Thoughts on writing, living, and believing…
Wicked, double heart!
Heavy, hard, sharp, and helpless.
What tool will cleave you;
what torrent erode you?
Arid years of standing still,
have left you a monument to apathetic fear.
Will you beat again?
Happy single heart!
Gentle, supple, sincere.
Cleft by love unbounded,
worn smooth by fearless acceptance.
Yielding and tender, moved by compassion
but unmoved by time.
Sacred Heart strong and stable,
carry my heaviness.
Surround me with calm.
Overcome my fear!
The NCAA handed down its sanctions today. Only time will tell if the intent of changing PSU’s culture is fully realized. I’ve been listening with interest to all the talking heads, but even more to the comments from the general public. They seem to fall into two categories: the sanctions weren’t severe enough, or, it’s unfair to punish the student athletes, most of whom were in grade school when the abuse was happening. Certainly, no one will be happy. No one should be.
As a football fan, and a particularly avid fan of college football, this whole sad story shines a harsh light on how we can become so enthralled by things which are of absolutely no consequence, that we become blind to what is eternally important. This is called idolatry. At Penn State, people in the positions of power, power to save innocents from harm, chose to look the other way in order to protect their idol. There is no other way to look at it.
Idolatry is all around us; it suffuses our lives. The idol of personal freedom sentences millions of unborn children to death every year. The idol of affluence sacrifices the legitimate needs of the poor in our communities, and immolates our own real sense of self-worth as children of God. The idol of self, the most powerful and avaricious of all, demands daily offerings of pride, bigotry, callousness, impatience, disregard, fear and hate. When we look in the mirror, what do we see? A human being in need of healing and restoration, or an idol?
The picture above is Illarion Pryanishnikov’s famous painting of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. Miserable story, miserable war. But that’s not why I posted it. When you say “retreat,” this is what most people think of. Well, I’m on retreat this week. No, I’m not fleeing the Russians, but in a way, I am fleeing something, or more accurately, I am fleeing to something.
Another sunny day here in Chicagoland. Say what you want about San Diego, this place is sunny all the damn time! At least it seems that way to me. Moving from the lee coast of Lake Michigan to the windward side some years ago came as a bit of a shock.
Less cloud cover, less precipitation, that “sickly orange barf-glow” (thank you Lisa Simpson) in the night sky obscuring the stars. Well my nice green lawn is going brown. The wild riot of color from the flowerbeds has turned to a drab, drooping, bleh!
Continue reading “All Sunshine Makes a Desert”
My apologies to Walt Disney. I’m shamelessly stealing the idea for this post from 
Lisa at Keeping Pace, but I have a different take on it, so bear with me.
The Compact O.E.D. Second Edition defines “happy” as, “feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.” Another definition I found states that “happy” connotes a feeling of satisfaction that something has been done well. In my association with St. Procopius Abbey over the last several years, I have had many occasions to feel happy, but never more so than when I attend a wake. This requires a little context.
Continue reading “The Happiest Place on Earth”
When I was a kid, my friends and I played a lot of basketball. In the summer, we played lots more basketball, 10-12 hours a day, everyday. The day would start with games of “21” in the driveway, followed by more 21 in someone else’s driveway followed by pickup games on the courts at the Little League diamonds until it was too dark. At which point we’d go play in someone’s driveway that had good lights. You get the picture.
Continue reading “This isn’t What it Looks Like”
This past weekend was hot here in Chicago, but I couldn’t resist sitting out on 
the patio in the shade for a little while. By this time of year, all the backyard critters are raising their young, or more accurately, trying to get them to move out. Hmm…that’s probably true of human parents too, but I digress.
Watching the goings on in the yard was immensely entertaining. Papa Grackle was still feeding his fully-fledged young who flew around with him wherever he went. The rabbits were ignoring the new generation of bunnies who ignored them right back. But the real show was Momma Squirrel and her wild offspring. Three young squirrels were zooming around the yard, chasing, playing tag, and hide-and-seek. One squirrel would hide on the branch of a bush while the others scampered hither and thither trying to find him. The hiding squirrel sat very still, even as his siblings were sniffing around under his bush. Eventually he was discovered and they all tore off after each other squeaking with joy.
One little squirrel in particular was impossible to ignore. He hounded his poor mother everywhere she went. Quite the momma’s boy. She’d be searching for seeds under the bird feeder, or looking for the peanut she buried under the lilies a month ago, and there he was at her heel. She’d go to take a drink in the pond, and there he was. She even tried running away and hiding herself, but he was always right there. He played with his siblings too, but he seemed to be especially attached to her. Once while she was snuffling for seeds under the bird feeder, he climbed one of the trees overhanging the area, crept out on a branch directly over her, and then with a squeak that I could swear sounded exactly like, “Geronimo!” he dropped on her back. Hilarity ensued.
She got him back though. Since it was hot, the squirrels stopped at the pond pretty regularly. While she was taking a drink, Junior decided to sneak up and pounce on her. She saw him though and ducked. Sploosh! In he went, quickly emerging looking sad and silly, and resembling a half drowned rat. The rabbit who was sitting nearby, twitched his nose at this undignified display.
So by now you’re probably thinking, “Yeah, great, you’ve got animals in your yard. Big deal. So do I. Is there a point to all this?” Well yes, there is a point. It is very, very easy in our hyper-fast, busy, crowded, technological age to become numb to the world around us. We become alienated from our environment to the point that we forget we are also part of it. Sitting and watching the squirrels, I could positively feel God’s joy over His creation. After all, God’s creation is an act of His love. When stopping to appreciate the beauty and diversity of all that God has made, one can only conclude that He must really enjoy making it. As a writer, I feel a tiny glimmer of that joy whenever I turn out a well-written paragraph. I’m sure you feel it too, when you complete some project that comes out well.
If God can be so happy over the very smallest of creatures, image what He must feel about you who were made in His image and likeness.
That’s usually the response when I tell people I’m a Benedictine oblate. I then 
patiently explain that oblates are laypeople who strive to live according to the Rule of St. Benedict and who have a spiritual affiliation with a particular monastery. More often than not, this falls well short of a satisfactory answer. Depending on the level of interest I perceive in my interlocutor, I may elaborate by explaining who St. Benedict is, and why someone should want to follow his rule. This discussion inevitably leads to the question, “Why? What do you get out of it?” This is a harder question to answer, because the answer, like my spiritual health, differs from day to day.
Like many people in recent years, I was drawn to monastic spirituality as a way to live an intentionally contemplative life in an increasingly noisy and frenetic world. Where I live, I am lucky to have many monasteries nearby, but I was particularly drawn to St. Procopius Abbey because of shared roots between the Abbey and myself. And, because it is a Benedictine trait to practice hospitality, the kind monks of the Abbey welcomed me like they have many others over their long history.
They allow me to share in their liturgy, and to a degree, their conventual life. But there is a distinct difference between them and me. My Oblate Director is fond of reminding us oblates that, “oblates are not little monks.” To be sure, there are those who wish to live like monks, and so are drawn to the monastery, but the vocation of professed religious is only for those who really have that calling. Those who seek the monastery in order to run away from life, not only fail in their quest, but also badly miss the point. This is as true today as when St. Benedict was alive.
The monastery is a school of obedience for those with a true calling to religious life. But as God is no respecter of persons, St. Benedict’s rule allows people from all walks of life to be pupils in this school to the degree appropriate for their manner of life. Just like the monk in the cloister, I am trying to find my way to heaven, which is the path to the knowledge of God, and His Son, Jesus Christ. As a Benedictine oblate, I am invited to walk that path alongside the monks; they inside the cloister, and me and my fellow oblates on the outside.
