Be Not Idle

Between the antics of Barack Obama’s pastor Wright and the general negativity of politics, I was determined to keep away from TV and Web news during Holy Week. However, I made sure to listen to ”Anything Is Possible”, my favorite radio show.

I’m glad I did. Jack Krasula’s guest was Pastor Harvey Carey. He grew up on the south side of Chicago and, after pursuing a business degree, became a minister in the ’80s. In 2003, he believed God was calling him to move his family to Detroit and found a church:   The Citadel of Faith Covenant Church.

The interview was fascinating, but two moments especially touched me. First, when the Rev. Carey talked about how he was willing to pick up and move - even though he knew nothing about Detroit – because he knew God had given him a mission. That’s the Christian struggle right there: We embrace our share of suffering if a cross is handed us, but we balk if God asks us to go out and meet it.

The second moment came when he recommended reading different translations of the Bible, to read it in different versions in order to see it afresh. And he specifically mentioned reading the Book of Wisdom.  A Protestant aquaintance recently mentioned that some of my quotes “aren’t from MY Bible”, so it was amazing to hear a Baptist minister encourage it. 

The Rev. Carey also discussed the reaction of other African-American pastors when they saw that his church was multicultural. He asked them where the Bible forbids the mixing of races in a church, and was met with an acknowledgement that the Gospels teach no such thing – but they opposed it anyway.

That’s what sickens me about Christians who are bigots: They ignore that Our Lord went to the Samaritans and the other outsiders. They ignore the accounts of how Christianity became opened to the Gentiles. And when ministers are bigots, they ignore Acts 10, in which Peter’s vision  reveals that God has forbidden him to call any people profane or unclean.

If you’re interested in listening to the complete interview, check out the “Anything Is Possible” website (listed under Media Matters in my blogroll). It will show up in the archives in about a week. 

You may want to check out the archives, which include interviews with people ranging from doctors to politicians (including Sen. John McCain).

Indonesian ornithologists identified an extremely rare bird. It’s Zosterops somadikartai, or Togian white-eye. Its range seems to be limited to the coasts of three small islands of the Togian Islands.

Dr. Pamela Rasmussen, a Michigan State University taxonomist, completed the formal classification.  She commented, “The world still holds avian surprises for us.”

 You may think, “This isn’t about faith! It’s about your weird obsession with birds!”  To the contrary - my obsession is the black phase Eastern gray squirrel.

Plus, the discovery of a new bird complements today’s homily. It was very short, since the presiding priest is one of our five “senior priests” (retired yet tireless Fathers On Extended Loan From God). They know that a few choice words are all it takes to  reach our hearts.

Father’s homily reminded us that we get so used to the Gospel that we forget that the Passion is the most important event in history. We need to re-read the accounts in order to see it with new eyes. In other words, we have to be like those ornithologists who spent years distinguishing the Togian white-eye from flocks of  similar birds.

To that end, Father gave us all what he called a “homework assignment”. We are to read Matthew’s account on Tuesday, Luke’s account on Wednesday, and then listen to John’s account on Good Friday.

The story is here:

 http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080314/sc_nm/bird_indonesia_d c

I went to confession on Saturday. It’s the first time I’ve gone that I haven’t felt uplifted when I left.

I headed out early because I’ve arrived a few minutes after 3 pm and the priest is already gone. (At such times, I have considered  pounding on the door of the rectory and offering to pay Father overtime. But I really don’t want one of those horrible penances that I used to hear about in grade school.**)

Today there was no danger of the priest going home early. The lines were long and there were two priests. Despite all the people, the church was very quiet. The gurgle of the radiators sounded loud and there was a woodpecker tapping somewhere outside. 

A beautiful child with almost-white hair and delicate fingers watched everything with huge eyes, but said practically nothing. He or she climbed out the pew once to stand in the aisle and slowly twirl around as only a young child does – twirling because it’s fun to be a little dizzy, but slowly because balance is such a hard thing to keep when you aren’t even two years old. The only sound the child made was a delighted “ah!” when its brother returned from confession; the boy received a huge back-patting hug from the younger child.  (Which, when I think about it, is probably the appropriate “welcome back” for a repentant sinner.)

I didn’t mind waiting. Holy Cross is a beautiful church. It’s even more impressive now that I know so much of what I see is an illusion. It used to be plain wooden interior save for the statues and windows. During the Depression, a painter was hired to paint the interior.  The “marble” pillars are wooden – and perhaps plaster, judging from the cracks near their crowns. The golden patterns around the altar are gilt. 

My favorite window is the one facing north. It depicts Jesus reaching out a hand as Peter begins sinking into the water as he attempted to walk to Our Lord. In the right panel is Noah’s ark with a dove flying above it. To the left is a tall-sailed ship. At the bottom is the exhortation “Pray for our sailors.”

I was looking at the stations of the cross – specifically Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross – when a lady came up behind me. She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned forward to talk to me. ”This isn’t the line for face-to-face, is it?”

“No,” I said. “That’s the other side.” She sat behind me. Anonymous confessions are preferred by us Hard Cases. If the priest recognizes us, he might think we’re sinners.  

We were a motley crew, as sinners always are. A white-haired lady walked up the aisle with the deliberate care of the fragile. A brawny 20-something man still wore his red work apron as he sat next to his mother. A couple came with their three little children.

It got a little noisier when one of the gentleman went to the other side – the Mary side – to go face-to-face. He was 87 and, apparently, nearly deaf. Everyone smiled as he loudly began his confession. Several people nearby moved away discretely.    

As for my confession, I must admit I was disappointed. The visiting priest actually stopped and explained that I’m not lying if the person has no right to the information AND  silence would be seen as incriminating.  I’ve read about that, of course, but it was still a little startling to be told that in confession. What compounded it was that he later explained that one shouldn’t feel a duty to attend Mass, but to do it out of love. (As my favorite little guy would say, “Can’t I do BOTH?”)

 I think I know what he was trying to say, but it sounded rather as if he were a lawyer who was advising me not to plead guilty but cut a deal. Maybe he’s one of those priests who want to put people at their ease so they don’t leave the Church.

 The penance was nothing: think about what God wants of me and say an “Our Father” sometime during the day. And here I was worried about an Old School penance of novenas and sacrifices. Or maybe I was hoping for it, hence my discontent. 

**Example of one of those legendary horrible penances:

A habitual gossip kept confessing the same sin to the priest. Finally, he gave her a different penance.

“Take a feather pillow and climb into the bellfrey,” he said. “Scatter the feathers to the winds. Then climb down and gather those feathers wherever they’ve fallen.”

“But, Father,” she protested, “that’s impossible! I could spend my whole life and never find them all!”

“Just as you could spend your whole life trying to take back every bit of gossip you’ve scattered around this town,” said the priest.

Julia at Happy Catholic (see my blogroll) posted one of my Grandpa O’Rourke’s favourite jokes. Here’s another.

****

Two Irish brothers, Pat and Mike, put their money together and bought a fine cow. She was a prodigious milker and always gave birth to twins.

“We’ll split it down the middle,” said Pat. “You choose which half you want.”

Now Mike was sly, so he said, “I choose the back half.”

Pat couldn’t go back on his word, but he soon regretted the bargain. He had to feed and water the front half, but Mike got the milk and the calves from the back half. Pat had to lead the front of the cow to pasture and into the barn, but Mike got the manure for fertilizer.

Finally Pat was fed up, so he went out one morning and killed the cow. Mike was furious and took his brother to court. The judge asked Pat, “Did you slaughter your brother’s cow without his consent?”

“No, Your Honor,” says Pat. “I killed my half. His half died.”

Fill us with Your love that all our days we may sing for joy. – Psalm 90:14

For a few days, I have heard the familiar chirp of the robin. However, the first robin of spring is never official until I see it. Yesterday I finally did.

Often people make disparaging remarks about the climate of the Midwestern States. They speak of ice and snow as if those were all there are to life here. But there’s a beauty to autumn – the changing of the light, the particular crispness of the air, the glowing color of maple leaves against a gray sky – that’s more pronounced than in warmer climes.

I spent one spring in Florida and noticed that the season wasn’t as astonishing as it is Michigan or Ohio. When crocuses poke out of the snow, even if it seems too early - perhaps ESPECIALLY if it’s too early -  joy alights in the heart. Even if you like winter, there’s still a certain childlike sense of anticipation for those first signs of spring.

 Perhaps the best example I’ve ever had occurred when I was taking classes at Wayne State University in Detroit.  It was early February, an overcast day in which the only brightness seemed to be the dull white of snowbanks. I was walking past  the School of Education when I heard a robin singing. I stopped and looked for it.

I wasn’t the only one.  The sidewalk was dotted with people, heading in different directions, and several paused. The robin was on a bare tree, singing its song to attract a mate. Someone commented that it was the first robin; another that spring was coming. We smiled at each other as we went on our way.  No matter the forecast, we knew winter was at its end.

Looks like I’m going to be “doing Easter”, as we say. I have never cooked a turkey before, so it looks like ham wil be the main course. Unless I find myself with enough time to make lasagna – even though that’s breaking custom. Lasagna, as everyone knows, is the traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

Oh, you didn’t know that? 

It’s funny how things will become customary very quickly. Sometimes the traditions have little to do with the point. What the heck is up with those “Easter” bunnies?  Why do “spring cleaning” when coal-caused grime is no longer an issue? When was the last time anyone kicked a football made from pigskin?

But I digress…

Lasagna began its ascent to Christmas Eve glory because my mother wanted something she could cook ahead of time and set aside, rather than adding to the volume of cooking – and stress - of Christmas Day. Still,  there is an elegance and ceremony to it. Everyone dresses for church and the table is neatly laid with the best linen, “good” dishes, silverware, and candles. Wine is served (St. Julian’s winery in Paw Paw, Mich. is a favorite source). The lasagna travels from oven to table in a casserole basket woven of gold-toned wire. Afterwards we go to Mass and – before or after – we open our presents.

My father made pancakes on Christmas Day – the simple yet festive breakfast of the lumberjack camps.  Although he had moved out of the U.P. (the Upper Peninsula of Michigan), no doubt his Yooper blood gave him the power to make the special blueberry pancakes. Mmmm…

My family doesn’t pig out on Shrove Tuesday, not being of Polish descent and therefore bound to consume paczkis (POONCH-keys), otherwise known as the Donuts of Doom. Imagine a jelly-filled donut with enough lard to choke an ox. In the Detroit Metro area, it’s a cross-cultural event.  Self-deluded locals call it “Paczki Day” because they can’t bring themselves to call it “FAT Tuesday”.  (And nutritionists wonder why Detroit is one of the fattest cities in the nation – it’s all the paczkis!)

 To my family, the end of Lent is marked with a feast.  It’s the blow-out. The appetizers range from cheese to pickles. Beer and pop (aka soda pop) are the beverages of choice. The dinner, served at 2 o’clock, is arranged on a circuit through the kitchen and into the hallway. First are the meats, usually a ham, Swedish meatballs, and sometimes a beef dish. Then comes the salads: greens, mixed bean, coleslaw, and potato. There’s zucchini bread (courgette bread to my UK friends), fluffy rolls dusted with flour, real butter…. The desserts can be anything from dirt pie to bunnycake – and frequently both. 

 Supper comes later, when bread is brought out and everyone makes sandwiches of their choice. I especially miss Grandma O’Rourke’s homemade bread, which has seldom been matched by any baker.

“The Indians of Arbre-coche are almost all converted, except for some good-for-nothing stubborn ones, who do better in not dishonoring our holy religion by accepting it. – Frederick Baraga, in a letter dated June 25, 1835

Frederick Baraga, the first bishop of Marquette, Michigan, is one of my heroes. I pray that he will be declared saint; his cause for canonization has been sent to the Vatican. He was a generous and selfless man who trekked the wilderness on snowshoes during the winter and travelled by canoe, all to care for God’s people – especially the ones who didn’t know Him.

He was also feisty, as his letter attests.

“Perhaps the saddest figure of all is Judas. We forget that Judas was one of the apostles. (…) But Judas remained his own worst enemy even to the end, walking past the place of the crucifixion to hang himself. He had to walk near Calvary, since the whole area is not very large. Having destroyed his reputation, the whole engagement of his life, he could have turned around and gone to Calvary and knelt at the foot of the Cross and asked for forgiveness. (…) His conversion is the page that is not written, because Judas destroyed himself – out of self-hatred, out of resentment, out of hopelessness.” – Arise from Darkness by Fr. Benedict J. Groeschel, C.F.R.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been brooding over some of my students. I’m not sure if they’ve been particularly bad lately or I’ve been particularly impatient at their usual querulous and lazy ways. Sometimes I wonder how I can make their lives better and put some fire in them for learning; other times, I wonder if I could set them on fire for NOT learning. (”J-k,” as the kids say.)

Maybe it’s because it’s Lent, but sometimes I feel ashamed that I’m Catholic. Not in the “I’ll be embarrassed if my peers find out I’m one of THOSE people” way. More along the lines of, “I’m really poor example of Catholicism.” I am impatient and have a quick temper. I fall asleep when I pray. My mind frequently wanders away at Mass (nevermore to return). I’m not sure what my purpose in life is; I’ve got the “know” and “love” parts down, but not that pesky “serve God”. 

But then – perhaps because it’s Lent and Lent does this to me – I think about Judas. I also think about that young man mentioned in the gospel of Mark, the one who was a follower of Jesus when He was arrested. The crowd grabbed him by his clothes, but he tore free from them, running away naked as Adam.

How many times do I walk away from my Lord Jesus? How many times, when pressed by students do I shake free from the command to love because it’s just too difficult to be patient or too easy to be angry? I worry that I stand in my own way and, like the might-have-been-saints, don’t serve God as I should. 

Early this morning, I woke to what sounded like a redwing blackbird’s trill. When I looked out the window, I saw all the snow that had fallen (and was continuing to fall).  I must have been dreaming of spring.

Late this afternoon, I saw that the juncos, chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and other regulars had eaten all the suetcake and all but a few inches of seeds in the birdfeeder. The snow was (and is) still coming down, so I decided to forego the trip to the shed for more food. Instead, I opened a bag that I had in the front closet. I filled a shallow baking pan and set it squarely in the snow on my deck. (Nothing says “bachelorette” like pouring a mix of seeds and freeze-dried beetle larva into a baking dish on one’s diningroom table. A hubby would have felt a bit ill, I’m sure!)

Almost instantly there was a large flock of dark birds covering the pan, some hopping high up and landing in a tight spot in their attempts to jockey a better position. The were at least 12 pairs: glossy black males and barred brown females. I’d never seen their like, so I got out the bird books and checked.

While I was peering out, I saw him: a male redwinged blackbird. He alternated between joining the crowd and perching aloof on the nearby shepherd’s crook. He must have gotten mixed in with the flock in more southerly climes and migrated north. He’s awfully early.

After a bit of searching, I found that the other birds are Brewer’s blackbird (named after Thomas Mayo Brewer, who studied eggs). From the Michigan birding book, I learned that it’s extremely rare to see them in Michigan – but sometimes they’re seen during their migration from mid-March onward. There are a couple of grackles with them, too, it seems.

“God resolves all given time,” said Cai philosophically and trudged away into darkness. And Cadfael returned along the path with the uncomfortable feeling that God, nevertheless, required a little help from men, and what He mostly got was hindrance.”

- A Morbid Taste for Bones by Ellis Peters, first in the series

I can’t remember the first Brother Cadfael mystery that I read, but I ended up collecting the whole series (in paperback, of course). I had never heard of Ellis Peters (the pseudonym of Edith Pargeter), so I knew nothing about her research or expertise. However, I was struck by the details she included. I had been reading many medieval texts in Spanish.  She gave a good look at the day-to-day life in the monastary and its environs. Her books had the added attraction of being lighter reading El poema del mio Cid.

Morbid Taste for Bones was published in 1977, long before I read mysteries or romances.  However, she went on to write 20 novels and three short stories about Brother Cadfael, the last paperback of which came out posthumously in the States. I gradually collected them all, most by scouring used bookstores and charity book sales.

I had never devoured mystery novels like my friend M’e did, nor did I enjoy my friends’ tastes for romance novels. Peters did mysteries well, although I was able to pin down a couple murderers early in their stories. Her sense of the romantic was something new to me: No clothing-ripping, heaving chests, etc. Many of them occurred between good-looking young people, but there were also depictions of married couples, ”courtly” love, and loyalties tested.  

As I re-read the stories now, it’s interesting to compare the way that Peters changed her approach to the monk and his surroundings as she continued. This first book has an edge of disbelief to it, with a clearly politically-motivated prior and a suspicious “miracle” that sends a group of English monks to Wales to retrieve a saint’s relics.

Brother Cadfael is a man of the world, a former Crusader who joined a monastary life after years of travel and service as both a sailor and a soldier.  His vocation comes at the end of his service, when he’s in his 50’s.  Although some of the characters seem to cast doubt on the authenticity of religious belief, it’s clear even in Morbid Taste for Bones that Cadfael is no hypocrite. It’s a young monk who literally whispers skeptical and often sardonic comments in his ear. 

Eventually in the series – and I’m hard-pressed to say exactly where – the beauties of faith, hope and charity become more important than even mundane things like murder and politics. By the time of the last book, Brother Cadfael’s Penance, the full weight of Cadfael’s disobedience and its consequences are laid out plainly.

At any rate, I highly recommend the series.