“FATHER”:
SOME WORDS ARE HEAVIER

THAN OTHER WORDS

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily is, “’Father’: Some Words Are Heavier Than Other Words.”

Today the word, “father” is heavier than other days.  It’s Father’s Day.

It has or had much heavier feelings if your father died and it was his funeral day or his anniversary day.

And it all depends who your father is …. how much the word weighs on you.

If your father died, who was your father - and do you have anyone to talk to about him? Tell good stories about him.

If he is alive, give him a great shout out - obviously - today.

Compliments, “Thank you’s”,  appreciation, affirmation, are important for every human being - on Father’s Day especially - and at least one good one every week.

If your dad needs to be forgiven - some people have been hurt by their dads - please try to forgive him. I know a woman whose father was drunk all through her growing up years - and when she told her psychiatrist, that she forgave her dad in the hospital when was dying, the psychiatrist said, “Are you crazy after all he did to you?” She answered, “I had to. I wanted to. Don’t you realize it was just what I had to do for me too?”

There are stories and there are stories.

If you are a dad and you need forgiveness - say you’re sorry and ask for forgiveness - but remember timing is everything - and a spoonful of honey is better than a barrel of vinegar - every time.

Cuts and wounds - hurts and recovery - rebuilding and repair - all take time. Lots of time. Lots of listening. Lots of understanding.

FATHER’S DAY

What does Father’s Day mean to you?

What does your father mean to you?

Father can be a heavy word.

I know a man who talks to his father every night. His dad was a single dad - who raised him. His mom took off with another man.  He thinks back on his dad a lot - going to the cemetery on a regular basis. Sometimes we need places we can go to for certain feelings and memories and tears.

HERE ARE A FEW FURTHER STORIES TO TRIGGER YOUR STORIES AND YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT THE HEAVY WORD, “FATHER”.

I’m only on page two of this homily - so let me present some scenarios to trigger some further  Father’s Day thoughts.

It’s Father’s Day 1970 and my father is struggling with emphysema - his last year. He was 66 - born in 1904. I bought him a number’s painting of the Last Supper - for  that Father’s Day. He loved painting close up work - as in doing windows and edges and corners. I figured a number’s painting wouldn’t be too strenuous. About 9 or 10 days later at  Moses Maimonides Hospital in Brooklyn New York,  he died. He was 66 years old.  I took that painting back. He had only got to number 3 - so I finished it in memory of him - as well as the funeral mass - which was Jesus’ Last Supper - which we do in memory of him. I remember the painting being over 53 numbers or so. 

Question: How else and what else do I do in memory of him? I know we both walk the same way - with feet pointing out.

My sister Mary and I are the last two left in our family and I was talking to her today on the phone about our dad. She told me that my dad bought these tiny rings - with my sisters’ initials inside them from Tiffany’s in Manhattan - when she and when my other sister had their tonsils out. When he got engaged to my mom, she didn’t want a ring. She wanted a watch. So he got her a very delicate watch which he also got from Tiffany’s. “Suits,” my sister Mary said, “he got Brooks Brothers every time.” I said, “Wow, I didn’t know that.” She said, “He liked quality.” Then she added, “And this from a man who never made over 100 dollars a week and had a 4^th grade education in Ireland.”

I was in Denver about 13 years ago  - for a wedding. I flew out on Friday. I get to the church around noon and there are about 200 men on line around a church building.  I asked in the rectory, “Who are those men out there?” The secretary said, “Oh,   they are the homeless lining up for a noonday meal.”

I can still see that line. I keep wondering - after all these years - how many men are there out there on lines - waiting to get some food - and do their children know where they are?  Did they just  get up and walk out - never to return?  Is that the story of all those cowboys out in the west in all those   Western movies I’ve seen? Did their kids spend their lives, wondering what happened to their dads?

One of my sermons was entitled, “What ever happened to what’s his name?”

Obviously, I think about all the men I was with when they pronounced their marriage vows in churches like this. Could I have done better in preparing them for marriage and family life? Does God help? Does Church help?

Obviously, I think about not being a father.  What right did I have to do that - not doing my part to continue - the family line? I am grateful for my brother having 7 daughters and my sister for having 4 kids.

Still I wonder.

I thank my parents for having that 4^th kid - me.  Thank you mom and dad.

I just recently found out - this year - that  my mom and dad got pregnant with number 5, but that was a miscarriage - but it killed my joke to my brother and sisters: “The youngest in the family is always  the best, because the parents finally got one right.”

It triggers the thought every priest hopefully feels - that a priest is given the title “father” but he better live up to it. I thought of that last Sunday night going to the hospital late at night - for  a sick call - only to get there - and find out they took the person to Mercy in Baltimore.

It hurts as priest - as Father so and so - when someone complains - that I called and couldn’t get a priest.

It kills every priest when he reads in the paper about a priest who abused others - ugh. Not too nice a day to hear that.  There is a certain silence in the room when watching the news with another priest or two or three - and the local news tells about a priest, Father So and So -  was arrested.

CONCLUSION

Enough. You made your point. It’s Father’s Day.

As we heard in today’s readings, we’re all called to be trees - cedar and mustard - giving fruit and shade - to others.

Sometimes we are green - sometimes we’re not.  At some point we will wither and die, but in the meanwhile, hopefully our lives meant a lot to a lot of people - like birds finding a place on our branches. They nibbled and rested on us. Then they move on.

And every tree - hopefully feels they helped - that they were home -  even if they were the tree of the cross - some Bad or Good Friday years ago.