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.