smell the coffee

Raul is a pain in the ass.

I imply no moral judgment here. It is a fact, pure and simple.

Raul likes to ring the rectory doorbell at 5:45am on Saturdays. Saturday is the one day of the week that I do not have to be up early for Mass at any of the three parishes I celebrate at on Sundays and during the week.

I doubt that Raul knows this. If he did I would have begun this post with, “Raul is a malicious pain in the ass.” That would most definitely have been a moral judgment.

Raul rings the bell adamantly and shouts, “Padrecito!! Padrecito!!”. I can only assume, even in my sleep smeared semi-consciousness, that Raul is trying to get my attention.

Groggy and alarmed, I stumbled downstairs and opened the door the first five or six times that Raul roused me, half expecting to find someone bleeding profusely from gang inflicted shotgun wounds on the doorstep. I would not have minded getting up at 5:45 for that. Not as much, anyway.

But no, no comatose victim gasping for breath, no hugely pregnant woman on the verge of childbirth, no family of transient workers seeking refuge from immigration raids... just Raul.

Raul wants coffee.

It is amazing that I actually ran this drill five or six times before realizing that my Saturday wake-up call was summoning me, not to some life or death situation, but to Raul’s mistaking the parish for Starbucks. I must not be too intelligent.

I will not speculate on Raul’s intelligence.

The first time I responded to his beckoning, I could hardly believe my ears. I said something like, “Raul, I can hardly believe my ears!”. I told him that there would be no coffee at the rectory until 7am at the earliest. In fact, to be on the safe side, try back sometime after 10.

Raul looked at me as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and shuffled away.

In the meantime, a lot went down between 5:45 and 10am that particular Saturday and, sorry to say, I kind of forgot about Raul. Returning from hospital visits at around 10:50am, I stopped by the local Dunkin Donuts and ordered a double shot Turbo with three Splendas. This was to be my breakfast.

I got out of the car and, lost in thought, turned the corner to the rectory where I nearly stepped on Raul, who was patiently sitting on the steps.

Raul’s eyes welled up and he drew his tattered sleeve across his grimy, moist nose. “I knew it, Padrecito! I knew you did not abandon me!”

Ever the hero, I surrendered my steaming cup to this Jesus-in-disguise. Raul removed the cover and stared at its contents. “Padrecito, next time I like a little bit milk in my café.”

Weeks have passed and Raul and I have grown in our relationship. I have convinced him that Thursdays – food pantry days – are the best days for prompt and friendly service at the parish. Raul, on his part, has confided to me that he never really knows what day it is anyway so any further counseling I may wish to offer him on the issue is probably moot.

I was sorely tempted to disconnect the rectory doorbell on Saturdays, but, with my luck, the day I do one of this miserable city’s victims will actually show up at my door. I don’t even want to think about that.

So, I had the parish spring for a Braun with an automatic timer. Coffee is served from 5:45 on. There is milk in the refrigerator. All are welcome. Raul loves company.

Peace.

a prayer for the brokenhearted

.

I was celebrating a funeral Mass at 5pm this afternoon at St. Michael when my cell phone began buzzing wildly in my pocket. When Mass was over I learned that 9 young girls of our flagship school in Santiago had perished in a horrific bus accident in Putre, northern Chile.

I know some of the families of the deceased and injured and can barely imagine the pain and heart sickness of their families and the entire community that I was so deeply involved with for 10 years of my priestly ministry.

My thoughts and prayers for you all.
Peace.

withdrawl

From this:

and this:

to this:

and this:

I pine.

baba ganoush

Raisa is the archetypal mulier fortis of the vulgate septuagint.

She is a force of nature. She is Gaia. Mother Earth with an apron and an Oster Salon Pro.

I stumbled onto her unisex salon... no, no, I was led there by fate and destiny and the Oracle, one cold February Wednesday.

As she beckoned me with the curl of her sibyllic finger, I was captivated by an aroma uncommon to barber shops. Not oil, not sprays or gels or dyes. Something spicy and Mediterranean. Something the matriarchs of yesterfar would simmer and stir in terracotta pottery while dreaming of seeing their menfolk return from battle. An odor that took sole possession of the olfactory epithelium, the medulla oblongata and the loins.

A sculptor peers at a block of marble and sees Laocoon. Raisa appraises even the least promising of scalps and envisions art. She hovers over me, impatiently taps my temples to one side or the other, snorts and hyperventilates, changes clipper heads with a vengeance and in an apocalyptic flurry whips out her flat blade and slashes my neck hairs into submission.

The last time I saw Raisa she said, “Next time we try all hair, one length. Look good on head like you.”

A Greek goddess? An Armenian wonder wench? A Transylvanian she-revenant? I could only guess. But that smell...

Last Friday I went to the festival at St. George Cathedral. An ecumenical gesture and a much needed break from the rectory. As I wandered the grounds, it slowly subverted my senses... the unmistakable perfume wafting up from the depths of the fairgrounds.

Raisa! Or her progeny? I followed my nose to the food booths off to the left of the parking lot.

“This is the cradle of life!”, I told the ruddy faced woman behind the hot plate. “This is the primal puddle from which Gaia herself has sprung!”, I cried.

“No. This baba ganoush. Good for you. Eat.”

As I dipped my pita flatbread in the steaming melitzano salata and pondered the oneness of all aromas, a light breeze stirred the branches of the poplar trees behind me.

“All is one”, the zephyr whispered, “search no more.”

Peace.

know thyself

“When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man I put aside childish things. At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully as I am fully known.” (1Cor 13: 11-12)

Only the final Light will reveal us for all that we truly are. If an adult achieves only shadowy, blurry knowledge of self – as Paul admits – what introspection, what self-criticism could a child have?

In these many months since the whole LC ball of yarn began unraveling, I have engaged in a peculiar form of self torture: I try to imagine what i capi talk about behind closed doors. Especially now, without Fr. Maciel’s all defining presence setting the agenda...

Is it all just damage control? Is it business as usual, keep the rank-and-file marching to the same beat and act like nothing has happened? Is it calling in favors to stop the bleeding? Is it putting the spin machine on overdrive to keep the bubble from bursting from within? Is it denial and hope that the storm blows over?

Or is it an openness to grace, a sincere reckoning, a fearless self-questioning, an honest and transparent desire to seek and embrace the truth of who we are and what the Church needs us to be?

Archbishop O’Brien’s demanding letter and his painfully candid interview will either be dealt with begrudgingly, as another splinter of persecution from our already heavy cross, or it will be embraced and reflected upon as a call to conscience for the LC, like the others that have been issued over the past three years.

Baltimore’s Archbishop sounds ticked-off and skeptical. He fears that the LC’s institutional lack of transparency may be beyond cure. He makes it clear that only a few timely phone calls from the Curia staved off a much harsher reaction, à la Columbus, OH or St.Paul-Minneapolis.

Still, the Exorcist remains hopeful.

When I was a child, I reacted like a child... as a man I leave childish things behind.

Maybe these are the LC’s growing pains. Maybe upon denial comes acceptance and self-analysis. Maybe the LC can yet learn to trust its own and not fear transparency and change. Maybe the best is yet to come...

Peace.

charism V*

Two thoughts recurred to me over and over as I watched and listened to Pope Benedict’s US visit.

1. Jonathan Morris has become the perfect bobble-head accoutrement for the Stepford blondes of Fox News Channel.

2. Pope Benedict is clearly the right man at the right time.

In response to the first thought, I simply changed over to EWTN when the muddled Morris morass became too irritating.

In response to the second, I reread his words, hone my preaching to include his message, reflect on the powerful presence of this rather diminutive man in our scared and belligerent world...

At the gathering with seminarians and young people at Dunwoody Seminary in Yonkers on April 19, Pope Benedict had this to say about one of my preferred topics:

“Today, I wish to draw your attention to the positive spiritual renewal which congregations are undertaking in relation to their charism. The word charism means a gift freely and graciously given. Charisms are bestowed by the Holy Spirit, who inspires founders and foundresses, and shapes congregations with a subsequent spiritual heritage. The wondrous array of charisms proper to each religious institute is an extraordinary spiritual treasury... Through the discovery of charisms, which yield such a breadth of spiritual wisdom, I am sure that some of you young people will be drawn to a life of apostolic or contemplative service. Do not be shy to speak with religious brothers, sisters or priests about the charism and spirituality of their congregation. No perfect community exists, but it is fidelity to a founding charism, not to particular individuals, that the Lord calls you to discern. Have courage!”


The renewal of religious congregations is undertaken, that is, consciously and willingly brought about, in relation to their charism.

Hmmm. Funny how this specific topic should come up on the Pope’s visit. That deja vu thing all over again.

It is remarkable to see the varied perspectives that religious institutes have on their own charism. For some it’s a single, black-and-white virtue that can be succinctly stated. For others it’s like the night sky that contains the same stars, but can be looked at again and again from different angles, with a view to plumbing its depths ever more diligently.

I consider the most outstanding element of the LC’s charism to be the radical Christ-centeredness of its spirituality. Everything begins and ends for the LC priest, during the long years of his formation and forever after during the exercise of his ministry, with the person of Jesus Christ. Our studies, our preaching, our apostolates, our interaction with the world at large have Him at the center of it all.

To be totally, obsessively centered on the person of Christ in these times when doubt concerning His historical reality, theological confusion often disguised as tolerance and interreligious dialogue, vague neo-gnostic spiritualities that distort His singular and mysterious identity, fundamentalist and apocalyptic ranting that enslave and diminish His truth, indifference and skepticism that portray Him as a cartoon or worse...

This is the renovating quality – charism – given the Church and the priesthood through the Legion. The right gift at precisely the right moment...

A second undeniable element of LC charism follows immediately from the first: a bold and unfettered rediscovery of priestly identity.

In the LC, the priest is not a manager or an administrator, a psychologist or an ecologist, a political wonk or a social engineer. He is, as Fr. Maciel relentlessly insisted to all of us, Alter Christus. The world has the right and the reason to expect it of us. HE is all we need to be.

A third, unmistakable element of our charism is our steadfast and enthusiastic allegiance to the Chair of Peter. This aspect of our spirit needs to be freed from the embarrassing hubris we’ve been known to indulge in at times... the vacuous cheerleading, the self-marketing that draws dangerously close to a manipulation of the hierarchy, the lobbying and the influence peddling, the peculiarly myopic ecclesiology that seems to ignore or disdain the many forms of fidelity and service that do not reflect our penchant for double-breasted suits, shiny black shoes and pressed French cuffs...

Our adhesion to Peter is best expressed in our ability to help the faithful in far away places appreciate the universality of the Church, feel the closeness of Rome, make accessible the teaching of the Popes and the Councils, know the pride of being part of the living Tradition that stems from Christ and His apostles. Our commitment to being ever and always at the Holy Father’s disposal is a staple of our Founder’s inspiration.

Another facet of our charism is harder for me to express. For now, I’ll call it “apostolic versatility”. The name may not catch on, but I consider it one of the LC’s most surprising qualities. It is experienced as a conviction and a drive. A conviction that no place, no situation, no realm of human experience is to be excluded a priori from our evangelizing mission. It is a drive to plunge headlong into all sorts of initiatives, attempt all types of projects, get involved – opportune et importune – in every field of activity imaginable in order to spread the Word.

We really believe we can bring the presence of Christ to education, politics, science, economics, entertainment, art and literature, city and country anywhere in the world. This inevitably means that we fail and succeed, we change course and move on without much notice, we make fools of ourselves just to get a foot in the door (i.e. J.Morris!) and we try things that even the most believing of LCs may have their doubts about.

It is a gift of the Spirit no to be afraid, not to be stuck to one form of apostolate, one type of ministry... to feel the urgency – collectively, as a congregation – to be involved and active in all the ventures and circumstances of our times. We have to resist the temptation to measure our results purely in numbers, we have to avoid strangling ourselves with our own methodology and we must teach ourselves to avoid the spotlight. If we can learn to sincerely prefer anonymity and collaboration to domination and control, there is no telling to what distant reaches our “apostolic versatility” may take us.

When I ask myself about our charism, these elements are the most deeply etched on my soul in thirty years as an LC. I have spoken and continue to converse at length with many brothers about these things and am heartened by our strong consensus. And I think we barely scratch the surface, which bodes well for us...

Peace.


* Haters might do well to skip this post. All that is true and right about the LC is for them either propaganda or duplicity. This modest commentary on some of the finer aspects of LC charism will not be to their liking.
Bitterness and spite, alas, are demons the Exorcist cannot drive out.

hosanna

At the 12 noon Mass on Sundays, the youth choir sings a rousing version of the Sanctus.
Güiro. Bongos. Cowbell. Conga line. Ritmo, muchachos, ritmo.

Nothing you’d find in the Liber Usualis.

The Hosanna chorus is the apex of the song’s enthusiasm. The stained-glass windows rattle. Folks clap and sway. Even Doña Clorinda in the front row by the sagrario gets momentarily distracted from her end-of-days rosary marathon.

One little guy, maybe four years old, wears eyeglasses, who’s always there with his mom actually anticipates the moment with a dance-like motion in his pew. He knows it’s coming. He stays with me through the Preface, arms extended like mine, his head trying to stay focused but his body slowly getting the better of him. He virtually explodes with holy power as the guitars and keyboard lead into the first “Santo, Santo, Santo!”

It is a weekly display of unfettered delight and religious innocence that I do not tire of watching. I muse nostalgically that the Almighty must revel in this shorty’s ecstasy as He did when David danced before the Ark of the Covenant.

Today, however, I discovered that our tiny dancer’s fervor is slightly misplaced.

He gets stuck on Hosanna, so it’s not unusual to hear him during communion or as we exit at the end of Mass, waving and smiling... and shouting the favorite word of his favorite song.

His mom says to me in the door of the church as they leave, “You know, Padre, Nico gets up early every Sunday and wakes me up with the same question.”

“Really, what’s that?”

“Mami, are we going to see Hosanna today?”

“To sing Hosanna?”, I ventured hopefully.

“No, No. To SEE Hosanna. You’re Hosanna and every Sunday we go to a fiesta at your house...”

.................

A note to the mothers of our parish:

Speak to your children. Tell them who Jesus is. Convince them that God exists.
Explain to them the Holy Mass. Set them on the road of orthodoxy and warn them to look neither to their right nor their left lest they stray.

And in the meantime, just call me Hosanna...