Resurrecting Chicago

It’s Monday morning and the sun is just barely above the horizon, brightening the oaks and poplars in a small grove that I visit often.  I am in my car parked next to the trees facing the comforting flow of the Illinois River and praying the Church’s morning prayer.  It is exactly one year since I had heart surgery.

My aortic prosthesis is functioning well enough so that after prayers I take a walk around the small lot where I am parked. I am breathing deeply and rapidly but I am not breathless. My walking staff is a buddy supporting me in the fresh morning air.

Another car parks next to mine. I see the same man, Tom, walk each of his dogs separately in the mornings. First, there is a 13 y/o companion dog, which looks like any standard house dog, short-haired, white with splashes of brown, terrier-like with a short tail fluttering in happiness. He looks out of the window of the passenger seat and notices me seated in my car in the next parking space. His tail wags faster.

Tom takes this compliant friend for a ten minute walk and then they both get in his car and drive away.  Tom will be back soon.

When Tom drives away, I pray some more. In ten minutes, he’s back with his other dog which looks something like a husky. It’s a large  black and white long -haired, blue-eyed dynamo. It’s yelping and jumping around  on the front passenger seat. Tom tells me that she’s a 1 ½ year old Australian Sheep Dog.. “Can’t let her go. Gotta have a leash on her,”

After twelve sessions of obedience school “Yukee” obeys only when on a leash. Without it she will run wildly toward  her own desires, regardless of what her owner commands. Tom lets her out.  Yukee is already anxious to follow a scent and with her nose nearly touching the ground she strains at the leash and pulls Tom down the incline toward the river path. Tom waves goodbye.

This has been a good morning and therapeutic, I think, for my mended heart.  I’m aware of the regular beating of my heart. Life seems to beat like that, too.

Now, I see that the river is breathing a wispy fog while it meanders South. Close by, I notice a great blue heron with spindly legs standing in the shallows of the river.  It hops up on a rock and catches the morning sun. A soft yellow glow halos the bird while the background scenery fades into a Monet painting.

Today, the members of my province of the Congregation of the Resurrection will begin a five-day meeting in Darien, Illinois at the Carmelite Conference Center.  It’s an opportunity for our American province members to get together to strengthen our brotherhood in Our Lord Jesus Christ and to bring into focus our mission to serve in our ministries with a renewed spirit. We are committed to bringing the light of Our Lord Jesus Christ into the darkest places in our culture.

We Resurrectionists were originally called “The Brothers of the Resurrection” when we were formed in 1842. We minister in parishes, universities, and other ministries by carrying the light of the Resurrection into the reality of the 21st-century American Church. We cherish the spirit which brings us together to serve the Church.  We need one another more than ever in a time when the Catholic Church is being called to what Pope St. John Paul called the New Evangelization. We are meeting this week to strengthen our commitment to Our Lord and one another.

CR Fathers, Tony Bus and Steve Bartczyszyn.

We ask you who are reading this to please pray for us.  We expect to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit and hear his call to courage in this moment of transition in our Church.  We would be grateful if each day this week you would lift us up in prayer asking the Holy Spirit to enlighten us and strengthen us in our commitment to the Church and each other.

We will not forget to pray for you and for the Church we both

love.

Blessings!

.

I dreamt of an acorn, a solitary oak seed in its tough shell. You know what they look like, just a capsule with a crusty gray cap on a slick brown hull.

In my dream, an acorn appeared prominently against a background of blackness that I took to be soil.  The acorn was solitary, suspended, fixed below a horizon of dirt and creamy-blue sky. There was nothing else.

This was the lone image that I was left with after a five-day retreat last Fall at the Joseph and Mary Retreat House located on the grounds of Mundelein Seminary.  The seminary is set in a forest that surrounds a large lake.  Oak trees are everywhere –tall, grand trees whose branches drop acorns in the Fall to the delight of the fox squirrels who gather them, bury them, and find them again in the coming winter.

It seems to me on my 83rd birthday that this dream represents a new life, a promise of a new planting of me in fresh ground. This was not a nightmare.  It was –and still is -an insight, even a grace. Maybe, you have had a similar experience, a vivid promise of a new hope for you.

An acorn is dressed simply: a grayish hat covers the top and the bottom is a hard-shell varnished deep brown.  Inside, though, there is an embryonic root and two latent leaves.  If an acorn germinates, the roots will go down and the leaves (cotyledons) will break out of the ground, as a seedling.

When I die, I will be placed in the ground with the hope of resurrection. New life will come out of the soil, an infant me.   It’s a drama that an acorn has taught me.

I brought home from Mundelein a single acorn to remind me of who I am.  I hold it in my hand now.  It solidifies my hope.

Father Don Suberlak, C.R. died this afternoon at a hospital not far from Three Oaks Michigan where he had served for many years as pastor of St. Mary’s Catholic Church. He was four months short of his 90^th birthday. Don and I were ordained together for the Congregation of the Resurrection in 1967 and he has been a friend to me all those years.  

Don was a unique person. Laid back, unhurried, and reliable as he was, I never heard him raise his voice in anger or frustration in all the years that I have known him, although there were and are many frustrations in ministry. 

He was a kind listener, genuinely interested in who you were. If you were a farmer, he asked you about farming. If you were a teacher, he would ask you about your students and how things were going for you at the school. If you were a father or mother, he asked about your children. He would listen to you and show interest in your life. Then, he remembered what you shared the next time he saw you.

Don’s mind moved faster than his speech.   In conversation, he would start and stop and throw away an opening line or two before he got to what he wanted to say. It was slow and frustrating at times for him.  He eventually would come up with the proper phrasing, but it wasn’t easy for him.

However, this problem never touched his preaching. His sermons were clear, folksy and short –memorable. I remember hearing him preaching about the home life of the Holy family with Jesus helping his dad in the workshop and Mary cooking something in the kitchen. You could hear the warmth of the Gospel when Don spoke.

He loved his priesthood and presiding at the Holy Eucharist in his parish church was the highlight of his day. After he retired, he continued to celebrate the Eucharist in his own home. He was thrilled when a bishop who was visiting the area on his day off asked if he could join Don for his morning Mass once a week. After that, the bishop joined Don regularly on Thursdays.

Several of us who were ordained with Don decided to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary of priesthood by taking a Caribbean cruise. Midway through the cruise, we disembarked for a land tour in Yucatan, Mexico.  There were 12 or thirteen of us Americans on a small group tour to some local Mayan ruins. We were on our way there and had stopped at a roadside restaurant for a quick lunch.

Once we got our food, Don asked an older couple if he could join them at their table outside. As he sat eating, he looked at them as if he thought they were the only important people in his life. There he was at a picnic table with two middle-aged people on one side and he on the other. I see him laughing with them and leaning in to be sure he didn’t miss any of the conversation. He would never see this couple again, but it struck me at the time:” Look how easily he relates to them !” 

Don had this rare and great gift of listening. He really did think that everyone was important.  He never made you feel like he was in a hurry to get rid of you. What a great gift for a pastoral minister of the Gospel!

Some years ago, we were at dinner at a local restaurant and we got to talking about how old we were getting.  I said:”Don, the sun is setting on our lives.” He looked up, smiled and said: “Jer, the sun has set!”

I already miss him.

It’s beginning to rain!  Welcome, wet, random drops fall on my head and arms as I sit in my yard on an early mid-July morning waiting for the sun. Warm drops begin to hit my Kindle and they sing just like they are supposed to: “pitter-patter , pitter-patter.”  It sounds to me like “Go-back-inside! Go back inside!” So, I  gather my stuff —coffee-cup, Kindle, cell-phone– and move inside. But, to whoever prayed the rain dance this morning, thank you!

We Catholics also helped to orchestrate this dance of the raindrops  We’ve been praying for farmers who have been watching their parched corn and soybean fields and hoping for a steady, ample rain.

It’s later in the morning now and raining strong.  The earth needs the water. It doesn’t puddle but soaks deep into the soil.  My tomato plants have been struggling this summer, all four of them.  I have hopes now that they will perk up as this soaking rain trickles down to their roots.

It’s amazing what rain will do.  My wilted basil plant now stands proudly erect and my front porch planter looks jaunty with it’s red geraniums, yellow pansies and purple something-or-others,poking out from leafy, green stems . There is poetry in this scenario of rain and plants..

One of my favorite poets is the nineteenth century Jesuit curate, Gerard Manley Hopkins who wrote often of nature.  One of his dearest poems has the rain reminding him that the birds are out there building nests in bushes and chanting about it each morning.  The bushes themselves are deeply green and thick with branches, Everything is giving birth out there along a hillside. Beautiful!

What I am going to do next is sinful.  I’m going to paraphrase one of  Father Hopkins greatest poems. It’s a dishonor to a poet to try to explain what a poem means because the poet intends every word and each word is part of that creation.  However, Hopkins’s style is unique and I’d have to recite the entire poem to get to what I want to say about it.  So, forgive me, Gerard.

In his poem, “Thou art Indeed Just, O Lord,” Hopkins complains about God not answering his prayers. He feels so dry and confronts the Lord about his frustration  because not one of his dreams has  flourished and born fruit as he had expected. Hopkins speaks for each of us who feel disappointment and confused when our prayers are not answered in the way we had hoped.  What follows is my sinful paraphrase of the ending of that poem:

. “What about me?”  Father Hopkins prays. “Where is my lush interior garden? Why do all my endeavors seem to dry-up? Why do you not answer my prayers, I who spend my life serving you? Where are my blessings, my verdant graces?”

Hopkins ends his poem with this plea: “Mine, Lord! Send my roots rain!” (Find Hopkins’ poem here.)

In the end, Hopkins continues to pray for grace to rain down down on his efforts.  You and I like Hopkins continue to pray through our disappointments and dryness.  We know that grace will come.  The rain of God’s mercy will fall drop by drop upon us but –Darn it!–we have to wait.

At this stage in my long life, I can’t walk well enough to enjoy tours, visit other countries on my own, or even take a cruise.   That’s why I am enjoying vlogs that allow me to experience countries that I know I will never be able to visit.

Harry Jaggard on the streets of Pakistan. (www.HarryJaggard.com)

Take Harry Jaggard’s vlogs for example.  The guy walks around with a selfie device filming his every move.  He walks down a street in Delhi talking to the camera as if someone (me) is actually present.  It’s interesting because Harry goes to markets and restaurants and makes every effort to engage with people on the streets –things I would like to be able to do. Yes, I know it is only virtual and that Harry really isn’t my pal and I am not with him in the market stalls, etc, but he makes me feel like I am there with him, somehow. (See Harry Jaggard’s YouTube site.)

He visits a Buddhist temple in Tibet, a mosque in India. Religious holy places that I will never see. Incidentally, Harry seems unaffected by religion and religious practices. To him, these practices are just another aspect of a culture of differences. As far as I know, he hasn’t blogged about a visit to a Catholic church.

He’s incredibly generous and has an open regard for everyone he meets.  He doesn’t get to know locals well, but he passes through their lives like a friendly ship, hailing them and gesturing warmly. He is a mellow fellow, good natured and smart. Most of what I have viewed is Harry traveling through Asia by himself.   A friend appears now and then and even his dad is a featured player in his journey through Tibet.

He learns a few phrases in the local language, for example, “Namaste” which seems to work everywhere in India, Pakistan, and Tibet.  Then he asks locals their names or comments on, for example, their market shop of trinkets. “Nice!” is repeated many times as he tries to relate to the locals. He likes to joke around and does a good job of engaging people but hasn’t time to learn much about their history and local customs. In that regard, he is like most other tourists. However, Harry likes to eat so he finds ways to understand and relate by eating as the locals do. In Tibet and India, this is quite a challenge. He’s not afraid of exotic condiments and spices as well as hot chiles so he does well with relating to the locals through their cuisines. People love it when he likes their food.  They smile and appreciate how generous Harry is with his compliments.

If I were on a trip with Harry, though, I would have to stop and look for Catholic churches and shrines.  When I toured Italy by myself some forty years ago, I visited the home church of St. Maria Goretti who at the beginning of the last century was attacked by a rapist in her village, Nettuno, about forty miles South of Rome. She was only twelve when she forgave her attacker and died two days later of stab wounds. She is interred in a glass casket at the main altar. An old man at the entrance to the

The cross of Jesus Christ is still a powerful symbol.

church greeted me and explained the holiness of the saint. I swear he told me that he knew her and her family. (My Italian wasn’t that great!)

Just a few years ago, while visiting Cartegena, Columbia I searched for and found the church where the bones of St. Peter Claver lie at the base of an altar. In the late seventeenth century, this humble saint gathered a group of Christian helpers to minister to Africans as they arrived at the docks of Cartagena on slave ships.  Claver’s group brought bread, water, and fruit for these hungry and thirsty Africans. St. Peter and his helpers tried to clean them up and even burnt fragrant incense on the docks to cleanse the air of the stench of the hold. I saw his dry, skeletal remains and marveled that he had actually lived.

Today, July 6, both of those saints are commemorated in the Catholic calendar.

If I were accompanying Harry on a journey, I’m sure he’d respect my interest in the religious part of a culture.

I don’t think Harry has been there, but somewhere in India that he loves, St. Thomas the Apostle, the first missionary to India is buried.  It’s a  holy place for both Christians and Moslems. I’d annoy Harry until he went with me to that holy site.

Our guide pointed to a soft, green hillside next to the Lake of Galilee. “Jesus preached to five thousand people right over there,” she said. We turned from gazing at the lake and saw the sloping contour of a wide grassy hill.  Other than a few struggling and scraggly trees here and there, it was a meadow.

The sun was intense that day and the air was hot and dry as we pilgrim priests stood there reflecting on the beatitudes that Jesus spoke some two thousand years ago.  It struck me that because of the heat, Jesus could not have been preaching in the middle of the day.  It must have been late afternoon or evening, which explains somewhat Jesus’ worry about the crowd who had little to eat and drink as they listened and followed Him.

Scripture says that Jesus felt distressed because his listeners were like sheep without a shepherd, so He had them recline on that gently sloping hill that eased into the rocky beach of Galilee with a view of the impressive mountains across the lake. Like a shepherd, He guides them to restful waters and green pastures.

The Lake of Galilee near Nazareth with a rare pairing of leafy trees. Mountains form the horizon. (Photo by author.)

He knows they are hungry, so He first nourishes their souls with the beatitudes and then feeds the crowd a miraculous meal of fish and bread.  He tells them that He would someday, somehow give them his flesh and blood to eat.   “You must eat my flesh and drink my blood or you will not have life in you …your ancestors ate manna in the desert and have died… if you eat the bread that I give you will live forever.”

Transubstantiation is a beautiful way to describe what must still remain, though, an awesome mystery. During the Eucharist just after the consecration of the bread and wine, the priest announces to the faithful that (this is) “the Mystery of Faith.” We all respond with faith: “Christ has died.  Christ is risen.  Christ will come again.”

I think of these things as I look at the grassy hill today where Jesus preached the gospel and fed the hungry flock two thousand years ago.  That miracle of mercy has never ceased and continues in our day as the Beatitudes and the Eucharist are reborn daily in the hearts of those who believe in Him.

Immaculate Conception Church, Morris, Il. Typical parish church constructed in the early 20th century for Latin liturgies.

As a Boomer Catholic, I remember the Latin Mass well and loved it. Growing up and going to Mass was a daily religious ritual at my grade school. Sundays my family attended Mass at our huge parish church.  We never missed a Sunday.

The Latin Mass was rich in color (even when the vestments were black) and the sound of Latin was comforting and became a refuge from the vernacular.  I didn’t know what “Dominus vobiscum” meant but I did know to answer “Et cum spiritu tuo.” I thought it was quite holy.

My parish church sanctuary was ornate with beautifully carved rich dark-brown wooden altars, one at either side of the main altar which were built by German craftsmen.  The main altar was even more impressive with its ornate carvings. Life-sized statues of Our Lord and His mother were placed as focal points at each side altar. A striking corpus hung from the large cross over the tabernacle above the main altar.

Mass started when the priest wearing a biretta (a black boxy hat with three fringes topped off with a round tuft) and a cape-like colorful chasuble  entered the sanctuary with two boys dressed in black cassocks and white surplices leading him in. Those boys –acolytes– represented the Catholic community and assisted at the Mass.

When they arrived at the altar all three genuflected to the presence of Jesus in the tabernacle in the center of the main altar.  After the prayers at the foot of the altar and with much bowing, the priest went up the three stairs to the altar and bent over, kissing the table-like altar and then beginning prayers with his back to us in silence.  The entire service was in Latin –sotto voce–except for the scriptural readings.  We watched Mass rather than heard it.

The focus of the Mass was the separate consecration of the bread and wine. The priest with his back to the congregation lifted the bread and wine separately for adoration as the Body and Blood of the Lord.  Bells rang brightly in a fixed pattern to alert us to the moment of consecration.

Latin was the only liturgical language used in the Western part of the Church. That was about to change as the reforms of Vatican II set in in 1962.

As Latin was carefully and slowly replaced by English, I began to realize that I was not watching a Mass but was part of it. The II Vatican Council’s document on Liturgical reform stressed that the celebration of the Holy Eucharist should include “full, active and conscious participation” of the congregation. To achieve this, the priest would move to the other side of the altar  and face the community. And, he would speak to us and we to him in our own language.

I began to love this new form of the Mass.  it was a development of my understanding of the Holy Eucharist and a sanctifying of the language that I spoke everyday of my life. It was the language, too, of my personal prayers, those I had prayed in my heart for my entire life. I still revere the Latin Mass but I am grateful for the blessings of our English Mass, beautiful, too, in its own way.

My backyard looks kind of peppy this morning. Even though we have close to drought conditions here in Morris, my lawn looks green and healthy.  Dawn finds the sparrows flittering around the birdfeeder while robins hop here and there occasionally pulling hidden nightcrawlers out of the grass. Even St. Francis over there, caught in the act of preaching to the birds, seems brighter  — and I think I know why.

Mary Kay’s Flowers

Near the white fence that encloses my yard, bright yellow lilies cluster around the statue of the saint and set it off as if they were decorating both sides of an altar with Francis as the santo.  This feature is the work of Mary Kay Golimowski who is the gardener for my yard and the nun’s yard which is next door to my home.  I can still see her kneeling next to Francis and carefully pulling weeds that had grown among the lilies. She died unexpectedly a few days ago.

Mary Kay, the gardener, brought quiet and kindness to those who knew her.  When you were around her you felt a sense of peace and order, a kind of gentleness that would set that moment apart from the untidiness and noise that adorns most of our days.

Those lilies that seem so warm and joyful this morning were not yet blooming when I last saw Mary Kay down on her knees tending to them. The buds began opening last Thursday when she entered the hospital for a somewhat routine valve replacement. Three days later she passed away  there and my lilies began to blossom

Each year when I again see the creamy yellow flowers around St. Francis, I will remember the woman who graced my garden and my life.