Flash back

November 22 – St. Cecilia’s feast day. I’m a church musician and I have visited the catacombs outside of Rome where Cecilia died. I pray not to die a martyr’s death, but I also know that music and singing stand a good chance of being a comfort to me whenever God calls me home.

November 22, 1963… I was in the 5th grade. I was being raised a good protestant Christian in a part of the country where a Roman Catholic president was regarded with suspicion at best, and disgust more likely. I had a friend whose parents took us to hear Kennedy speak when he came to the area. The local airport didn’t have a runway that could accomodate Air Force One, so they had to land in Huntsville about 70 miles away. He didn’t seem so strange.

Coming in from the playground (PE class?) I remember the day being gray and the flag at half mast. I’d never seen a flag at half mast — none of us had. And then the teachers had to explain that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. I remember watching the funeral mass on TV and talk about the color of the vestments (not black? did priests ever wear black? I don’t know). I remember little John Kennedy trying to comprehend what was going on.

I’ve been a practicing Catholic for more years now than I was a protestant. I’m a totally Vatican II type. I’m not sure I could have made the leap into the pre-Vatican II church. Today I was trying to read some documents on liturgy because of a comment made by one of our musicians today. And I sat and thought — these rules and guidelines are all well and good. But, I’m sure they matter much more to human beings than they do to the Creator. I can only maintain my sanity when I read through them and dig deeply into the underlying message. The message that reminds me that prayer is not just words, but action and attitude and listening. The message that reminds me to do my part to make a space for prayer not only for myself but for those I serve.

November 22 is a day to remember.

Truly Alive? Probably not

Yesterday was the first day in 3 weeks that I didn’t even think about taking something to make me feel more comfortable in the afternoon… (I had some surgery a little over 3 weeks ago). I’m off the antibiotics, and the stitches, for the most part seem to be healing. I’ve felt a little tired, and a little cranky at some point everyday. But not bad. So, if you asked me how I felt I would say “good.”

And then yesterday, I realized that I felt much better. I felt more normal. More like myself.

This is a physical sort of “feeling good.” But, it seems that I experience that in other ways – emotional and spiritual. I can go for long periods of time where I perceive that I am doing well only to have an “aha!” moment and realize that the absence of war is not peace. It is quite possible for me to turn off the war inside, refuse to feel, and go my merry way.

To be truly alive requires acknowledging both the pain and the joy – the love and hate of everyday life. It requires listening carefully to what these emotions tell me. It doesn’t allow for deadening the pain or tamping down the joy.

The same goes for my spiritual life… it’s not enough to just do the right things and say the right things and avoid saying bad words. Perhaps today I can be open to the Spirit and let her speak to me in the deepest parts of me. To allow myself to look at the good and the bad and be healed.

Then, perhaps, I can be truly alive.

17th Century Prayer – a daily reminder

A framed version of this prayer hangs in my kitchen as a daily reminder:

Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself, that I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others’ pains, but help me to endure them with patience.

I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessing cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint – some of them are so hard to live with – but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

AMEN

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been recovering from some surgery, and so I have to remember to ask the Lord to seal my lips on my aches and pains. Somehow, I seem to slip past the seal all too often.

Practicing (the presence of God)

I have a friend who observes: Practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect. Practice makes Permanent.

An astute observation, I think. Its truth is probably why I have such a hard time breaking bad habits. I’ve had so much practice at them, they must be treated seriously in order to stop. They are pretty well ingrained. Permanent (unless I really get out the Ajax Magic Eraser and go to work.) Its truth is also the reason I find it so easy not to make myself sit down and pull together even a single paragraph to post every morning. I’ve not practiced enough to make it a part of my life.

[My apologies, Jack, if I got this all different that you meant it.] In his homily yesterday, Fr. Jack made connections between the first reading where Ezekial sees the water (Life from God) flowing out of God’s house, the temple, and Jesus as the temple – or the house of God. God cannot be constrained by a building. God won’t fit into the Sanctuary. Jesus became the temple – so now God is in a person, walking around. The final connection is the second reading: We are all temples of God. Even me. It therefore behooves me to respect that temple that is myself.

At this point I begin to chuckle as I remember a Jimmy Buffett song in which the women character speaks in frustration at the man: “I treat my body like a temple; you treat yours like a tent.” Let’s have some respect here!

Why does this have any relationship to practice? If I am to remember that God resides with me, I have to practice. I need to write. I need to pray. I need to stop and remember, over and over and over. Until I have practiced so much that it is truly a part of me.

Erased

I’m sure we have all made mistakes. We have all exhibited some form of at least mildly unacceptable behaviour at some time in our lives. It’s a part of the learning process. However, when someone steps far outside the boundaries of acceptable behaviour and commits acts that are immoral/illegal then something must me done. Or at least we feel something must be done.

Recently, I watched from afar as someone is being erased. That’s one of the ways we cope with a broken person – someone who needs to be accountable, and at the same time needs healing. We erase them. We remove all references to them. We start the process of making them invisible. The name and the picture are removed from printed material or from a website. Connections are broken. Rooms are cleaned out. Personnel replaced. Or at a family level, the photos may have to be removed from albums and destroyed.

These actions are often needed as a part of a healing process for those who were damaged by the offender’s actions. It’s not all bad. It’s a way of moving forward and not staying focussed on the hurt. It’s probably even a part of the the process of forgiving.

I’ve heard it explained that being in “sin” is the state of being separated – separated from God. Being erased is a rather vivid image of being separated in a human sense. I’m glad that Scripture seems to tell me that God will not erase me. That there is hope – that the prodigal child can return home. I pray never to be erased from a community or a family. And I pray for healing for both those who must do the erasing, and the ones who are erased.