On Poverty V: Meat Dresses and Thieves

“Who’s the woman who made a dress out of cuts of meat?”

I smiled at this question, for it was only a matter of time before her name would come up. I had been talking with this parishioner about musical artists popular on both sides of the Atlantic: Beyoncé, Alicia Keys, Usher, and Jay-Z. We even went old school, getting nostalgic over the Fugees, Blackstreet, and Boyz II Men. Then he asked the question. Oh, that Lady Gaga. But it was his follow-up statement that took me by surprise.

He became serious and looked down, shaking his head. “What a waste of good meat. You know how many kids saw that here and how long some of them have gone without meat?” He was 110% genuine. I was taken aback. A fashion stunt by a musical artist, meant to shock and create dialogue, had a vastly different effect on the people of this country. No matter how hard we may believe that we live in a bubble or try to hide under a “right to privacy,” what we do affects others.

I witnessed a crowd of people in the market suddenly break out into a sprint last week. They all began running down a side street, many of their faces contorted in anger. It reminded me of high school when all the students would sprint across campus to witness a fight; I wasn’t too far off. I asked Fr. Francis what was going on. “They’re chasing a thief.” Stealing from one person is akin to stealing from the whole community here, and the community gets angry. Fr. Francis said that it is not uncommon for thieves to run straight to the police station because “they’ll live longer if they get to the police.” He wasn’t joking.

Our bread is not just our bread, and our cuts of meat…umm, err, are not…just our own cuts of meat. We pray for God to supply our daily bread—not just my daily bread. That is, we pray for bread for the world, and for those with abundance to share their earthly wealth. St. John Chrysostom said that, “every bite of bread in one way or another is a bite of the bread that belongs to everyone, of the bread of the world.”

-Bob
written 07/03/11

You Got Served

I am in 6th grade. I am on the receiving end of a volleyball that has been spiked directly towards my face. I hate this game.

I am now 26 years old. I am on the receiving end of a volleyball that has been spiked directly towards my face. Why, oh Lord? Why do I do this?

Youth ministry. I “woke up” to the incredible gift of our faith through youth ministry and many of my friends today were met during those formative high school years. I don’t know if I ever would have opened myself to the potential of priesthood if not for a Steubenville youth conference, and I have been blessed to chaperone an additional five conferences all around the country. Each time is a spiritual renewal for me, bringing me back to my roots. Aware of how I was blessed, I like to give back to youth ministry as best as I can…even if it entails playing such a cutthroat game as African volleyball.

I never enjoyed sports that involved throwing, catching, or chasing after a ball. It never made sense to me (now if it were a hamburger, I would chase after it). So I swam, ran track, and during college I evolved into a gym rat. If you need a guy to quickly get from point A to point B or lift heavy things, I’m your man. But for the sake of relational ministry, I will put myself in these situations where my whiteness becomes evident. Even with a language barrier, the teens here just enjoy me goofing around with them, joining in their drum circles, and at least showing up for the games. The athletics are taken very seriously here, I should note. The boys play to kill, and they will take your head off with some of their spikes. Thankfully, my testosterone level has increased slightly since 6th grade and I even stuffed the biggest guy at the net last week. I’ve come a long way since “Most Improved” on the 8th grade basketball team.*

-Bob
written 07/01/11

*I am well aware that what the “Most Improved” award in athletics really means is that “you were pretty awful at the beginning of the season, but now you’re less than awful.” And I’m ok with that.

Remember

This is one of my favorite scenes from The Lion King—it also taps into a foundational theme for the masculine identity. Simba has been running for quite some time, running from his past and ultimately his identity. It takes a woman (well, female lion) calling him out to prompt his entrance into a space of remembrance, and in that space the heavens open up to reveal his father, Mufasa. The dialogue that ensures centers around one key command: Remember.

One of the foundational words for the identity of man in Hebrew is Zakar, which means “to remember.” Thus, an essential ingredient of a man is his ability to remember who is and Who he is made for. When men forget their identity their courage often fails, and so too do they fail the ones who depend on them. Adam failed to protect Eve because he forgot who he was and stood by in passivity. It’s a favored trick of all those spirits not on God’s side. What better way to sabotage a good man than from within? For a long time I let my past mistakes and sins define how I looked at myself as a man, but thankfully this past year I have been able to remember in my heart Who I belong to. Here in Africa, I am in a primordial land of new beginnings and natural wonder. I am daily shaken out of my comfort zone and reminded that I am not in charge. I did not create myself or these rambunctious children outside my window or the monkeys that invade the local restaurants.

“You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself…you are more than what you have become. ” Mufasa’s appeal echoes that of our Lord’s—remember. Simba grows to manhood during his period of exile and reflection upon the face of his father. Only then can he finally transcend his reluctance and excuses. The Scriptures continually remind us of the urgency to remember. Only by remembering can we move forward—identity precedes mission. “Remember who you are. You are my son.”

Dan and I have been given the amazing opportunity of reuniting in Kenya near the end of July. You can bet that I will be on the lookout for lions, meerkats and warthogs, but more than these I am anticipating a time of spiritual renewal. I guess I’m expecting God to offer me a “Pride Rock” experience of consolation and profound grace to conclude my adventure—yeah, I can be demanding. Until then, my task is to daily remember that my time here is limited and give myself to each day.

I entreat you now to hear within yourselves that commanding inflection of James Earl Jones: “Remember.”

-Bob
written 06/30/11

Freedom From or Freedom To

Last summer around this time I was stationed in Clearwater with Fr. Ken Malley. We were engrossed in the HBO series John Adams, and our viewings timed out well with the celebration of our nation’s independence. He gave a very patriotic homily, with more than few elements from the series creeping into his rhetoric—I was very proud. This year, I am sitting in a remote African town where there will likely be no firework celebration, hooting, or hollering come July 4th. Well, maybe I’ll do some hollering.

I have been humbled by the warm reception I’ve been given as an American. Many presuppose I am Italian, so they speak very slowly to me at first like I’m an idiot. It bothered me for all of one day, and then I started having fun with the people. What has been surprising is the amount of priests admitting to me their own surprise to see a seminarian from America, where they gather the media has done such a number with the scandals that no normal man would consider the priesthood. Even the Bishop confessed to me that I gave him a sense of hope for the future Church, especially the Church in America. “If young men and women are still willing to give their lives freely to Christ to serve others in this age..…well, I don’t know why I bother worrying,” he told me one afternoon. Again, very humbling.

America is courageous, but we can also be courageous arrogant. Our notion of freedom often comes with underlying connotation of license—freedom from restrictions, freedom from anything that could hamper my pleasure. Authentic Christian freedom looks like service—freedom to do the good, freedom to be led by the Spirit of God. Of course, this often entails embracing the Cross. This is the paradox of a life laid down in love. Freedom without a purpose runs out of steam quickly. Egocentrism leaves a hollow void. God’s law is not given for His own good, but for our own good. We have a God who wants our lives to be not bound in a set of legalistic rules but lived in an authentic love story: “I have come to cast fire upon the earth, and how I would that it were already blazing” (Lk 12:49). He wants our communion with Him to be a blazing fire that rises up into a fullness of life. Now that freedom would taste sweet. End of soapbox.

That all being said, here’s to chicken fried, a cold beer on a Friday night, a pair of jeans that fit just right, and the radio up. Here’s to all that have freely given their lives for our nation. And here’s to our Christ who freely offers His body every day. May our God continue to bless America. Miss you all.

-Bob
written 06/29/11

PS: No patriotic image to share. So enjoy this picture of a cute African child instead.

Behold This Sacred Heart

Behold this Heart, which has loved men so much…

These are the words of Jesus spoken to St. Margaret Mary, a humble Visitation nun in France in the 1670’s. Here is where Christ chose to reveal this special form of devotion. Now, two things are always found together in the devotion to the Sacred Heart: Christ’s Heart of flesh and Christ’s love for us.

In the Office of Readings for this Solemnity, Saint Bonaventure writes:

The blood and water which poured out at that moment [when the soldier pierced his side] were the price of our salvation. Flowing from the secret abyss of our Lord’s heart as from a fountain, this stream gave the sacraments of the Church the power to confer the life of grace, while for those already living in Christ it became a spring of living water welling up to life everlasting.

The love of Christ was the driving force for all that he did and suffered: in Nazareth, on the cross, in giving himself in the Blessed Sacrament, in his teaching and healing, his praying and working. Even now, the Heart of Jesus never ceases to love and sanctify us in heaven through the Sacraments. For his Heart has already been pierced opened for us, we need only to dwell with him and let him nourish us within his Heart.

In the gospel account we will hear tomorrow from Matthew, we hear the well-known verse, "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for your selves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light." The easiness of the yoke and the lightness of the burden are based on the relationship we have with the meek and humble Jesus, which brings rest to us in the present. This relationship begins with realizing the love that God has for us. For God's very being is love, and we are called to remain in his love and to love one another as Christ has loved us (John 15).

I have recently read from Archbishop Fulton Sheen that there is no such thing as loving too much. You either love madly or you love too little. And mediocrity is the price for all those who refuse to add sacrifice to their love. I think we can say without a doubt that Christ was madly in love. So much so that he gave his life for us, for there is no greater love than this. So in order to reach the heights of love we must begin at the lowest level and be humble as he is humble.

And there is definite truth here. In the most seemingly lowly and humble souls there can be found the most sacrificial love. There was a graduation yesterday for the 12th graders. Talking to one of the graduates yesterday, he spoke of the thankfulness he had for even the chance to get an education, of his parent’s sacrifice so they could afford to send him to school, a thankfulness to God, and the hope to give back from what he has been blessed with. Truly blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God and his abounding love.

Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us, for we place all our trust in you…

-Dan
written 6/30/11

The Apostle of the Lepers

The plan is that I will go to Massatine, the leper colony, every Thursday. Today, however, they had to take a different car because the truck we usually take needed to be fixed in Monrovia. As a result, there was no room for me to go. So instead, to be with them in spirit I decided to do a little research into the namesake of the church built there, Father Damien of Molokai. Allow me to share a bit of his story.

Father Damien was born in Belgium in the year 1840. When he was eighteen he felt called by God to become a Catholic priest. In 1859 he joined his oldest brother as a member of the Congregation of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary and took the religious name Damien. He then sailed to Hawaii in 1863 with two other priests to serve as a team of missionaries on the island. It was here that Fr. Damien encountered leprosy.

At that time no one know too much about the disease or how to treat it, most were just afraid of catching it. So the government set up a colony on the island of Molokai where they sent all those with leprosy to live, and ultimately die. When the Bishop asked for a volunteer to go and live with these people on Molokai and look after the settlers, Fr. Damien begged for the chance to go.

The state that he found the island in was a sad one. These people felt like outsiders to their own race and abandoned, for good reason. With no one to care for them, the people felt little hope left in life. Then Fr. Damien arrived.

Since he was the only help the people received, Fr. Damien had to act as doctor, nurse, teacher, carpenter, engineer, as well as priest. But he did all this with love, and filled each day with work and prayer. The most important thing he did for these people, however, was to give them back their self-respect. He showed them that there was someone who loved and cared for them. So on top of building huts, supplying water, educating the young, visiting the sick, and holding countless Masses and funerals, this new found hope in life was the real change.

Eventually, Fr. Damien finally caught leprosy. He died in the joy of Christ, however, writing to his brother that, “I am quite happy and contented. Although seriously ill, all I want is to do the will of God.” And as Fr. Damien began to slip away he received Holy Communion for the last time, and before he died, actually, all signs of leprosy left his face. He then met his end peacefully in 1889.

So there you have, in brief, the story of Fr. Damien of Molokai. It is a truly inspiring life, and I can’t wait to visit our own village of Massatine again next week. But it is an example to all of us of the sacrificial love that the Lord is calling us to. Underneath a large cross at his burial site are the words from Scripture:

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

-Dan
written 06/30/11

Bathed in Blue

The priest had been talking for about fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t tell you what he said.

This priest, an old friend of Fr. Francis, had invited us to his residence and I, the loyal shadow, tagged along. He is of the Order of Augustinian Recollects (O.A.R). I can’t tell you anything about the order because all of his books and magazines were in Spanish. Fr. Francis and I sat on a couch facing him. Behind his chair I immediately noticed a painting of Mary. More appropriately, it noticed me. Over the next fifteen minutes of conversation I struggled to pay attention (hearing only the voice of Charlie Brown’s teacher), finding myself captivated by this portrait. There are many paintings of Mary that I find beautiful, but this one…was different.

I remember one spiritual direction session I had last summer. I recall telling the priest how I was frustrated about feeling this attraction for priesthood and yet still tangled up in doubt over if I could really be alright without a tangible woman to hold me accountable. He leaned forward and said quietly, “Bob, maybe you’ve already found the right woman.” I promptly shut up.

How do you have a relationship with Mary? Easier done than said. I think the first step is recognizing that Mary actually existed—she lived in a specific time and moment of history. She is often frozen into a prayer card or ivory statue, and we forget that she was (and is still) flesh and blood. She was a young woman, terrified of what God called her to do, but freely and openly laid down her life to a plan beyond her comprehension. She is the paradigm for all young people struggling with trust in discerning God’s will, and I believe she is the reason why I survived my second year in seminary. The African Catholics I have encountered all hold a special reverence for Mary; every morning they pray the rosary before Mass. Like a good mother, she’s always waiting to help us, but she respects our freedom and stubbornness-—we only need to pick up the spiritual phone.

But sometimes, like a mother should, she puts her foot down. Two years ago an icon of Guadeloupe I had hung over my bed fell from its hook and drew blood from my forehead. I hadn’t prayed the rosary in some time—I took it as a sign to stop neglecting Mary. Fulton Sheen said that, “If we are one in Christ, than Mary is our Mother! It is a terrible thing for a man not to know his heavenly Father; it is equally serious not to know his heavenly Mother. I believe the Lord when He said, ‘This is my Body,’ so I believe Him when He says, “This is your Mother.”

Here’s to all the moms out there (hi Mom!), on earth and in Heaven.

-Bob
Totus Tuus Maria
written 06/29/11