Resurrecting Chicago

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.

Christmas! Long anticipated. Closer. Near. Here. Gone.

We Catholics should sue. Business and profiteering have swamped Our Lord’s birthday, or, rather, absconded with it and substituted it with a season of greed.

I think, however, that the Christmas steal by business might be a good thing.  Reindeer, Santa,  pine trees, toys,  mistletoe, snowfall with its sledding, buying presents, receiving them, these things are now  simply “The Joyous Season.” Business has taken the word “Christmas,” and changed it’s meaning. That’s true, but business is  stuck with two very Christian words right in the name: “Christ” and “Mass.” So we Christians get the last laugh.

We know that Christmas is all about the birth of  Christ: Jesus who is both God and man. It’s all about His Mass, the sacrifice of His life for us and the offering of Himself as Christmas food for our lives.

Thank God that there was an innkeeper who finally gave Mary and Joseph lodging.  The couple had been knocking on doors looking for a safe place to rest, a place where the young woman could give birth.  They had been knocking at doors and kept hearing the same refrain:  ‘No room here! Try further up the road!” The first business to reject Christ was the the lodging industry.

Be sure to answer the knock when Our Lord is trying to contact you. If you hear the knock–or, even some rustling at the door of your heart, open up! Let Him in, before He’s gone.

The sea is so vast and my beach is so small.

The idea of taking a cruise never appealed to me until I reluctantly boarded one because of a friend’s insistence. This was many years ago. To my surprise, I found out that I like cruising. It is so relaxing. I had time to read and leisure to meet interesting people on my morning jogs (yes, in those days!) on deck six. The food was appealing and the evening shows were entertaining.

I’ve taken several cruises since then, some with friends and sometimes alone.

What I enjoy most are mornings at sea. I sit out on my balcony and pray, wonder, muse, even dream. Amazingly, out there on my private perch, there is a kind of epic silence, probably made more-so by the vastness and spread of the sea as the sun lifts its head above the horizon.

On my most recent cruise, I was out on my balcony praying the Morning Prayer of the Church. We were hundreds of miles out at sea and the horizon was a bold straight line far away. Above it was a faded blue sky of cirrus clouds with the morning sun reflecting off the endless tiny waves. Nothing more. No land, no birds, nothing but the gentle rippling sea as we sailed along. And then — there it was. I had to blink to make sure of what I was seeing. Floating by our ship, about forty feet away was a white globe bobbing alone on the dark sea, lit up by the morning sun.

What captured my attention as it floated past my perch was its roundness that clashed with the drifting sea. It was an intensely white sphere, about the size of a beach ball or maybe, a volleyball whitened by the action of the sun and  sea. The morning sun  made it shine out there. 

All identification –original color, brand name — gone. Whatever color the ball had been was now bleached out. 

The ball was perfectly round and white, gently bobbing and rolling by me and, then, –it was gone.

 I immediately thought of “WIlson” from Tom Hanks movie, “Cast Away.” Chuck, a UPS executive survives a company plane’s crash into the sea. He is the lone survivor on a tiny, remote island.  Some packages, also washed up on the island’s  beach. When Chuck opens one of them he finds a brand-new white Wilson volleyball.

Later, when Chuck accidentally cuts his hand and grabs the ball, a bloody impression  is left on it.  The blood stained ball resembles a face and over the years Chuck talks to it — his friend for four years.

One day Wilson floated away. Chuck’s only friend pulled away from his flailing arms.

That ball that I watched float by my ship could have  been any friend who drifts away before we realize what’s happening. Something we said (or neglected to say) drove our Wilson away or our friend drifted away because of lack of vigilance. My friend who loved cruises and insisted that I go with him on one has long ago faded away from my circle of friends and I’m not sure he is still with us. 

Wilson sitting on the beach before he drifted away.

I wonder if anyone else saw or will see that ball somewhere out there on the waters.

But I saw it and it brought back to me the memory of my friend.