Thursday, March 23, 2017

March 23, 2017

WISH  LIST
  
Everyone has a wish list.

I wish my dad ….
I wish my mom ….
I wish I lived in ….
I wish I didn’t say that ….
I wish he didn’t say that ….
I wish I had more ….
I wish we did ….
I wish things didn’t happen this way….
I wish I didn't have to put the dog down ....
I wish I was better in Math and ....
I wish God would ….
I wish life didn’t ….
I wish my ….
I wish I could see all the good that ....
I wish I had the ability to….
I wish I knew 10 years ago that ….
I wish I realized ….
I wish I filled my bucket with ....

Everyone - yes everyone - has a wish list.


© Andy Costello, Reflections  2017

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

March 22, 2017



ADMITTING  COLLEGE


It started way back when their high school
daughters and sons entered their senior
year of high school - probably much sooner.

“Have they decided yet on their top college?”
“What are there three top choices?
“Is there any scholarship money?”

At some point there is the scream, “Enough
already!” And that’s just the questions. There
is the leaving, the missing, the cost and more.


©  Andy Costello, Reflections  2017


Tuesday, March 21, 2017



HURT   DETECTOR

Once upon a time - a wise woman - in her early 60’s - but she looked like she was in her late 40’s - because she was a serious walker - well she came up with a million dollar idea.

She was at the beach - one beautiful summer evening with her granddaughter - and the two of them were just sitting there - finishing off -cold giant vanilla milk shakes. They were sitting on those hard wooden benches on the boardwalk - looking out at the ocean. But sometimes hard wooden benches are not even felt - on one’s butt - when you have a beautiful ocean right in front of you.



And the waves that evening were big and beautiful - crashing and splashing - like Schiller’s Ode to Joy at the end of Beethoven’s 9th  Symphony - or Louis Armstrong singing, “What A Wonderful World.”



Grandma said to her 11 year old granddaughter - Deborah - who was aware of everything - “What’s that man doing down there with the ear phones and some kind of stick with a plate on the end of the stick?”

“Grandma - haven’t you ever seen someone with a metal detector? He’s down here every evening searching for coins in the sand that people lost that day.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. Just watch him. He’s getting rich by the minute. Look, there he goes. He probably just found another quarter. Notice how his backpack is getting bloated.”

“I just got a great idea Deborah - a million dollar idea.”

“What is it grandma? Tell me your secret. Tell me your million dollar idea?”

“I’m going to invent a hurt detector.”

“Great idea grandma. Great idea. Tell me more. I hurt sometimes.”

“Well Deborah, you know I’m a psychiatrist?”

“I knew that grandma. You’re a shrink. I’ve heard people talk about you behind your back and everyone says you’re great at what you do.  You have people coming to you with all kinds of problems, right?”

“Yep, that’s what I do.”

“I’ve noticed my two older sisters often talk to you when they have problems - and you  - well you just listen, listen, listen. Nice.”

“Well, Deborah, sometimes I use the old couch method of helping people - not all the time - but sometimes - especially when people don’t seem to be telling me -  what’s bothering them.”

“You have a couch in your office?  Do people ever fall asleep.”

“Yes to your first question. And yes to your second question.”

Deborah then asked, “Okay grandma, pretend that I’m a psychiatrist. Close your eyes and tell me all about your hurt detector?”

 “Okay, everybody has deep down hurts in their life  that they can’t deal with, but they keep them in - and hurts are covered with sandpaper - when they rub someone the wrong way.”

“Well, I’m going to have a person lay down on my couch. I’m going to take out my stethoscope and show it to the person I’m with - calling it my “Hurt Detector”. And like the man there with the metal detector -  I’ll move it around their skull and ask them, ‘Where do you hurt?’ Or, ‘Tell me about something someone did to you that you can’t forgive - or something you did, that you can’t forgive yourself for?”

“Their eyes will be closed as I move my stethoscope around the top of their head. But,  I’ll be watching their face very, very carefully.”

“As they are thinking, I’ll see their face or their closed eyes, squint or squeeze at certain moments. I’ll spot hurt signals from their minds - showing up on the skin  of their face.”

“Actually I do this already, but now I’ll have a gadget - which I’ll call my ‘Hurt Detector’. I hope I don’t get sued. I’ll run this by a few people.”

“Then I’ll say - when I see them wince or flinch. ‘That one. Tell me what you were thinking about just then.’ And just then - they’ll tell me about some hurt memory. It will be a divorce or a teacher or a coach whom they thought was unfair to them. Or they will tell me about something they did dumb to hurt someone else somewhere along the time line of their life.”

“Then, and this might surprise you Deborah, but I’ll tell them about Jesus’ great message of forgiveness. Forgiveness is not for the other person for starters, but for the person who can’t forgive or be forgiven.”

Deborah said, “You’re going to give them religion. I thought you were a psychiatrist and not a priest?”

The answer once more is ‘Yes’ to your first question and ‘Yes’ to your second question.

“Deborah,” her grandma said, “everyone needs to learn how to forgive and be forgiven - at least 77 times in their life time as Jesus put it. That means a lot of times.  Otherwise the hurt messes up one’s soul and body - and that’s where millions in health care will be saved. The stuff of the soul can hurt the stuff of the body - so that’s why I said this is a million dollar idea.”

“Interesting grandma.”

“Yes,  Deborah, thanks.”

“You’re a good listener, Deborah. Maybe one day you’ll be a psychiatrist.   When thinking about forgiveness - people always put things out there - into God and into others.  Jesus and my hurt detector will get people finding out that it’s what’s under the sand of our soul - or what’s in our inner room as Jesus put it, that counts.” 




ooooooo

NOTES:  This is a story I wrote last night for a reflexion on the gospel for this 3rd Tuesday in Lent, Matthew 18: 21-35.   © Andy Costello, Stories, 2017


March 21, 2017



WHO’S ON FIRST?
  
Who said Jesus didn’t have a sense of humor?
He must have smiled when the last wine became
the best wine - even though it was watered down.
He had to smile when the first invited to the feast
ended up without the feast - because they didn’t
show -  and the last - those found in the outback
and in the hedgerows - ended up in the first row.
The poor, the hungry, the lame made it to the dance.  
Life is funny, with Jesus, if you learn to laugh at life,
especially if you say yes to his invitations to be there.



© Andy Costello, Reflections  2017

Monday, March 20, 2017


HEROES

We need heroes  - male and female.

We need examples - male and female.

We need models -  male and female.

It seems that the word, “heroine” has dropped out - and that our heroes can be male and female.

Just walk into any home, business, organization, government building, church - and we’ll see images of heroes - people who are examples and models of the values of that organization or that family.

Statues, pictures, images of great people sit atop of horses and pedestals in our parks and museums and government buildings - as well as churches.

Today we celebrate Joseph as hero.

He was the model husband, father figure, protector of Mary and Jesus.

In the scriptures he gets little press, but the press that he gets, says he was righteous.  Since that sometimes has negative connotations, I prefer saying, “He got it right.” It says he was a dreamer. He was a presence. He was a protector.

In the history of the Church - he comes down as a hero.  He is an example of a good worker - a carpenter.

He is a dreamer - and I wonder if this is a way in the scriptures of connecting him to the great Joseph - the Master Dreamer - as he is described in the book of Genesis. That Joseph gets a lot more press - and a lot more information about his personality.

Most Catholics have images of St. Joseph - always off to the side - background security for Jesus and Mary. I say off to the side also, because in many Catholic Churches his statue or picture is off to the side.  We’ve all heard people talk about the St. Joseph side of the church and Mary’s side of the church. Here at St. John Neumann - as well as St. Mary’s - St. Joseph is on the left - facing the front of the church and Our Lady of Perpetual Help on the Right facing the altar.

In our time Joseph has become best known in popular myth and meaning as the statue to bury upside down in your yard - or flower pot - if you want to sell your house. I’ve heard people say, “It works.”

I don’t po po that, because I think religion needs humor - the ability to laugh at all kinds of stuff.  Mine is to laugh at bishop’s hats and cardinal’s outfits.

I rather see Joseph as the patron of fathers as presence and protector.

I rather see Joseph as worker - a great stress when the communist party was stronger in Italy and Europe.

I rather see Joseph as the Patron of a Happy Death - I assume and assumption based on Joseph being older than Mary and dying somewhere in there before Jesus’ public ministry.

What’s next?

In reading the work - the writings of Elizabeth Johnson - who is a Sister of St. Joseph - from around my time at OLPH Brooklyn - taught by the Josephites - I see she explores more and more the feminine and mother side of God.  Pope John Paul the 1st, Albino Luciani, spoke about that as Cardinal and a tiny bit as pope. He only lasted a month. We are made in the image and likeness of God - male and female he made us.

All my life as priest I have wondered about the Catholic Church’s great stress on Mary - and I wonder - wonder - that’s the word I’m using. I do not know what I am talking about when it comes to this. But I wonder if because we stress the masculinity of God - the femininity of God has to show up somewhere. Protestants think we see Mary as God. We don’t. But I wonder about all this at times. I see the feminine side of God in Mary and I Hope we all see God in all of us - male and female.

So if we explore the feminine side of the image of God, will Joseph get more stress - on the masculine side?  
I don’t know.

Enough.

Ooops I neglected to say more on Joseph as hero - the title of this homily - maybe not. He is someone we look up to. Amen.



March 20, 2017






NOTWITHSTANDING

Interesting word, “notwithstanding”….
Would whoever came up with that word,
please stand up and tell us what it means?

Different  dictionaries report that it goes
back to the 14th and 15th century and means
“however” - “inspite of” - “nevertheless.”

Notwithstanding understanding this word,
people without any standing or credentials
have stood up and screamed out the truth.



© Andy Costello, Reflections  2017
  
THE WOMAN AT THE WELL

by John Shea

“Jesus was tired and he sat by the well.
It was noon.” 
John 4:6

Those who have ears to hear, hear this story. Those who have eyes to see, see this, scene. Anything can happen at a well.

The man who was sitting on the small stone ledge that circled the well slid off, turned to the woman who had just arrived, smiled and said, “I'm thirsty.”

She had seen him at a distance. She had stopped to readjust the yoke which straddled her shoulders. A bucket hung from both ends of the yoke, and when her steps were not perfect, and they seldom were, the wood cut into the flesh along the nape of her neck. She took the pain for granted, but from time to time she stopped to shift the weight to more callused skin. From bruise to bruise, she thought, it was as she straightened from her bent posture, to gauge the last ground left before the well, that she saw him. He appeared to be waiting for her.

Her mind raced. She thought of turning around and making for the village. But if he wanted to, he could easily overtake her and take what he wanted. Then, she cursed. Why did she not come earlier in the day with the other women? She knew why. But right now that humiliation looked better than this danger.

Then a plan formed out of her panic. She could see by his dress that he was a Jew and he would probably walk away. Most likely after some quick insult and with a great show of disdain. If not, she could make him go. She would steel herself, hide her mind, harden her heart. She knew how. She had been there before. It was not the first time.

“I'm thirsty,” the man said again.

It was so blatant it took her back. At a distance she could manage him in her mind. Up close his presence  was almost too much. But she recovered quickly. “Who isn't? This sun would fry a lizard's tongue.”

“Give me a drink'

“You - a Jew and a man—ask me—a Samaritan and a woman - for a drink?” I have a simpleton on my hands she thought.

“Thirst makes friends of us all;' the simpleton said, “I will help.”

Before she could protest, he moved the lid off the top of the well and stood waiting for her to give him the bucket.

“I'll do it,” she said.

She let the bucket fall down the well. The splash rang up from below. She swung the rope sideways till the bucket at the bottom tipped and filled. Then with quick, succes­sive jerks she pulled it to the top.

The man waited at her side. He said nothing.

If he thinks he is going to be first, she thought, he thinks wrongly. This is our well and it is my bucket. He will learn who he is here.

She rested the bucket on the ledge, hunched over it and splashed water toward her mouth. She drank like an animal that had been worked too long in the sun. All the time her eyes darted from the water to the silent man at her side. He was smiling. The simpleton has missed the meaning, she thought.

When she was done, she stepped back. The man did not move. She waited, then, finally, jerked her arm toward the bucket. Slowly he cupped his hands, dipped them deep into the bucket, and brought the water to his mouth. As he drank, his face was turned up into the sun and the water ran and glistened in his beard. He drank like a bridegroom,  loving the first cup of wedding wine.

With his lips still wet from the water the man turned to her. “If you would ask me, I would give you living water.”

“The well is deep.” Her tone was instructional. She felt as if she were giving a child a lesson in logic. “You do not have a bucket. Therefore, how do you propose to fetch the water?”

“Yokes and buckets are always the problem, aren't they?” said the man. His arms flew up in the air in exas­peration.

A smile popped open her eyes, but her lips stayed tight and disapproving. Not a simpleton, she thought, a child. Just a child.

The child had a question. “Do you have a husband?”

The question slapped across her face. Not a child, she thought. A man, just another man. “I have no husband.”

“True enough,” said the man. “For you have had, ah, five husbands and the husband you have now is not your husband.”

“Do you have a wife?” she spat back.

“I have no wife,” said the man.

“True enough,” the woman said. “And the woman you had last night was not her either.”

The man laughed, like someone had taken him and turned him upside down. He is enjoying this, she thought, but not for long.

“Besides, prophet, the number is not five but twelve.”

“I was never good at numbers.”

“One for each tribe of Israel,” she said and thought that would do it.

“Very pious of you,” said the man. “Very pious.”

This time she could not catch the laugh in her teeth and swallow it back. It escaped and howled out loud like a prisoner finally free in the sun.

“You are very hard to get rid of,” she said, but now she wasn't sure whether she wanted him to go.

Everyone says that,” said the man.

One more try, she thought, and this Jew, like every other man, will surely leave me. “Tell me, 0 prophet, who is not very good at numbers, where should we worship the living God? On the mountain or in the Temple?”

The man grew silent and closed his eyes. He seemed to be traveling deep within himself to some sanctuary where she could not follow. So this is it, thought the woman. It will be in the name of the living God that he will spurn me.

When the man opened his eyes, he caught hold of the woman's hand. “God is not on the mountain, but in your thirst. God is not in the Temple, but in the scream of your spirit, and it cries to me. Ask me, ask me for a drink.”

Not just another man, she thought. Not just another man.

She pulled her hand back. I don't ask.” She said it as if her whole life was in every word.

“Even without a bucket—if you ask me, I will give you living water.”

So they sat on the ledge of the well under the sun which shines on good and bad alike. They spoke no words. Finally he reached out for her hand. She let him take it.

“Give me a drink,” she whispered.

“What,” said the man, “you—a woman and a Samari­tan—ask me—a Jew and a man—for a drink?”

“Thirst makes friends of us all,” she said and smiled.

The man took her hands in his and formed them into a cup. Together their hands dipped deep into the bucket and brought a cradle of water to her lips. She drank it slowly, with her head back, her face open to the sky. She drank like a deer with the thirst of summer, like a field parched by drought, like a desert wanderer finally at home.

With her lips still wet she said to the man, “Sometimes the yoke and
buckets cut into my flesh so bad I want to yell with pain, but I never do.”

“I know.”

Then she told him all about the husbands who were not husbands. She told him everything she ever did. Ev­erything she ever did she told him. All the time she spoke, she cried.

When she was finished, he said, “I know.” Then he told back to her everything she ever did. Everything she ever did he told back to her. All the time he spoke, he rubbed the nape of her neck where the marks of the yoke were the most punishing.

It was just as he had finished his revelation of her to herself that she saw the other men. His friends were com­ing towards them. “They will be scandalized to see me here with you.” By now he held her in his arms.

“Probably,” the man said.

“I must go.” She eased out of his embrace and moved gracefully away from him. As she walked away, she turned often to look at him.
Whenever she did, she always found him looking at her. Even when his companions gathered around him, he stood on the ledge of the well and watched her go. Finally, she was so far away she could not watch him watching her.

Then she could not get to the village quickly enough. Once there, she went from house to house and told people about a man who was not just another man who taught her how to drink. It was only after she had stirred up the entire village that she realized she had left her yoke and buckets at the well and for the first time in memory was not thirsty.

The curious villagers formed a circle around her. She stood in the middle and proclaimed: “I met a man who told me everything I ever did—except how many times.”

And she laughed high and long. Some of the villagers said it sounded like she had a fountain of living water spring­ing up inside her.

Let those who have ears to hear, hear this story. Let those who have eyes to see, see this scene. Anything can happen at a well.

O O O O O O O


Borrowed without permission from © John Shea, Stories, Acta Publications, 2008, 5559 W. Howard Street, Skokie, Il 60077, pp. 261-271.  I add this to my blog, because I heard John Shea tell this story when I made two of his workshops in the Chicago area. I would recommend his “stuff” - it’s great stuff - for spiritual reading. After writing and reading my version yesterday instead of a homily for the 3rd Sunday in Lent,  I went and found his story and compared it to mine. Jokingly I said from the pulpit, John Shea’s version and the Gospel of John’s version of the story makes my version: “Lite John 4: 5-42."