CHALK

Poem for Today - April 22, 2014

A SICK POET

PRAYS TO HIS GOD

O God,
I am content to be
Thy little piece of chalk.
(So small and white and thin).
Write thou with me
How men should walk --
And if betimes
'neath the pressure of thy hand
I squeak and squeal a bit
In shrill complaint
Bear down the harder
Lord
And write with me
Until I crumble into dust.
But do not (no, Lord, no)
Wash Thy hands of me
(White powder on They fingertips)
But let me unto Thee
adoring Thee
for all eternity.
Amen.

(c) Frater Joseph Manton CSSR
around 1913

First Dogma, Mt. St. Alphonsus

Esopus, New York

THE WAY OF THE CROSS

Poem for Today - Monday April 21, 2014

THE WAY OF PAIN

For parents, the only way
is hard. We who give life
give pain. There is no help.
Yet we who give pain
give love; by pain we learn
the extremity of love.

I read of Abraham's sacrifice
the Voice required of him,
so that he lead to the altar
and the knife his only son.
The beloved life was spared
that time, but not the pain.
It was the pain that was required.

I read of Christ crucified,
the only begotten Son
sacrificed to flesh and time
and all our woe. He died
and rose, but who does not tremble
for his pain, his loneliness,
and the darkness of the sixth hour?
Unless we grieve like Mary
at his grave, giving Him up
as lost, no Easter morning comes.

And then I slept, and dreamed
the life of my only son
was required of me, and I 
must bring him to the edge
of pain, not knowing why.
I woke, and yet that pain
was true. It brought his life
to the full in me. I bore him
suffering, with love like the sun,
too bright, unsparing, whole.

(c) Wendell Berry

pages 43-44 in

Upholding Mystery,

edited by David 

Impastato

FIRST  EASTER 

[Last night after the Easter Vigil I sat down to put together a homily for this Easter Sunday. I read the readings, said a prayer for insight, then thought: “Write a story!” I do that for Christmas. Then the writer’s question: “What’s the story?” Having gone through a few family deaths and  as well as other deaths and funerals lately – as well as planning on going to the cemetery with my sister this coming Wednesday – I just sat there last night and rewrote the Easter story in new wineskins. So the title of story is, “First Easter”.]

It was their first Easter after his death.

It had been a long, rough winter since his death last November.

Thanksgiving wasn’t easy. Christmas was tougher. So she hoped this first Easter after his death would be easier for all around. He was 42 – fourth tour in Afghanistan – planning of retiring in 2 years.

Life wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Death wasn’t supposed to happen this day. The future wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

He was buried with full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Once a month, she would drive down there – with the kids – just to try to get in all to crying and holding onto each other – all at once. Sporadic memory come backs were too sudden and too surprising. Too many reminders – including some of his scent - clung to too many things in the garage, the cellar, and some closets. Going to Arlington – going to his stone cold grave – to pray – to hold onto each other – to tell a “Remember the time when dad did….” story helped.  Then they would stop into a teenager friendly restaurant on the way back – and then get back to life.

She was happy they had gotten married early – that they had their three kids early. The kids were  17, 15, and 13 when their dad was killed. An IED explosion – in somewhere, nowhere, Afghanistan – did it.

Looking forwards was tough. Looking backwards, she was happy that their kids had many good vacations – great trips – as a family – even though their dad was away for some of them – serving our country and our world.

Being a marine family they had moved around a bit – they missed their dad a good bit – those tours were crushers at times -  but when he was home he made his presence felt – big, big time. That presence, that joy - he had a great laugh – told his wife and his kids he was not the stereotypical tough Marine type. He was a teddy bear.

Easter was coming. The plan was Mass at 9 AM – then a good breakfast at Denny’s – and then off to Arlington – for some time at dad’s grave – and then head home for Easter dinner together.

For some reason – there was a different feeling in the car – in this trip.

For starters it was Easter – The sermon, the readings at Mass, the prayers, the music at the 9 AM Mass was all about resurrection – obviously.

Arlington was beautiful – budding flowers – blossoming trees – in abundance. Color – color – yellow, red, blue, purple, white, green - everywhere.

They parked their SUV – in the main parking lot and decided this was a good day for a walk.

All knew exactly where dad’s grave was. The youngest daughter, Mary, ran. For some reason she decided to take off and run – and get to her dad’s grave first. She did. Then Jack, the next youngest, started to run – and he got there second.  Pete, the oldest, and not that great a runner ran and came in third.

Mom watching their running and the race – got smiling and laughing. She said to herself: “We’re turning a corner in the road.”

Her tears felt different as well - as she walked up the macadam road towards where his grave was. Some had a smile in them; some had slivers of sadness in them.

As she got closer – Easter – the Risen Christ – Faith – Hope – Love kicked in even more. “Of course,” she thought – “rejoicing and regretting – can be twins.” Her prayers of “Why God why?” were still there – but prayers of “Thank you God for all that has been” were showing up slowly these past two months.

She finally got to her husband’s grave.

No, the stone was not rolled back  Yes, her husband’s grave was still as is.

“Kids,” she said, when she got there, “Do you realize what you 3 just did?”

“No, mom, what,” said Mary her youngest.

“Well,” mom said, “do you remember what the gospel was that we heard  read in church today?”

They all said, “No!”

“Well,” mom continued, “the three people in today’s gospel were Mary, Peter, and they think the beloved disciple was John.”

“Wow,” the kids said, “That’s funny.”

“When we named you – this gospel and this moment – were obviously not on our radar.”

Silence.

The 4 of them breathed in the early afternoon cool.

They stood together holding hands – snug up against each other – especially leaning into mom.

“Thanks dad,” Jack said, “thanks for helping us get from last November  to this moment. Thanks. Happy Easter!”

Silence.

Then mom said, “Let’s pray for the families of everyone buried here in Arlington – and what they are going through today.

She had seen lone people here and there – as well as clusters of people at graves – around the cemetery.

Peter said, “Let’s pray for the many people around the world who are dealing with death today – especially those in Korea and that airplane that is still missing. Help them Lord.”

Mary said, “Let’s pray for kids – kids who have lost their parents.”

That got an extra hard squeeze from Mom to Mary.

Peter said, “Thanks dad. Thanks for being such a great dad. Thank you!”

They walked the long walk back to the car skipping – even mom – laughing, and singing, “We’re off to see the Wizard – the wonderful wizard of Oz.” That had been the high school play that John was in this past spring and he played the part of a munchkin.

They had a sweet trip home – not too much traffic – and a great Easter Dinner that late afternoon – and they all toasted dad in the empty chair – they had at their dining room table – but they knew in a new way – it was a Happy Easter – because their dad was with the Risen Lord. Amen.

HALLELUJAH

Poem for Today - Easter - April 20, 2014

EASTER

Break the box and shed the nard;
Stop not now to count the cost;
Hither bring pearl, opal, sard;
Upon Christ throw all away;
Know ye, this is Easter Day.

(c) G. M. Hopkins,

Easter - 19th Century

"sard" - is an ancient, 

rare word - for a 

deep orange-red precious

stone -  translucent quartz.

ALL ABOARD

Poem for Today - Holy Saturday - April 19, 2014

LEAVETAKING 

After you board the train, you sit and wait,
to begin your first real journey alone.
You read to avoid the window's awkwardness,
knowing he's anxious to catch your eye,
loitering out in never-ending rain,
to wave, a bit shy, another final goodbye;
you are afraid of having to wave too soon.
And for the moment you think it's the train
next to you has begun, but it is yours,
and your face, pressed to the windowpane,
is distorted and numbed by the icy glass,
pinning your eyes upon your father,
as he cranes to defy your disappearing train.
Both of you waving, eternally to each other.

(c) Greg Delanty, Southward

THE CROSS! 

REDUNDANT 

 INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily is, “The Cross! Redundant.”

I was surprised when that word “redundant” showed up in my brain. The word, “Cross” no. It’s Good Friday. But redundant? Where did that come from?

I checked the dictionary – to check out - just what “redundant” means.

Yes “redundant” fits and works. It can mean abundant, excess, or repetition. Checking carefully, in wanting to get to - what I want to get to - this evening, the word “reduplication” might be more exact or even the word “redux” – never used that word – it means “brought back” – yet, still again, I want to stick with the word that hit me in the first place: “redundant”.

IT CAME TO ME LAST NIGHT

The title of my homily – with the word “redundant” came to me last night.

I was sitting over there [Point down to the benches on my left] – at last night’s Holy Thursday Liturgy here at St. John Neumann. I looked straight ahead and saw that gigantic empty cross. [Point to the right at the cross.]  It’s been up there for the whole of Lent. The cross – the sign of the cross – it was pressed into our foreheads with ashes as we began Lent. This cross I was looking at had a big purple stole on it till Palm Sunday – then out came the red stole – just this last Sunday

.

Next, I spotted the regular big, big crucifix that fills the wall of our sanctuary. [Point] It stayed as is – all Lent  - all year long – for years now.

Then I said to myself, “Why two crosses?”

Answer: I assume it’s sort of in the books to have for Lent a big empty cross like the one you see here in the sanctuary.

But why not put the big purple cloth, the stole up on this one – and then a  red one when it comes to Palm Sunday – and skip this other cross?

Then – it was then – that I thought to myself, “It’s redundant!”  That’s when that word showed up.

Then I said to myself, “We’re going to have a third cross in this Good Friday service – the one that Deacon David will lead down the main aisle – after the Good Friday prayers or Intercessions – after this homily. That third cross we’ll all venerate tonight with a kiss or a touch of our hand.

Three crosses. Now that’s redundant.

MANY CROSSES

Then the obvious hit me.

The cross…. Of course, the cross is redundant.

It’s the Christian symbol – our marker.

If you’ve ever driven on Route 404 – off Route 50 East – after the Bay Bridge - on the way to Ocean City – you’ve seen lots of crosses – marking a spot where someone was killed in a traffic accident.

If you’ve ever walked into the cemeteries on both sides of West Street – after Taylor Circle – you’ve seen lots of crosses.

If you watch athletes, you’ve seen them make the sign of the cross before and after a play – but especially if someone is hurt.

If you watch people come into church, you see them making the sign of the cross.

Because today is Good Friday – because today I made two sick calls – I also realized the cross is everywhere and in and on everyone.

I saw two people today in their homes walking with aluminum walkers. So sometimes the cross is made of aluminum – in the shape of a walker or a cane or a crutch or even a new leg with those new metals.

The cross is made of cancer and psoriasis. The cross is made of broken marriages and broken people. 

The cross is made of drugs and drink and eating problems.

Talk about redundant ….

Is it any wonder why the Cross became the Christian symbol?

The Jewish people have the Star of David. The Muslim people have the star and the crescent moon. The Christian people could have chosen light – Jesus did say that he was the light of the world. The Christian people could have chosen bread or water or a door or a Good Shepherd – all ways Jesus talked about himself.

However, in time the Cross became our main symbol – surely because suffering is often part of our lives – as we travel down the roads of life. Pain…. Suffering …. The Cross…. They are redundant.  The cross keeps happening.

Christians at those times look to – hold onto – the cross – because they believe, they know, that Jesus is with us when we are on our cross – or carrying our cross – or when we fall because of the weight of the cross – three times or a seventy times seven times.

GOOD FRIDAY

Good Friday is the day this is reflected upon - preached about – thought about - to remind us – to help us realize Christ is central to our lives 365 days a year – year after year after year.

MOVING TOWARDS A CONCLUSION  

Let me move towards my conclusion this way.

I don’t know music – especially classical music – but I spotted the following in last week’s copy of The Tablet – a Catholic Magazine out of England that Father Joe Krastel and I like to read.

In an interesting article, entitled, “Out Of The Flames” – by Rick Jones I read the following:  Yesterday and today in London, England, Good Friday, April 18, 2014, the BBC singers and Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra are going to perform St. John’s Passion – that’s the one we heard and played out tonight. The one in England takes about an hour in song and music.

What would it be like to be there today – rather than to be here?

Now what I found fascinating was the following.

This particular performance of a St. John Passion was by Carl Phillip Emanuel Bach – the son of the famous Johan Sebastian Bach.

The conductor of this performance is Kirill Karabits – a Ukrainian conductor.

He said he discovered this piece in the Kiev State Archive in 1999 – when he was a student. But it’s taken him 15 years to finally present it in music. He adds if this piece he discovered was by Carl Philip Emanuel Bach’s father, it would have been history – and made headlines around the world – and certainly played much sooner.

Kirill Karabits, today’s conductor, says that Bach’s son was known in his day as being one of the best composers in Germany – but always overshadowed by his father – Johan Sebastian Bach.

Kirill Karabits, today’s conductor, then told the writer of the article, that there was in Berlin an entire library of music founded in the 1790’s by a pupil of Bach’s son. When Berlin was being bombed – the whole library was boxed and sent to Silesia for safety.

The train carrying the boxes was bombed. While burning,  Russian soldiers rescued the boxes and took the entire archive containing 5000 items to Russia. That’s how they got into the Kiev State Archives.

The article writer asked Kirill Karabits to compare the son’s Passions – there are 21 of them – with his father’s.

His answer grabbed me. He said, “I think it is not the case of comparing the two composers’ Passions.” He said they lived in different times, different cities, and composed each passion for different reasons.

Eureka! In the gospels we have 4 Passion Accounts: Mathew, Mark, Luke and the one we heard tonight – John’s

Each was put together for a different community.

Down through the centuries there have been millions of retellings of the story of Jesus’ passion and death – in churches, in music, in plays – till our day.

Tonight, each Good Friday, each time we ponder the story of Jesus’ death on the cross – it enters into our story – and into our way of hearing, and praying, and reunderstanding Jesus’ story.

In doing this we make that story redundant and abundant in our life. Amen.

GOOD FRIDAY

Poem for Today - Good Friday - April 18, 2014

THE KILLING

That was the day they killed the Son of God
On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem.
Zion was bare, her children from their maze
Sucked by the demon curiosity
Clean through the gates. The very halt and blind
Had somehow got themselves up the hill.

After the ceremonial preparation,
The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood,
Erection of the main-trees with their burden,
While from the hill rose an orchestral wailing,
They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day.
We watched the writhings, heard the moanings, saw
The three heads turning on their separate axles
Like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head
Was loosely bound a crown of plaited thorn
That hurt at random, stinging temple and brow
As the pain swung into its envious circle.
In front the wreath was gathered in a knot
That as he gazed looked like the last stump left
Of a dead-wounded deer's great antlers. Some
Who came to stare grew silent as they looked,
Indignant or sorry. But the hardened old
And the hard-hearted young, although at odds
From the first morning, cursed him with one curse,
Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed Messiah
And found the Son of God. What use to them
Was a God or a Son of God? Of what avail
For purposes such as theirs?  Beside the cross-foot
Alone, four women stood and did not move
All day. The sun revolved, the shadow wheeled,
The evening fell. His head lay on his breast,
But in his breast, they watched his heart move on
By itself alone, accomplishing its journey.
Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the                          knowledge
That he was walking in the park of death,
Far from their rage.  Yet all grew stale at last, 
Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself.
They waited only for death and death was slow
And came so quietly they scarce could mark it.
They were angry then with death and death's deceit.

I was a stranger, could not read these people
Or this outlandish deity. Did a God
Indeed in dying cross my life that day
By chance, he on his road and I on mine?

(c) Edwin Muir