MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: CHEAP AT TWICE THE PRICE

You might have picked up from the grand lack of postings last week or so that I and everybody who works for Adam's Ale went on a staff vacation last week.  So I just decided to shut down the offices.  Thanks for checking up and coming back now that the blog is up and running again.

As I do every year, I slip on down to one of our warmer states for a few days to stock up on vitamin D so that I might be a better pastor to the people of the parish.  This of course means jumping on an airplane first.  Is it just me or did all of TSA go through extreme curtesy classes?  The lines were not only short and free of hassle, it seems they were all eerily nice.

I am the grateful guest of some friends who live in a state under the sun.  They are so kind but it so obvious that I do not belong there other than for a visit.  It reminds me of my sister who moved to the south and they could pick her out because of her northern accent.  Then she came back here with a slight twang, said things like "you all" and "howdy" and we tagged her a southerner.  She has become a woman without a cardinal direction to call her own.

I am a true northerner and was apparent the moment I stepped off of the gangway of the airplane.

Also, nobody has facial hair down there.  It's like their faces are naked and they just walk around like that without shame.

We had a Pre-Cana retreat this last weekend at St. Sebastian.  There were a lot of couples there.  I would say half of the men had beard that were somewhere between fierce and epic.  Another quarter had beards that were nothing to be ashamed of.  And the last quarter walked around with too much facial skin showing.  These are my people.  Of course, now I'm afraid to trim my beard back for Easter as I promised my sister because of tan lines . . . 

Good people of St. Joseph - you are in for a surprise this weekend.  Please be kind and supportive.  You will understand after you read your bulletin.

But that is not the only thing that separated me from those among whom I vacationed.  It was a bit of a resort area where people liked to spend good money.  Everybody had beautiful, expensive haircuts.  Gender wasn't a factor.  You needed a good haircut to fit in well at the local coffee shop.

Clothes too.  As a matter of fact, after coming back and talking with Fr. Gearing at St. Adelbert, we both came to the conclusion that we have turned into old bachelors that don't have good women to nag us that we have been wearing the same clothes for 10 years.  We have made a commitment to upgrade our closets.  I began last week by ordering nice clerical shirts (man! are they expensive!)  and Wednesday, the day away from the parish for both of us, we are going to go out and look at suits.  And shoes.  Not more buy one pair get one pair for half off at the Woolworths.

All and all, it is a wonderful, fun, beautiful place to visit and I am so terribly grateful for the experience.  But . . .

Which is, of course, the purpose of a vacation.

DON'T BELEIVE THE SCARECROW

Over time things can become skewed.  We pay attention to the paintings at the Stations of the Cross and over time give more attention to them so that we forget that they are completely unnecessary.  The indulgence is connected to the wooden crosses.  And sometimes we see the stations without the crosses because we forgot which was the important piece.  

The candles on the sides of a consecrated church are supposed to light up the crosses on the walls where the oil was placed to bless the church.  Sometimes we forget this and put giant candles in the stands so that the cross is obscured.

Sometimes we are so immersed in the Protestant work ethic that we feel we have to produce, be useful, and have talent in order to be beloved.  Now, it is true that Paul said, "He who does not work should not eat."  That is about fair play, not the worth of the individual.  And it's good for the non-worker too.  Have him learn some valuable life lessons and whatnot.  But that doesn't make him any more of a person.  It doesn't make him have any more dignity.  So it is with the man in the insane asylum (I'm sure there is a more politically correct way of saying that) or on death row, or in the womb, or in the nursing home, or in an unresponsive state, or begging on the street corner.  They are no less cherished and loved by God.  And neither are you when you are feeling unproductive, unconnected, and unmotivated.  Maybe God is calling you to STOP and just BE.  "Be still," he tells us, "and know that I am God."  What you can produce is not what is special, YOU are what makes you special.  He did create you after all.    

And it does not matter how much you are loved.  "A heart is not measured by how much you love," says the Scarecrow, "but by how much you are loved by others."  Horse pucky.  Do you know who some of the most difficult people on the face of the earth were to live with?  Saints.  St. Jerome was so irascible there was an effort to get him kicked out of the league of saints.  True love can be a very difficult thing with which to live in this world.

Stop rating.

Stop comparing yourself.

How much you can produce.  How much you are loved.  These are things the world cares about.  These measures help the world determine who doesn't matter that much, who we can throw away, who's life we can extinguish.  All these things don't work if you have inherit dignity and worth and are loved by the only One who really matters and Who promises the healing of hearts when you finally come to Him.

Every hurt is an opportunity for healing.  Every lonely minute will make ultimate love all the more blissful.  Every ounce of feeling worthless will make the revealing of your dignity all the more mind-blowing.  Every tear, every rejection, every anguish, every humiliation is, for those who love Him, a stored blessing.

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: ABUSUS NON TOLLIT USUM

The above phrase roughly translates, "The abuse of anything does not abrogate the lawful use thereof."  And after the word "love," the currently most abused word in the English language is "actually."  Woken up out of bed early in the morning, it is put to hard labor all day carrying on tasks for which it was not hired until collapsing on its bed at night, exhausted and worn, barely able to say its night prayers and smarting from the abuse it had been put through during the day.  That is why I am on a one man campaign to end the abuse of the word "actually."  I am . . .

Believe me, I know my English is not perfect.  Both on this blog and at the end of a homily people will let me know how I have managed to mangle Englishdom.  Remember the problem I was having with effect and affect?  This probably has more to do with me covering over my own inadequesies (such as in spelling) a kin to the middle aged man with a wife, five kids, and a dog who buys a two seated Porsche.

 

But the problem is pretty serious.  People use the word so much they don't even hear it anymore or realize that they are saying it.

Think of all the waisted time.  If we cut the word "actually" out of the typical one hour meeting, I bet we could get out ten minutes earlier.  Even texting would be less time consuming.

The problem is, once you notice it, you can't stop noticing it.  It gets under your skin.  And like an ex-smoker, once you stop your dirty habit everything in you wants everybody else to stop also.

But you have to be careful.  Because just when you are getting all high and mighty, someone comes along and zaps you right back

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: HE HAS CAST DOWN THE MIGHTY FROM THEIR THRONES

So,

 

I like to go to concerts.  Not rock concerts . . . well, I do like the occasional rock concert but that is not what this post is about.  It's about going to concerts where the audience is expected to listen.  And I liked to consider myself a normal guy who happens to enjoy going to listen to the creations of persons who, in their own day, were considered the equivelent of rock stars (althought rock n' roll did not yet exist) but that today we give their music the unfortunate moniker of "classical."  Then I discovered, much to my dismay, that I am a snob.  I am.  I am a snob.

 

Not a snob because I happen to like classical music.  That in itself does not make a person a snob unless one is snobbish about it.  The kind of snob I am talking about is that I thought I was a superior audience member.

 

(I can't believe I am actually telling you this.  I think it is because it is my public penance for a private sin.)

 

Here is what I talking about.  I considered myself above hoi polloi who make announcements such as this one necessary:

I mean, there you are, in the middle of a quite interlude of music and someone goes to town like an asthmatic cow that just swallowed a wasp.

The word in the bubble was supposed to be "Really?"

I think of all the things I was taught to avoid interrupting other people's enjoyment of a production.  Swallow.  Live with it until a more appropriate time.  Breathe deeply.

 

Seriously, couldn't these rude people hold on to their discomfort for a few moments???  Come on! 

 

It reminds of the line from the movie "Shakespeare in Love" in which a young William, angry at his audience, blurts out, "Will Shakespeare has a play!  Let us go and cough through it!"

 

Now mind you, this was all just in my head.  But it was there none-the-less.

 

Then it happened to me.  You know those little plastic swords that they pierce blue cheese stuffed olives with to put in a dirty martini (I only know because I Googled it), it felt like the devil himself jabbed one into the back of my throat.

It was the most exquisite pain ever.

Of course it was during the longest, quietest part of the whole concert.  Nothing I did would relieve it in the least.  I tried swallowing.  Nope.  Ignoring it.  Nope.  It was becoming a bit difficult even to just muscle through.  It was like in the movie "Alien" where Sigourny Weaver is trying not let the baby alien burst out of her body.  Impossible.  I had to try a very subtle clearing of my throat.

It was a waste of time and just added to the annoyance.  The devil in my throat just laughed, jabbed the little plastic sword deeper and started twisting it.  Seriously.

Christ hung on a cross for THREE HOURS and I couldn't take a tiny plastic sword in the back of my throat for three minutes.  I had no soothing throat lozenges with me because of course I would never need them.

My willpower faded like a spring pansy in a late August drought and finally I gave in and let go with a true, loud, horrible cough.

I would like to take this opportunity to truly apologize to anyone about whom I may have thought of poorly because you had to cough during a concert or play.  I now realize that there may have been no other alternative and until I am willing to sit through a concert with a plastic sword in the back of my throat, I shall no longer think the worst but assume you had no other choice.

 

God bless you.

KNOWING WHAT IT IS MAKES IT EASIER TO LIVE

Here is a quick lesson in humility:

Three men each have $10. The first man brags about how much money he has. The second man says, “Oh, I am so broke! I barely have two nickels to rub together.” The third man is very blunt. “I have $10. $2 are accounted for so I have $8 to spend.”

The three men each went out with friends. The man who bragged how much money he had got himself into a scrape. He and his friends spent more than they had and they were mad at him for making it sound like they need not worry. “He who exalts Himself shall be humbled.”

The second man went out with his friends. They drank water and ordered the cheapest things they could because they knew they would have to pay for him also since he claimed to be broke. When they found out he was flush they were mad at him for being a cheap skate and bumming off of them.

The man who was humble about his finances, humility meaning living in truth, always enjoyed the company of good friends even if he was a bit blunt at times because he was trustworthy, always fulfilled what he promised, didn’t offer more than he could do nor did he hide anything forcing others to take on more responsibility. He was happier too for he did not need to work in order to maintain a false façade of greatness or lowliness.

Humility is nothing more than living truth.

MONDAY DIARY: HUMILITY, HUMILITY, AND EVER MORE HUMILITY

If you were a reader last week you know that I was on retreat. Trinity Retreat House is one of the very few places that caters almost exclusively to priests. If you would like to take a peek at it plug in the address here: 1 Pryer Manor Road, Larchmont, New York. If you travel down the road north east a bit (toward the unsuspecting person out for a constitutional) and then look to your left you can see the old carriage house that has the retreat house offices and the living quarters of Fr. Benedict Groeschel. Very humble, very humble.

It was thoroughly reinvigorating. The daily schedule went like this:

8:15 Breakfast
9:15 Morning Prayer and Conference
11:30 Mass with Conference
12:30 Lunch
Break – (This is when I would go on a hike – pray and light a candle at St. Augustine, get a cup of coffee and read and then pop by the library to update the blog.
5:00 Evening Prayer and Conference
6:00 Dinner
7:00 Confessions
8:00 Holy Hour and Conference.
9:00 Recreation

Mind you, Fr. Groeschel is up in years, was hit by a car and brought back from the dead, recently had a stroke, and put on most of this retreat and did a darn good job it. Amazing. The only part he did not do was part of Wednesday when the other priest at Trinity, Fr. Gene Fulton (also amazing) took over because Fr. Groeschel had to go with his community to elect a new superior. (That was fun hearing how that took place and seeing SO MANY young men in habits and beards who are joining this quickly growing community.) But after a day of meetings came back and continued our retreat. Wow.

At one of the evening conferences, Fr. Benedict came in to the chapel, made his way to his chair slowly, settled himself in and began telling the story of some time he spent with Mother Theresa. Apparently they were having some communication difficulties and Father was begging off of a project. She told him to sit down, and as he said, “When Mother asks you to sit, you sit.” She asked him, “Do you know why you are priest?”

“I don’t know Mother. Is it because he has a sense of humor?”

“No,” she replied, “you are a priest because of God’s humility.”

The six priests gathered gave a collective gasp – sat back against our chair backs as if physically pushed. Not because Mother Theresa would dare say such a thing to Fr. Benedict but because we knew it to be true – for all of us. For a moment – spiritually – we were all naked. Every priest knows (or SHOULD know) that he was chosen to be a priest not because he was the smartest, cleverest, holiest, most obedient, handsomest, most loved, or even the most talented. He is a priest by sheer grace – because of the humility of God. It is completely gift. You are a priest only because God can work with you – and perhaps most of the time in spite of you. And it is simply a deepening of grace if one comes to know this, believe it, and simply be grateful that he has the honor – because of God’s humility - to a priest of Jesus Christ.

LESSON IN HUMILITY FROM A SAINT

The talented Saint Kansas sent this little reality check:
What is this pie chart supposed to represent:

A) Those who are most likely to be taken seriously by the media.
B) Person most likely to be allowed to speak at your local public school.
C) Person most likely to be missed at a 10 year old's birthday party.
D) All of the above.

Humility, humility, and ever more humility.