My new posting

By now both folks in Mt. Adams and down at St. Rose know this, so I'll post something here. The archbishop has named me parochial administrator of Holy Cross-Immaculata Parish, and also Old St. Mary's Parish in Over The Rhine. I will assume those duties June 17. My responsibilities at the Archdiocese continue.

Many will ask, what is a "parochial administrator"? It is essentially a pastor, except a pastor is named for a set term, but a parochial administrator has no set term. It's not so unusual in other dioceses for someone to be named administrator initially, although not so common here. However, Archbishop Schnurr has done it more frequently lately, in large measure I think because of uncertainty related to providing coverage for parishes when there are too few priests. In other words, the Archbishop needs to keep his options open.

I will miss the people of Saint Rose, who have been wonderful to get to know and tone with.

I am eager to meet the people at Immaculata and at Old Saint Mary's.

The long shadows of history

It's been a lovely week on the Mississippi coast. Today will be my last day on the beach, then I'll head  over to New Orleans for Pentecost Mass, and then spend a few days making my way north. I'm planning to go up a bit along the Mississippi, then back across Mississippi and then home.

There's a lot of history here, some long ago, some recent, and the shadows are longer than we might realize.

One of the questions on my mind when I came down here was how much the effects of Hurricane Katrina in 2005, as well as the 2010 BP oil spill, were still felt. While I can't say how much the spill still effects things, Katrina is less "past" here than present. The hotel where I'm staying faces the gulf with lovely views; on either side are vast, empty lots. The locals say the cost of insurance skyrocketed after Katrina, curbing development. I'm guessing the financial crisis of 2008 had something to do with it as well. In any case, driving up and down this part of the coast this week, I saw lots of empty lots.

Earlier this week I visited Beauvoir, the post-war home of Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate States of America. It's a lovely home, just a few hundred feet from the gulf, designed to be breezy and cool, or as best as could be managed before air conditioning. This was Davis's home after the war, when he was largely destitute; the prior owner took him in, letting him stay in a cottage on the grounds. Here it was that ex-President Davis wrote his memoirs and apologia for the Confederacy. The prior owner, whose name escapes me at the moment, was at the end of her life, and she sold her home to Davis; before the price was paid in full, she had died, and her will bequeathed the home to him. According to the tour guide, Mr. Davis made the remaining payments to her heirs anyway.

The historic site isn't run by either the federal or state government, but by the Sons of Confederate Veterans. After Mr. and Mrs. Davis departed this life (the adjacent museum had a video of the massive funeral held in New Orleans), the property ended up being used as a home and hospital for Confederate veterans, their wives and servants. It served this purpose up to 1956. Does that late date surprise you? Apparently the last veterans of the War Between The States, on both sides, died in the early 50s! And the last widows died in 2003 and 2004!

In 1956, the home was repurposed to its present status as a museum and memorial. Alas, its location has not proved a boon to this venture; being right on the Gulf Coast, it was vulnerable to hurricanes. When Camille hit, the museum was located immediately below the house and thus exposed to flooding. Then a nearby building was set aside for the displays of the Davis's personal effects, papers and other historical bric-a-brac.

Then Katrina hit. The museum building now there was built after Katrina; only the main house survived the storm. Much of what the museum had washed away; a fair number of items were reclaimed, and they are being restored as much as possible. Among the few items on display for me were a few pieces of Confederate currency--from what had been a substantial collection--as well as some once-lovely glass decanters and a silver tea service now smashed and mangled.

Behind the house is a Confederate cemetery, where veterans and their wives and servants were buried; it was difficult getting there without interfering with the workers who were laying out the paths and garden beds for restoration. Prominent in the graveyard was the Tomb of the Unknown Confederate Soldier. This, surprisingly, is a recent addition. The remains were discovered in 1979, near Vicksburg, and the shrine was dedicated in 1981. Surrounding this fresh stone monument were scores of gravestones, some badly faded of course, but others looked like they had been replaced recently. On many of them, a flag fluttered--the Stars and Bars.

While walking amongst the graves, I came upon one marked "Revolutionary War"--why was that here? It was the grave of Samuel Emory Davis, born in 1756, who served in the Revolution, had ten children, the last of whom was Jefferson Finis Davis.

As I said, tomorrow my plan is to visit New Orleans; a friend of mine who grew up there gave me a list of things to see; I'll get as many as I can. Then I hope to go up along the Mississippi; I hope I can find a spot where I can look at it as perhaps it looked when the first explorers came upon it, or Mark Twain wrote about it. Natchez is famed both for its homes, as well as being the terminus of the almost-forgotten Natchez Trace, which was trod by the first arrivals on this continent, the Amerindians, and then by European settlers. Merriwether Lewis, who with William Clark explored so much of the American west, met his end along the Trace--exactly how remains a mystery to this day.

There's another trace I want to follow--the road that runs from Philadelphia to Meridian. In the 1960s, three young men were among those working to promote civil rights in these parts; and it was along the road from Philadelphia, one night in June 1964, that James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were kidnapped and murdered.

As I write this, I recall another shadow of history--my own. I haven't thought about this in years. Once upon a time, at age 26, I ran for office; in the course of that campaign for state representative, I met a man from Mississippi then living in Cincinnati: James Meredith, who history will recall was the first black man to enroll at the University of Mississippi, and who stood up for registering African Americans to vote and took a bullet for it. Memories get fuzzy, but as I recall, Mr. Meredith sought me out; and to my great surprise, he said he wanted to help me. We had some events and he came to a news conference I think, it's all kind of a mush in my head, now.

Well, that was one of many curious experiences in that campaign, which despite a lot of enthusiasm, ended with me garnering only 31% of the vote against the Majority Leader of the state House, a veteran of 22 years. After that, I moved to Washington, D.C., and didn't see Mr. Meredith again. According to Wikipedia, he lives in Jackson, Mississippi.

Traveling south...

Friday began my vacation; funny how work sometimes follows.

Earlier this week, the boss (I'll let you speculate about who that might be) and I nailed down a date for a meeting--to be held not long after I get back from my vacation; so Thursday afternoon and evening, I'm shooting out emails. No problem. But I'll have to send out some more emails in the next couple of days, once I hear from the boss about who needs to be there. Hint: if you're a priest of the archdiocese, and you'll be a pastor the first time this summer, I've already got a meeting scheduled for you! But the announcements of new assignments will be made this weekend, so I'm not privy to that information.

Oh, and there's an item to be written for the "Clergy Communications" bulletin that goes out once a month. I'll get that taken care of Monday or Tuesday. But it's OK. I'm pretty relaxed already.

From Cincinnati I drove down I-71 to Louisville, then took the turnoff for I-65, which brought me to central Alabama. I'm staying a couple of days with the community of Our Lady of Angels Monastery, which was founded by Mother Angelica. The monastery offers hospitality to priests, either for a retreat or--as in my case--for someone passing through.

The monastery is situated on several hundred acres of farm- and wood-land; the center of the community is the Shrine of the Most Holy Eucharist, which you may have seen on TV. Anyone can visit. Last night, after dinner, a couple of seminarians (who are on their way back to their diocese in the southwest) and I took a walk around, and found our way down to the shrine. The building, and the piazza in front of it, have a Spanish look to it, we decided (at breakfast, I learned it was modeled after the basilica in Assisi). The chapel itself is stunning. I'll be back at Noon today for Mass, although that Mass will be in a different chapel. The Mass in the main chapel is at 7 am; I chose the "slugabed" option of the Noon Mass to concelebrate. (There is also a chapel in the monastery, where I could offer Mass privately if I wished.)

There are actually three communities here: the sisters who are cloistered, the friars, and the Knights of the Holy Eucharist, with whom I'm staying. Their mission is to support and protect the shrine. I've had a chance to talk with several of the young men who are here as postulants and aspirants--meaning they are discerning whether to take vows as a member of the community.

Just now I was out on a walk after breakfast, and I stopped to look at the horses and cows. The postulants told me they are actually steers, being raised for beef; and there are chickens about as well.

I'll be with these good fellows until tomorrow morning, when I head south--I'm headed toward the gulf coast, where I will spend a few days on the beach, despite being extremely prone to sunburn. If you are out and about along the beach, and you see a large, beached aquatic mammal with an umbrella, it may be me.

Rules and the Spirit (Sunday homily)

The readings raise a perennial question about “rules”--
and about being guided by the Holy Spirit.

We’ve all heard it, and maybe we’ve said it: 
if only we could get back to simple Christianity, without all the rules.

Only notice: in the first reading, right at the beginning, 
to settle a dispute between Christians with different backgrounds, 
the Apostles needed to impose some…rules.

But this question occurs: why do we have to have rules?
Do we have too many? 
Let me share with you what Father Mike Seger, 
who teaches moral theology at our seminary, taught us: 
“Rules exist to protect values.”

That’s a very profound, and very useful, insight. I’ll say it again:
“Rules exist to protect values.”

One takeaway from that is this: 
if people don’t understand why we have a rule, 
it’s time to ask, what is the value it’s supposed to protect?

So to pick a high-profile example:
In the public arena, many of us, including the Catholic Church, 
are now forced to defend a rule about marriage: it’s a man and a woman.

And many people say who cares? Live and let live.

So let’s answer the question: what is the value at stake here?
And the answer is there are several: 
a true understanding of human identity, 
including the nature of family.

When we defend the understanding of marriage as man-and-woman, 
we’re also defending the fact of family being mother-and-father.

And what many don’t realize is that this debate 
isn’t just about a small change in the law. If only it were.
It’s about two very different views of human life and human nature.

That’s why many of those 
who want to change the definition of marriage 
aren’t content to win that legal change here and there--
you’re also seeing them put us in the same category as racists, 
and calling us bigots. 

And we’re just beginning to see florists, photographers, 
wedding-cake-bakers and so forth are being punished 
for saying, well I don’t agree with redefining marriage.

And, I might add, we’re also seeing the beginnings to what’s next: 
if marriage needn’t be about a man and woman, 
why does it have to be just two people?

So you see, this is not about just a small change in a law--
it’s about a fundamental shift in the values that shape who we are.

So to return to my starting point--
when we wonder why we have rule, 
look to see what value it serves to protect.

The Gospel, which talks about the Gift of the Holy Spirit, 
could be seen as a counterpoint to the first reading with its rules.

But the Holy Spirit isn’t really an “alternative” to having rules--
rather, when we have the Holy Spirit, we have just one rule: 
do what the Holy Spirit says.


If only we were at that point!
That’s what heaven is. 
On earth, our wills are not so well tuned to God’s will.
So in the meantime, we need help. That’s what rules are for.

That’s what the Sacraments are for. Going to confession.
Holy Eucharist. Prayer. Devotion. Our life as Christians.
To tune our wills to the will of God, the will of the Holy Spirit.

Love in joy and sorrow: a day in the life of a priest and a young couple

What follows is the story of a privileged "day in the life of a priest." I say, "privileged," because it's a story that normally goes untold, because it's very private, very delicate. This post would not have happened, had not the family given me permission to do so. They hoped that others might be helped by their story. As it is, some details will be omitted or altered, for privacy.

Several times in my priesthood, I've had one of the most heartbreaking calls or messages I can get: from a parent letting me know that a child, looked for, prayed for, still on the way, will not survive--and can I come and do something?

Another of those calls came recently: the couple had lost a child to miscarriage, and would I offer prayers? After some messages back and forth, we set a day and time. Dad would pick me up and we'd drive together to the cemetery, where we met mom and their youngest child--two years old.

The day arrived: pretty and pleasant, something rare for Cincinnati, which seems to go from bluster to swelter in about a week. While I waited for the doorbell to ring, I went and got a surplice to wear over my cassock, a stole, and the holy water bucket (I couldn't find my little plastic bottle).

Now, I'll stop here to explain something for those wondering about this: why would I wear a cassock? Why bring the "get up"? I know many of my fellow priests would simply go in their black suit--and I won't fault them.

But here's my thought: this is a time I wanted to give this family my best. This would be the only funeral for "Jacob" (names will all be changed). This was what I could do to say this was not a small thing, even if it was brief and away from church. (Of course, had I thought the couple would prefer otherwise, then I would have done differently.)

When we got to the cemetery, little Christopher, the two-year-old, was delighted to see some geese and ducks--to him, they were all ducks. Who knows, maybe the geese think they're ducks as well? A fellow from the cemetery met us, and then led us to the gravesite. The cemetery had kept little Jacob, in a small, lovely, carved wooden container, and he led us to a special section set aside for this purpose. This was not this couple's first visit; they had lost another child, early in a pregnancy.

Along the way, Christopher delighted to point out the colorful trees and other things that delight a two-year-old; how much each of us needs to spend time seeing with child's wide eyes! If only we could recover a bit of that wonder! When we got there, dad held the holy water bucket; and I asked Christopher if he'd "like to help"--he and his dad, Steven, handed me the aspergillum (the "sprinkler") so I could bless the grave. One of the prayers ("Saints of God")--which is included in every Catholic funeral--I was able to sing. Again, it seemed to me the least I could do.

You can imagine the emotions of the couple; I will not share that. You can understand that their little boy was probably only somewhat attuned to the moment, yet he was quiet and attentive. Parents, you will have wiser observations on this subject--but I think children "get" more than we think, but their comprehension is on a different level, and they don't give us the signals we need to know it happened. No doubt Christopher knew his parents were sad--and that there was love. I respect parents who feel otherwise, but I don't see anything here to "protect" a child from.

After we finished our prayers, we lingered a moment--the couple located one of the small markers that was familiar.

Dad and I talked a fair amount on the way out and back. We talked about suffering. Why is there pain? That's the question of questions. He brought up C.S. Lewis, and we talked about The Problem of Pain, which Steven had heard of; I told him about A Grief Observed, which he hadn't known about. Lewis wrote this latter late in life--after being a bachelor, not expecting to marry; then an improbable "romance" (if you read the story, you'll understand the quote marks) that became romance, and then a brief but passionate marriage cut short by a cancer diagnosis.

Just now, I remembered something more about that. In the movie about this episode in Jack and Joy Lewis' life, Joy, in a brief, happy respite from the cancer--makes this point: "the pain then is part of the happiness now--that's the deal." (I'm sorry the clip is rough, it's the only clip of this scene I could find.)

And we talked about something I read from Pope Blessed John Paul's Crossing the Threshold of Hope--a startling account of the crucifixion as God allowing humanity to put him on trial, and punish him, so that humanity might forgive God--and they would be reconciled.

Here's that quote:

Could God have justified himself before human history, so full of suffering, without placing Christ’s Cross at the center of that history? Obviously, one response could be that God does not need to justify himself to man. It is enough that he is omnipotent. From this perspective everything he does or allows must be accepted. But God, who besides being Omnipotence is Wisdom and— to repeat once again—Love, desires to justify himself to mankind.  He is not the Absolute that remains outside of the world, indifferent to human suffering. He is Emmanuel, God-with-us, a God who shares man’s lot and participates in his destiny. The crucified Christ is proof of God’s solidarity with man in his suffering.

On the way back, dad told me that he and Elizabeth had lost a child even before these two--but hadn't known about the option of having a funeral. One of the reasons he was happy to have me write this was the hope that other couples, facing what this couple faced, would know about this option.

I shared with them something I've shared with others who have lost an unborn child--yes, even in the vastly different situation of an abortion: you are welcome, even long after, to name that child. No matter the circumstances; even if you don't know if your child was a boy or girl, the child did exist. Give your child a name. Don't worry about whether it's a boy or girl name--that won't matter in heaven! Pray for your child; pray to your child--by which I mean, talk to him or her, and ask your child to pray for you.

What about baptism? What about children who die without baptism?

Pope Blessed John Paul II also had some beautiful words for parents who--having lost a child before he or she could be baptized--that reminded them, and all of us, that God created those children out of love, and when they die, the remain cradled in the love of God. I went looking for that passage just now, but I can't find it. Perhaps someone else will remember it.

Baptism is an urgent matter, and we do not take it lightly. I have baptized several children in emergency situations, including two children in situations it was, frankly, a doubtful matter. That said,  even if God imposes a necessity on us, through his commands regarding the sacraments, no one and nothing imposes any necessity on God.

As this couple, their youngest, and I were about to part--mom with Christopher back home, dad to take me back to the parish and then to work--it was a sad moment, yet full of love and hope. Mom was holding the boy in her arms, and Christopher was enjoying shaking hands. He said, "mommy, shake daddy's hand!" Mom said, I'm not going to shake daddy's hand, silly! I want to kiss him!" Mom and dad leaned toward each other, with little Christopher right in the middle. It may seem hopelessly old-fashioned, but for that moment, I felt an intruder and looked away. 

But even so, I saw a husband and wife embrace, and yet here was a little boy, who is the gift that God gives precisely through the embrace of a husband and wife. Another movie comes to mind--but I don't think I can use only a small scene to convey the power of it. The film is Life is Beautiful--and it's the story of a Jewish couple, in World War II Italy. The arc of the film moves from happy days of courtship, to marriage, to a child, to Nazi roundups, to a concentration camp, to desperate efforts of a father to protect his son. I will not describe the ending--which, remembering, brought sudden tears.

But I will describe one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever seen in a movie--depicting, so skillfully, what we believe about marital love. The couple are married, it is their wedding day, and they excuse themselves discreetly behind a closing door. The screen darkens and lightens--it would seem to be the next day after their honeymoon. The door opens--a small boy runs out! It is their son--the fruit of their love.

I cannot imagine, and so I won't presume to describe, the pain and anguish of a parent wanting a child, and having to let go of him or her after a few weeks of life in the womb. This couple, like so many others, has to experience that anguish as a shared thing, just as they share the joy and exultation of the children God's love-in-their-love has given them. If only we could have one, and not the other!

Until then, we hug and kiss each other, in joy and in sorrow, sharing both, finding beauty in both, finding our humanity in both, finding love in both, finding God. 

The City of God (Sunday homily)

In the second reading we have the new Jerusalem, the city of God.
What does this tell us about who we are and where we’re headed? 
Let’s look at it.

The thing about a city is there is a lot of interdependence.
When I got up this morning, I wanted hot water; I turned the knob. 
To fix breakfast, I had bread on the counter, 
and eggs and bacon, butter and milk in the fridge.

But all those wonderful things only happen 
because of other people in this city, who run the water plant, 
maintain the gas and electric lines, and who bring food in 
from farms and faraway places to the grocery store.

The City of God works the same way. We belong together.

Our American way of thinking emphasizes individualism.
We like being free to do as we wish.

So a lot of Catholics tend to think about faith as being an individual thing.
And when we, or our bishops, talk about the obligations of being a Catholic, 
it doesn’t always register.

I think this explains why so many don’t go to confession.
Why can’t we just tell God? 
And the answer is because our sins don’t just involve God, 
they involve his Body, the Church.
And so, also, our reconciliation is in and through the Church.

The opening prayer mentions “Holy Baptism.”
Baptism is when each of us became citizens of that City.

Most of us were born citizens of this country; 
but if you talk to people who are naturalized, 
they’ll tell you about the many steps they took, 
and they’ll talk about how powerful it was 
to swear their allegiance and become a citizen.

Well, it’s even more true with baptism. 
That’s why we renew our baptismal vows at Easter, 
and why we profess our Creed each Sunday. 

And being a citizen in God’s City, the Church,
means we live our lives in our Faith and by our Faith.
When you think of it that way, 
how can we have a part of our lives we live outside the City?

And yet, that’s where a lot of Catholics are. 
Go on the Internet--get outside; 
how we run our business, or treat other people, 
how we shop or how we vote: we go outside the City.

And this is why we come here every Lord’s Day.
This is where the city we are not yet--
but which God is fashioning us to be--is made present.
This city doesn’t have a mayor; we have a King.
And the King is here! Of course we come!

If you read further in the book of Revelation, 
you’ll see that in the center of that City is a Tree:
“the Tree of Life” that gives fruit for the nations twelve months a year.

That Tree is the Cross. 
And so that we can become who are called to be,
that Tree becomes present here, at every Mass, at the altar.
The Eucharist is the Fruit of that Tree!

This is the City of God. Of course we come!