is Racial Profiling a Reality?

The other day Fr. Steve told me about a white lady, a parishioner of his, who walked out of Queen of Peace to go to the restrooms (they're in a separate building).  In the courtyard there was a black fellow standing there, and as she got nearer to him he quickly looked down and said, "Don't worry I'm not going to kidnap you."  The lady proceeded on to her destination.

Another time Fr. Steve was walking outside and he said hello to a black man who's first reaction was "I'm not going to hurt you."  Fr. Steve paused, with a puzzled look on his face, and asked, "Why would you say that?  Why would you think that I think that you were going to put me in danger?  You're another person and you're going about your business."

And then Fr. Steve told me, "Here and many other places black men in particular are so used to being pegged by whites as violent, dangerous, or criminals, that it has so often become instinct to immediately state something like 'I am safe.  Don't worry.'  How screwed up is this?  That the first thing someone would say, based on the color of the skin of someone approaching them, would be, 'I am not a threat.  I am not going to hurt you.  I am a human being?'  Whether we like it or not, racial profiling is very real and very present in our society, and even in our parish which has been integrated for some 40 plus years.  The fear in that women's eyes as she left church, the presumption of that man that I was afraid of him, says more than you can imagine."

So I ask: why do we as a society uphold this?  Why do people feel uncomfortable walking down a street, walking on their own church property in broad day light, when there is a black man there?  Is it nothing other than racial profiling to assume that because statistically there is a disproportionate amount of black males in prison that any man of color is a threat?  Is this not wildly screwed up?

I know there are very strong feelings about the Martin and Zimmerman trial, but our president, regardless of what you think of him or regardless of your opinions on the verdict, has raised perhaps the most legitimate question concerning the case:

"And for those who -- who resist that idea, that we should think about something like these Stand Your Ground laws, I just ask people to consider, if Trayvon Martin was of age and armed, could he have stood his ground on that sidewalk? And do we actually think that he would have been justified in shooting Mr. Zimmerman, who had followed him in a car, because he felt threatened? And if the answer to that question is at least ambiguous, then it seems to me that we might want to examine those kinds of laws."

Do we really think if that had been the case that Martin would have been acquitted?  Or would he, like so many others, been judged a violent, hostile man who hated white people just because of his skin color?  That is a question no one with a conscience can ignore.


For those of you who did not see the president's full address, I highly encourage reading it:
http://www.cnn.com/2013/07/19/politics/obama-zimmerman-verdict

For those of you who may not think that racial profiling is part of the every day life for countless people, I encourage you to study and to study well the Civil Rights Movement--all that led up to it, occurred during it, and followed after the main push in the 60s until today.  I encourage you, if you ever get the opportunity, to visit the museums, the memorials, the sites of bombings, shootings, and extreme abuses of authority that have haunted our nation, particularly our Southern states in the past and very recent 50 years.  I encourage you to think of what could possibly lead someone to killing young children in a church on a Sunday morning in Birmingham.  I encourage you to question why white folks--men and women--were chased down highways, ran off roads, and shot for bringing blacks to voting registrations.  I encourage you to ask what it is that makes someone want to beat a young man--a professional with a family, an outstanding citizen--within inches of his life, then proceed to tie cinder blocks to him, and throw him off a bridge into a deep river.  I encourage you to read about the lives of the men and women, young and old, lay and cleric, black and white and everything in between, that fought nonviolently for better lives, for basic acknowledgement as citizens for blacks in our country.  I encourage you to read about those ones in particular who gave their lives so that all may have a chance at equality.

Some people wonder why many were so extremely troubled by the Supreme Court's decision to overturn aspects of the Voting Rights Acts of 1965.  To them, I say that racism, racial profiling and hatred is still very real in our country.  Why were certain states' voting procedures overseen by the federal government?  Because people were being fired, threatened, attacked, and killed when blacks tried to register to vote.  Sure, the Klan was bankrupted by a case in which they brutally murdered a black 13-year-old boy who looked at a white woman.  Sure, burning crosses and church bombings are not so much a part of our every day reality any longer.  But do we think, as an NAACP statesmen said, that just because we have elected an African-American president that racism is suddenly over?  That fear of someone based on their skin color is no longer a problem?  That seeing a black male on the street means he is going to rob or attack you?    That the fight against racial hatred is has just magically been won?

Jimmy Lee Jackson.  Shot twice in the abdomen
in February 1965 after trying to defend his mother
who had just been beaten by Alabama state
police officers.

Viola Liuzzo.  Chased down Highway 80
by four Klan Members in a truck.  As the
truck pulled aside her car, they shot her
in the head twice in March 1965.  She had
spent the week driving blacks with no
transportation to the marches.

Viola Liuzzo's car as it was found on the Selma Highway
(Highway 80)

Trips to the Hospital

Seeing someone in their final days on this earth is a rather odd experience.  Twice this week I accompanied Fr. Steve to Baptist East hospital where he was visiting one of his elderly parishioners, who after years of living in a nursing home, had just suffered from congestive heart failure and now has double pneumonia.  The first time we went was to administer the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick.   When we arrived, she was so frail with age and the signs of a heart having given out.  Her words gargled in her throat as she mustered what little energy she could to have a few words with her pastor and then do her best to respond to some of the prayers.  I was merely observing, but it was nonetheless a powerful and even overwhelming experience.  She was still quite coherent and managed to squeak out how she "wanted to go home."

Today, when we went back, she was even weaker and more difficult to understand.  Fr. Steve slowly said a few prayers with her and afterwards talked to the nurse.  Then we parted ways.  Apparently she will soon be leaving the hospital and will return to her nursing home to die.

It is so weird being with someone who is on the brink of death.  And yet, it is such a grace-filled experience knowing that the person has someone there for spiritual support and guidance during this time.  I love the word pastor, which in Latin literally means shepherd, for that role is carried out for others even until their final breath.  The last thing she said to us, after Fr. Steve had told her that the people at Queen of Peace was praying for her, was a quiet "Thank you."  I am not sure if we will see her again before she goes to her eternal rest, but I will never forget the sound and sincerity of those two words.