Resurrecting Chicago

OMG. I was sitting at my computer this morning answering emails when the doorbell rang.  It takes me a couple of minutes to get to the front door and when I got there the bell-ringer had left, but I see two men on the front walk discussing something.  One man, nattily dressed in a grey suit and maroon tie, probably fifty years old, was jotting something into a pocket notebook. The other guy was a lot younger, casually dressed with khaki pants and an off-white conservative short-sleeved shirt and he was pointing at something behind his older friend.. Turned out they were discussing what street to try next. They were Jehovah’s witnesses on their weekly hunt.

I hoped they might see me at the window of my enclosed porch and return because I have a standard response to the Witnesses. After they introduce themselves, I talk over them and begin rambling loudly that I’ve been saved since 1967. I talk and gesture dramatically faster than they about my religious experiences. I’m warm and smiling.  I’m also lying but maybe a day or two in purgatory might be worth it. They are typically unprepared for this welcome and usually hand me a tract and quickly leave.

Years ago when I lived in a small town in Missouri — the buckle of the bible belt– I found stuffed under my front door a JH pamphlet describing the story of a Catholic priest who fled to the Witnesses.  The last page encouraged me as a priest to leave the Catholic Church, too. It really made me feel good about the Witnesses.

These so-called witnesses are scavengers, targeting the poorest and most vulnerable.  They try to coax Christians to leave their own churches and join the Witnesses. Then they mesmerize their novice candidates. They develop the fear that once you join and then try to leave, you will literally go to hell.

Jehovah is their rendition of the tetragrammaton YHWH, the sacred personal name of God, which was and still is never pronounced out loud in Jewish services. Lord (Adonai) is substituted. In writing and print, ancient Hebrew did not supply vowels.  If vowels are used as superscripts above the NAME  it means that here, the reader will say “Lord.”

At the time of Jesus, the chief priest on Yom Kippur while hidden away behind the curtain in the Holy of Holies would voice the sacred name.  No one else did, ever.

I think Jehovah’s Witnesses is a cruel, malnourished religion.  The daughter of a women I know was ejected rom the Witnesses because she got married to a non-believer. Her mother matter-of-factly informed me that the entire group of JW families -including her own- were committed to shunning this daughter for the rest of her life.  I can’t imagine a more anti-Christian behavior.

Showing that we bear the cross of Jesus in our own lives is the best example to the world of a witness for Jesus. Living His message must be our witness to the world. Anything else is perjury.

What inaugurates Spring for me is seeing fishermen at the river. In winter, the Illinois’ River’s edge is empty of fishermen and of kids skipping stones across the flowing surface of the Illinois. When the weather warms and the days begin to lengthen, the fishermen appear.

Around here, they are all men for some reason.  They fish. I guess that the women garden and trim around their flower plots at home. It is men that fish, at least here along the Illinois River, and today the full sun is making the ripples of the river shimmer like they were throwing off glittering diamonds.

On this north side of the river, I see six fishermen seated on aluminum lawn chairs, each with two or thee fishing rods poking out toward chosen spots in the river.  The fishermen rest, staring at the water.  They are positioned, backs to me, one every 150 – 200 feet, all gazing with lazy alert at the stuff that floats past them on the endless river.

It is quiet: no kids, no spouses and no fish either. Occasionally, one of the men reaches for a cup holder, lifts a Styrofoam cup and takes a sip of coffee (at least I think it’s coffee). A single white gull glides silently above them against the blue sky.

The fisherman are static and remind me of starlings that descend on telephone wires and position themselves a standard 12″ apart so that the birds look like black notes on a musical scale. The fishermen here are half-notes playing out their silent tune on the river bank, a middle “C” chord played on the staff of life.

“Any Luck? I say to the sturdy old African-American fisherman who passes by my picnic table where I come to sit and read. He’s done for the day and headed to the small parking lot behind me.

“No, not today, not even a nibble,” he says.  Smiling from underneath his well-used tan cap, he left dangling the hope of better luck tomorrow. It’s about 3 PM and he’s ready to go home but the other five are still at their positions.

Something about this scene is calming.  The surface of the Illinois River is still sparkling like a Van Gough painting.   The river current is slowly passing to the southwest moving toward the Mississippi River carrying away tree branches, floating mallards, and debris of all kinds.  About once every two hours a tug boat advances slowly toward the granaries just outside of town. I recognize the creamy white tiny upper deck of the “Anabelle Lee,” one of the smaller tugs, on it’s way up-river for another load of grain.

I don’t fish anymore.  It’s too much of a bother to scrape the scales off and gut fish, assuming I’d catch anything. No, I just wait for a friend to stop by my house with fresh crappie cleaned and ready for the frying pan.

 I’m at the picnic bench, a stone’s throw from the anglers. People wander by and visit.  An old Marine comes over to talk.  He likes the park but doesn’t enjoy fishing, except for a receptive ear. He has a pocketful of stories about his combat time during the Vietnam War and he’s eager to tell you about a few of them –in detail.

He’s a chunky six-footer, bent over slightly, with a white goatee and knee replacements — and stories of resurrection. Divorced after many years. He says he was wounded five times, once in the head. 

“The docs told me I’d need to carry O2 with me and that I wouldn’t be able to breathe without some help.  I fooled ’em. No oxygen tank.  I’m still here.”  

He tells non-stop stories about neighborhood fights when he was a kid and how he didn’t want to fight but guys thought he was always looking for a fight.  “I wasn’t –but they wouldn’t leave me alone.” He’s standing between me and the river, leaning forward and on his feet for the whole time. Eventually, he moves on but I know he is a seeker. He is fishing for something important to him.

The fishermen are static, sitting in their chairs — not moving– facing the river.  Some artist should capture this. Nobody smokes, no loud  music, either and no one moves much.  They look like sculpted statues posted along the river. They seem mesmerized by it.

I wonder what they are thinking about.  It must be important because they spend so much time at it. I’m reminded of –believe it or not — a Babylonian proverb: “God does not deduct from man’s allotted days on earth, the time he spends fishing.”

Pope Leo XIV. (credit ATVmagyarorszag)

It’s a day later,  but I am still experiencing the moment when the Cardinal Deacon stood on the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica and formally announced that Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost from Dolton, Illinois was elected to the papacy to replace Pope Francis.

The response from the crowd in St. Peter’s Square was an outpouring of joy. Hundreds of thousands of people raised their voices and some their arms in a rush of excitement that erupted from the Catholics and non-Catholics gathered beneath the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica.

Individuals in the crowd were from all over the world.  Many were not Catholic but wanted to experience the thrill of Catholics as they greeted their new pope, Leo XIV.  Smiling and clothed in papal vestments, the new Holy Father spoke in Italian to the huge crowd saying that he wished them all, and the world, peace in the Resurrected Christ. He ended by saying “God love you all!”

I saw many, many young people singing and hugging with hopes for a new world.  There could be no other moment that I can remember more thrilling than the moment the new pope walked out onto that balcony of St. Peter’s. When I lived in Rome, many years ago I’d see that balcony as I passed through that square and would wonder what it would be like to see a new pope presented to the world from there. Television coverage made that possible.  I felt I was somehow there cheering and lifting my arms in welcome.

The improbable choice of an American who in God’s providence was chosen is a wake-up to Americans. He is a descendant of immigrants. His mother and father were of French/ Spanish Louisiana Creole and Italian heritage.  He is also a citizen of Peru where he worked for twenty years among the poor. He understands the complexities of different cultures and the stresses that arise from immigration.

It’s a new day in the Church.  His work done, Pope Francis lies in rest at St. Mary Major’s Basilica. Now Pope Leo takes over, a fresh sign of hope, something our world desperately needs as the 21st century unfolds.

Which one will emerge as Holy Father?

As the cardinal electors convene in the Sistine Chapel to select a new Holy Father, Bishop Robert Barron says we need a pope who will quietly and firmly take charge of the Catholic Church with evangelical fervor. He thinks we need a papal referee, although I’m not sure I understand what he means. 

Other commentators hope for a pope with an agenda for expanding the Church and strengthening it in places throughout the world where the Catholic faith is growing, where there are  many new converts and candidates for the priesthood.  Nigeria and Tanzania come to mind.

Then, of course, there are those who hope for the restoration of the Church to the glorious days of Pius XII and before the disastrous tsunami  of the Second Vatican Council.  Have you heard of Cardinal Burke? His miter could wear the acronym, “MOCGA'” or “Make Our Church Great Again.”

President Trump wants someone like himself elected and, in fact, the White House  released yesterday an image of Trump as pope in golden vestments. Trump’s advisors thought the mock up was funny.  The United States Catholic Conference of Bishops did not and issued a formal rebuke to “The Donald.”

Pundits throw out other names along with the odds of winning for each candidate.  Cardinal Tagle of Manilla is odds on best choice to win, according to the journalists who seem to think that they know something.  But then, there is another favorite: the experienced Vatican official, Cardinal Parolin. There are others mentioned but with less fervor: one from Hungary, another from the Congo and at least two red hats from Italy.

The secrecy surrounding the vowed public silence about the deliberations will keep us in doubt until the Cardinal Protodeacon (in this case Cardinal Dominique Mamberti) walks out onto the balcony of St. Peter’s and announces : “Habemus papam!” (“We have a pope!”)

We believers pray for these cardinals who have such an awesome responsibility. The excitement right now in and outside the Catholic church is a spark that could ignite both us and those who hope for the coming of the kingdom.

Brother Juniper on a teeter-totter playing irreverently with kids.

Why do some people think that joy is irreverent?  Check the new testament, especially Paul, for verses that encourage Christians to be joyful. “Rejoice in the Lord always” comes to mind. (Phillipians 4:4)

I like to see people laugh and hear them, too.  Some people belly laugh with a kind of eruption big enough to make by-standers stop and take notice. Then, there are the silent laughers who respond to something funny by doubling over with delight, but no sound occurs.

My Aunt A’s cackle was loud and over-powering. At family gatherings,  you could hear her laughter even when it had to soar over a dozen conversations. Just to hear her laugh would make us laugh, or at least, smile..

One of my favorite saints is Brother Juniper who entered into St. Francis’ original group and was always cheerful.  He was like a child in his simple trust in Our Lord. Like the little children who swarmed around Jesus and whom Our Lord commended as authentic members of the kingdom of God, Juniper was a free spirit.

When Brother Juniper went to Rome dressed in a sack tied with a rope, people were awed by his devotion and simplicity and treated him as a holy man.  Juniper saw some kids playing and he joined in their games, laughing and looking irreverent. He did not want to be treated like some plaster saint.  It worked.  People left him alone. Many thought he was a simpleton.

This original Franciscan friar (I’m sorry but I can’t think of that word as anything but a “fryer,” a plucked chicken ready for the pan) was simple and funny. Referring to a common evergreen which was called then (and today) a “juniper”,  St. Francis said of his humorous friar: “Would that I had a whole forest of Junipers!”

May God bless us with a forest of cheerful companions in the Gospel.

Walking by myself in the coastal town of Sitka, Alaska where my cruise ship had docked for the day, I sat down on the single bench of the town’s tiny park where a small fountain surrounded by a few red roses, sat bubbling into its pool of water.

I was marvelling at the unexpected heat.   It was 80 degrees in Alaska! Chirping sparrows were fluttering here and there finding trinkles of water to drink and bathe in. I was watching them and wondering how they survived winters where snow covered their sources of forage.

I am always hoping to meet a local  who likes to talk, so I was pleased when an old guy sauntered up and asked, “Anyone sitting here?”  “No, sit down,” I said.

He had sandy, thinning hair well on its way to being white. He coughed as he pulled out a briar pipe, tamped down the tobacco and lit and puffed until he had a good smoke going. He wore grey rimmed glasses which the bright morning light showed as smudged. His bulk was softened by his loose fitting shirt and non-descript pants.

After exchanging a few pleasantries he began talking about WWII and he told me his brother died “not too far from here, killed on American soil by German soldiers.”

He went on to tell me about the incursion of that war into the Aleutian islands, the lonely part of America that thrusts out from Alaska toward Russia. On one of those god-forsaken rockpiles, his younger brother’s life abruptly ended.

Isn’t it interesting that when we know we’ll probably never see a stranger again, we often find a way to say something important? That’s what small talk can lead to.  It’s important  always but it can also lead to”big talk,”where someone reveals their soul and somehow finds solace with a listener.

That conversation was twenty plus years ago.  When the man spoke of his brother, his voice quieted and his words slowed. I could feel the man’s sadness and his sense of loss. There was no detail to his brother’s death because no one knew the circumstances, simply that on a particular day, he was shot to death in combat.

Lifting up a soul can involve healing prayer but can also require simply a readiness to relate to people. We should notice our neighbor more often. We should also listen more carefully. Small talk is great.  It helps smooth out the rough spots of our days. But then, occasionally, there’s “big talk.”  The kind of conversation that people sometimes have with a bartender who offers a listening ear. Taxi drivers who like people (some don’t) and priests are often active listeners. They hear “big talk” more than most people.

I never thought to ask the name of my bench companion, nor did he ask mine.

I’m hopeful that fountain still flows and the single bench is still  there available for small talk, and, sometimes, for big talk. I even wonder how the sparrows are getting along.

Yesterday morning, Cindy, the lady who delivers my grocery order, saw me standing at the door of my house and greeted me eye-to-eye with a “Hi! Howya doin?”  I responded, “I’m fine and how are you getting along?”? “Livin’ the dream!” she said off-handedly as she brought my stuff to the kitchen.

Cindy is a sturdy fifty-something with tired blond hair and an easy  smile that warms me every time I see her and I smile back and thank her as she hurries away to her next delivery.

Cindy was the only person with whom I talked that day. But, I got a blessing out of the deal. I felt someone really saw me, took note of me.

Small talk is essential to getting along in life and part of the daily living to which Jesus has called us. Small talk is one of the ways we pause our purposes and notice someone else, like the simple encounter with Cindy yesterday.

Today, I took a walk and met an old gent with a cane who came shuffling along going the other direction on the sidewalk.  He was a tall man wearing a well-used cap.

“Good morning !” I said when I was a few feet away.  He lifted his head and looked at me as he passed by. His face broke into a grin.”Mornin, nice day!” He said. His voice was surprisingly hefty.

“Yes, it sure is!” I reply.

“Have a good one!” he says as he moves by me.  Four beats to the measure  — just enough to help me sail along with the rest of the day.

These brief encounters and small talk are the day’s salve to the cuts and slings of outrageous fortune. They are fresh air to life’s staleness. Life becomes personal again. It is in those small moments that I am sure that I am not far from the kingdom of God.

We were required to pronounce them in Latin — our religious vows –our promises to God to live as the Savior taught us: “Go sell what you have, give the money to the poor and then come and follow me.”

I have always found Latin a comfortable language to dwell in. Some of it sounds like English and because the Mass of my youth was conducted in Latin, I still think of it as somehow mysterious and holy.

We were eighteen years old, dressed in black cassocks and thought we knew what we were doing as we pronounced our vows according to custom in the Congregation of the Resurrection.

Did I, a young man, understand chastity? No girls, I thought. And, further, no marriage.  And, further, no children. I add now: no grandchildren. And, Poverty?  I thought it meant we shouldn’t have money or spend it. Obedience sounded heroic to me so I wanted to be obedient.

There were seven of us kneeling in front of the seminary altar with our families and friends behind us in the nave of the church. A life-sized statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus looked down at us with open arms. The gold-leaved altar sparkled and was beautifully decorated with red roses. The seminary choir was chanting solemnly in Latin. In front of me, attired in silver trimmed white-satin vestments stood the provincial, a sturdy, stout, authority with a gentle manner.

“Ego, Geraldus Watt in consepctu Dei Omnipotenti, voveo Deo ad anum: paupertatem, castitatem et obedientiam….”

I got through the Latin OK. But, the boy next to me popped  a “caritatem” instead of “castitatem,”substituting an “r” for an “s,” thereby, promising to love everyone but sneakily avoiding the promise to be chaste.

In a nutshell, that morning I thought the vows meant no bank account or pocket money to spend on my relationships and no freedom to go anywhere of my choice.

I wanted to live with the challenge that Our Lord held out to me that morning.  I wanted to follow Him and give Him my will and my life. I wanted to serve the people of God as a Catholic priest and as a Resurrectionist.

What has been my experience these many years of living the vows? My life has not been my own. I am responsible to my brothers in  religious community, a religious community which keeps me at work and solvent. The people I serve trust me to be chaste, though, at my age, they are not too worried about that vow.

My vows let me be free of other responsibilities so that I can preach the Gospel, the principle ministry of the priesthood — its essence– according to St. John Paul II.  I  love to try to live them every day.

This morning, I kept thinking of the slip of the tongue that caused my friend and brother to vow caritas.  Caritas doesn’t mean “charity.’  It means “love” with all its grace and power as Jesus taught us when he said: “Love one another as I have loved you. By this will everyone know that you are my brethren: if you love one another.” (Jn 13:34)

I’m remembering that a life lived in love is what we vowed back those many years ago.  I think my brother in Christ inadvertently got it right.