See Where The Silence Leads

I have a positive regard for silence as a virtue of the liturgy and the spiritual life. Silence has a shadow outside of those disciplines.

My wife texted me from the public library the other day. Check the Kansas City Star online, she advised. The three-part series begins here and ended yesterday. I don’t think my wife knew Msgr Tom O’Brien, but I did. I was aware of the rough details of this situation:

(T)he diocese said it had received a complaint in September 1983 accusing O’Brien of sexual misconduct with a different teenage boy and that O’Brien denied any wrongdoing when confronted. O’Brien was removed from his assignment as pastor of Nativity of Mary parish the following month, the diocese said, and sent for psychological evaluation and treatment in New Mexico and Washington, D.C.

After treatment, O’Brien was allowed to serve as a part-time hospital chaplain until 2002, when then-Bishop Raymond J. Boland restricted him from presenting himself as a priest.

During those years as a hospital chaplain, he was in residence at the parish I served from 2002 until 2008. The pastor told me that single credible complaint was the only one against him. When the firestorm of 2002 hit, that old complaint resurfaced, somehow. Parents at the parish complained bitterly about Msgr O’Brien hearing the confessions of children and presiding at the occasional school Mass. My new boss conceded he had “lost all credibility” with parishioners for giving a friend a rectory to live in and a limited pastoral role in the parish.

It really is no wonder that my friends and former parishioners are fuming over Bishop Finn, questioning what other secrets are being kept. Msgr O’Brien quickly disappeared from the rectory in 2002. He would visit frequently, and I know he had friends in the parish. But his profile was almost zero by the start of that first school year.

Enough internet commentators are focusing on the horrors of sexual abuse and the institutional cover-up. David Gibson has a devastating post up at dotCommonweal about Bishop Finn. Readers here know of my own concerns about the Ratigan case. Until the big news on him broke earlier this year, my daughter still considered him her favorite priest. His picture was quickly removed from the family’s “favorite priest” section on the fridge. The young miss overheard my wife and I talking about Bishop Finn the other week. “Haven’t they fired him yet?” my daughter asked. Good question.

I wonder about her faith. Are the changes I see more the typical adolescent rebellion/boredom/testing boundaries? In the back of my mind, I do wonder if something happened. The young miss is usually talkative about a lot of things. Very little though about NCYC, which her mother had hoped would spark a new sense of faith.

My daughter came to Mass with me Sunday night this past weekend. I was playing, so we didn’t sit together. In fact, I didn’t see her at all till after liturgy. She mentioned that she went to the balcony and only came down for Communion. She went back after receiving the Eucharist. “I like it up there,” she reported. At least she’s in the door. For the moment.

One mother quoted in the Star, whose son committed suicide back in the 80′s, and who has recently met with another of the altar servers who was abused:

I needed support. I thought, ‘I’ll go to Harrisonville. It’ll be quiet time for me.’ But I could not make myself go in the parking lot of that church.

Do bishops have a clear sense of the antigospel they perpetrate on the world by their silence? And yet, victims have also remained silent. In my own house there is silence. Is there a time to push for people to speak out? I appreciate the bravery of victims who come forward. I know there are others who have never spoken out. They have gotten the message:

If you ever tell, you’ll be kicked out of the Catholic Church, your parents will disown you, and you’ll die and go to hell.

… or something similar.

If a victim tells, he or she should be reassured to no end they will never be kicked out. The only unforgivable sin, it seems, is ordaining a woman or attending such a liturgy. The only people who will be mad will be the hyperorthodox defenders of the faith. But no worries: there will be somebody to get mad at tomorrow, if not later tonight. And while it’s true everybody dies, bad shepherds are the ones who have the millstone around their necks.

Bishop Finn may be lawyered up on the diocesan dime, but does he realize the peril of his situation?

Meanwhile, the rest of us struggle to find meaning in the silence.

 

Santa Denials

Who would have thought Fox News and a teacher would enlist in the 2011 War on Christmas?

Let’s take a break from bashing bishops (who admittedly have had their own tussles with St Nick) and throw the grinchy-green spotlight on an educator and a telejournalist who have their own brand of holiday truth.

To be fair, both apologized.

Reporter:

It was careless and callous to say…what I said, in what could’ve been mixed company. So many kids don’t get to be children, that for those who do get to live the wonder and magic of Christmas, I would never spoil it intentionally. So I sincerely apologize.

And the teacher too.

Only twenty more days of Advent. Lots of time to be naughty, then apologize and position oneself to be nice. My younger brother and I always let up on our sister by early December, and we never seemed to suffer temporal consequences for what happened in ordinary time. Of course, we were also lobbying to add one more vote to the roast chicken bloc. Mom would take a family vote for Christmas dinner. One year our sister sided with Dad and we ended up with roast beef. After that, we made sure to lock down the poultry/stuffing/cranberry combo–even if it meant we had to be extra nice.

Hey readers: any good naughty/nice stories in your Christmas files?

 

Dream House

Just awoke from a dream that Anita and I moved into the house we bought shortly after getting married. It was more beautiful than what I remembered. And as is common in dreams, inexplicably different: somewhat larger, even more woodwork.

We had a lot of people: friends, plus a few “consultants.” One of the latter discovered a stereo system embedded in the ceiling spaces that allowed us to hear music all over the house. When a small battery-sized magnet was placed on the control, the music would stop. A bit different from digital, but still very cool.

It was one of those strange dreams where the mood didn’t quite match the content–I felt so happy at the end of the dream. Maybe it’s just the prospect of a day off during a busy season. Or it could be that my wife mentioned cleaning up (out?) the basement today.

 

Spanish Lessons

My first Spanish lesson today. Made a stack of note cards for vocabulary–my weak spot with languages. Only the pets were home before dinner tonight, so I got to practice …

Hola, mi gato blanco.

Mi perra negra:

The trick is, to speak so I can communicate with native speakers this coming May when I go to Honduras. My pets were decidedly unenthusiastic about my first effort in Spanish.

 

Enough Loss For A Lent

Or maybe a few Lents. And it’s not even 2012 yet, let alone February.

People have commented on the difficulty of dieting the past several months. I don’t know what to tell them. While I love certain foods, especially sweets, I can’t say that consumption is a huge thing with me. Being on the diet was easy. Being off it is much harder. I’ve been watchful of my weight, so I was slightly alarmed that I’ve poked back up into the low 170′s after Thanksgiving dinner. Didn’t think I indulged a whole lot. I did skip the dinner roll, the stuffing, and ice cream on the pie. My only second helpings were two small pieces of meat and my sister-in-law’s delicious roasted cauliflower and b-sprouts. I do find I’m hungrier being off the packaged foods. I felt satisfied during my weight loss. I have a new regard for people who lose weight and bounce back from their goal.

An e-mail this morning from a disenchanted parishioner leaving us for sunnier shores. That always stings, especially when, as a minister, you know you’re part of the load of straw in this instance.

We’ve also been fielding repairs on the home we own in Kansas City. There’s a small stack still to be tackled. And then there’s the report that leaves have been allowed to pile up in the front yard, and don’t you know about those nasty oaks. Not a blade of grass left alive underneath. Funny how a tree just wants to propagate itself and not make nice for other plants.

Just out of curiosity, I asked a realtor in the area to give us the lowdown on home values there. From a highwater mark of just below six figures when we purchased in 2002, to $70,000 in 2008 when we moved, we’re now informed we’re even more deeply underwater on a house that might get half that last figure today. I wonder about the best course of action here. The roof, the deck, and probably the interior will need work before too many more years pass. I can’t imagine finding spare funds to pour into one house while letting what’s over and around my own family go wanting. How bad is the alternative of financial armageddon?

Needless to say, the new MR3 is not very high on the happy-list today. Pew cards out and ready to go. Books prepared. Time to get some lunch and head back to the parish center. It’s an especially dark and gloomy gray day in central Iowa, rather fitting for my mood. I think I’ve exhausted the bad news for a weekend. At least I hope I have.

 

NCYC Streaming

The young miss is in Indianapolis for NCYC. The general sessions are available to watch here.

I’ve been getting updates by text. Long days. Usually my daughter has pretty good stamina for this, especially if she’s enjoying herself. It gets hard to tell as the years roll on what’s happening within her mind and heart. Her mother and I worry that the seeds of faith may not be planted deep enough.

 

More On Loss

A word from Psalm 147:1-4 …

How good to sing praise to our God;
how pleasant to give fitting praise.
The LORD rebuilds Jerusalem,
and gathers the dispersed of Israel,
Healing the brokenhearted,
and binding up their wounds.
He numbers the stars,
and gives to all of them their names.

My diet is about a month behind me. I’m struggling to apply its lessons in my eating habits and in my life. I still have old urges to gobble down food for comfort. Packaged whey or soy-based products mixed from an envelope into water don’t really lend themselves well to rapid consumption in quantity. Apples, granola, and especially popcorn do.

I had a large cyst removed from my back last Friday. It sparked a strange reflection, even somewhat troubling. My wife reminded me at the doctor’s office that its removal was recommended about fourteen years ago. I didn’t remember that, I said. You said it was your “companion,” my wife said. Sheesh, that sounds creepy–I didn’t remember that either. With my weight loss this summer, the cyst had become more prominent and came to be something of a bother when I sat back in the car seat. After more than twenty years, it was time.

Lots of things in my life need to be cut out, to be removed. I don’t think I’m being harsh on myself. In talking to my sister-in-law the other night I said I was getting too old to be dealing with some aspects of nonsense in my life. My cyst/companion was no longer needed. On one hand, it had become a small distraction and annoyance. But it’s so interesting how one experience of loss can lead into another. I don’t feel in any way my death is immanent, but I’m just getting so darn tired of the crazy crap life flings my way. My attitude these days is to fling it back. And tell my friends to duck if they see me in this mood.

Five months later, I’m having a harder time with my brother’s death and related circumstances. My sister didn’t seem to want to talk about it this past weekend. She ended our phone conversation rather abruptly–usually she’s willing to talk for hours. The family joke growing up was that she was vaccinated with a phonograph needle–that will give you a notion of how social, friendly, and chatty my sister can be.

Instead, I had a long talk with my sister-in-law on the walk home Monday night. I’ve come to realize that while I feel satisfied with my relationship with my brother–we were always able to share our feelings and experiences and even our faith fairly frankly–I don’t always feel the same way about the living. Some of my family members are very tight-lipped about serious things. I would be very interested in hearing what they have to say about some stuff. And telling them a few things myself. Funny how I feel more of a sense of loss with some of the living than I do with my deceased father and elder brother. That bit of insight took me several days to tease out.

November is a good month for connecting us not only with death, but with loss. Simple loss. Wood sheds leaves and we gaze at those gentle, angular skeletons of trees. Scientifically, I know that these plants are simply cutting their losses and getting ready for a lean season. It’s not that I’m feeling the impulse to divest myself of my clothing and go streaking. But I feel much like the trees outside my window. The essentials of life are deep within. It’s time to step out of the whirlwind of busy/crazy and prune back to what is needed.

It’s only the eleventh month and it sounds like I’m ready for Lent. I hope you’re having a better time of it than I these days. And if you’re not, we can share the notion that God is ever-present, and that our wounds will be bandaged and healed, and that we are not making this often-fearsome journey alone. It is still good to praise God, even when my heart isn’t fully committed to the effort.

 

Day Trippers

The young miss and I are planning a day trip tomorrow to one of her childhood homes. This will likely be the last post till Tuesday. (Unless Neil chips in with something.)

Long rehearsal tonight. I’m glad for having lost my extra weight because I seem to have almost limitless energy for these long days. Fifteen hours–that’s more like a day of Holy Week. But we’ve now pieced together the entire production beginning to end. Ten rehearsals left to polish things.

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy spending a relaxing day tomorrow with my daughter. She’s drifted off to high school life somewhat, but I know that days like these will come more infrequently as she gets deeper into the usual adolescent stuff: clubs, trips, boyfriends, and so on.

Car gassed up. Hit the bank early tomorrow to get some cash. Then you won’t see me.

 

Flu Shots, Enter the Flu

Or something like it.

I was talked into a flu shot for the first time this year. My wife, too. Should I regret it yet?

The young miss, being of a “higher risk” category, nets us parents a recommendation we get the shots as a precaution against a possible virulent outcome for her. Never mind that she goes to a high school for almost forty hours a week populated by 1,400 in-your-face-adolescents who might or might not be innoculated.

Anyway, my wife has been on bed rest nearly all week. (Though technically, it’s lounger-chair-rest since there the cats pile on her and she can watch reruns of NCIS.) I woke up this morning with a catch in a dry throat. When I asked, it was, “Yep; that’s how mine started.” And a few days after that shot, my upper arm is still sore from the poke.

The young miss, needless to say, is healthy as a horse. Usually once a winter I get some crud that sends me to bed for a few days. My wife’s fibro seems to intensify the routine winter illnesses–she might spend a sum total of two weeks each cold season on a routine of rest and chicken soup. I don’t like getting those retreats to bed kicking in by mid-October. That seems wrong.

Needless to say, weekend plans have been all shot to pieces. We were going to drive up to the Twin Cities for a wedding of two recent alums: a fine musician and one of our past peer ministers. The mistress of the household is still slumbering at nearly 10am. The young miss, too, but as a teen, that’s to be expected. No trip today.

Me, I have laundry to catch up on after spending my day off at a diocesan study day on parish leadership. No time or opportunity for leadership today. Just catching up on laundry and preparing full scores of the musical for my director. And hoping I stay one step ahead of the viruses and slings of the modern day. But if I have hope, I better get running.

 

Difficulty With Loss

My sister-in-law asked me to go through my brother’s desk on my next visit to their house. Yesterday was the visit and in the afternoon before dinner I looked through various savings, collectibles and such. Some of the request dealt with practical things–Lynn had an amount of coins. Did they have any value?

Like my mom, Lynn tended to save a lot of things. Most of what I saw had sentimental value: old photographs, a few stamps (he was a more serious collector of those than coins) and various mementos. Nearly everything  I found had value (to him), but probably very little actual worth. As for the coins, she could take them to a dealer and get a bit of something for about a dozen steel cents from 1943. There were rolls of quarters from the bank for each of the fifty states, for each of the mints “P” and “D.” Several hundred dollars in face value, but probably little more.

My emotional reaction to it all was palpable. I can imagine his wife feeling ten times that and more. The young miss was offered a few years’ of National Geographics. My wife was offered one set of cufflinks. I was offered three dress shirts, but for some reason, my mind wandered at the end of our visit. I didn’t take them with me, tough they were hanging up on the outside of the bedroom closet upstairs. It seems strange to be considering wearing his clothing, looking through his stuff, carrying things out to the car, like they were just garage sale acquisitions. Considering reason, there’s nothing wrong with any of it–my sister just offering to clear out her closet and a desk of things she won’t use. It would be a small mercy to take things off her hands. Why was I having such difficulty with it?

The older I get, the stronger my own urge gets to divest myself of things. Is it just getting old? Is it that my life has reached an arc of acquisition and it’s time to begin the long road toward my own death? By the time I’m ready to die, maybe I will be left with nothing. Maybe today is the start of the preparation for that. What book can I give away? What item can I sell? To what poor will I give it?

 

First Date

The young miss is off to the Homecoming Dance. Her date brought a wrist corsage. She insisted I share no pictures. With anyone. But she looked very nice. The mothers were fussing over the young couple, but I think I got the best pictures. Too bad I have to keep them to myself.

The first date was easier than I thought it would be. Now if I can just survive the rest of adolescence.

 

Cocoa & Gobbling

My wife has begun my diet program. She dislikes a wider range of the prepared foods. Vanilla pudding is one. It’s too … vanilla. There’s only 15 calories per tablespoon of cocoa, so I suggested she try adding that chocolate addition.

“When I add it, it’s lumpy. When you fix it for me, it’s smooth.”

It’s a touch of the master, I said.

Actually, cocoa is made for heated blending. When mixed cold, it requires a vigorous and lengthy shaking.

My post-diet transition has been a challenge. I have to curb my tendency to gobble down foods now. Whole grain breakfast cereal with milk. Yum. But I have to eat slowly. Think: proclaiming the Scriptures in a huge reverberant church. Still, I’ve dropped another pound this week; the total is now 64. My BMI stands at a fraction above 22. Good health, here I come.

 

Inquiries

When we were sharing the bathroom yesterday, my wife said, “Please stop your diet. I can see your ribs.”

I was showering and I had my arms over my head scrubbing. Naturally, bones will show through the skin when the arms are in that position. I replied to the next question that no, I’m not planning on being anorexic. I still love food way too much for that.

I am in the transition period of my diet, but I’m still losing weight. As of this morning, I’ve dropped a few more pounds–now down to minus-61. That’s six pounds after adding fruits two weeks ago. I think my coach will probably put me back on the full vegetable plate in a few days, adding potatoes and carrots. Yum.

I think I will miss the diet when I’m off it. Many of the prepared foods have been good companions the last few months. I’ll need to be more attentive to preparing healthy foods, and making sure I eat properly to maintain my weight and good health. No doubt I’ll be buying more quality ingredients–I expect that tempering my overeating will be balanced out by paying a bit more for whole-grain products. It’s really amazing that most bad food is cheaper than good food. It will probably help that I enjoy preparing food. I find it a real blessing after a long day at the parish to come home, work a bit with my hands, and throw ingredients together in a thoughtful or even improvised way.

A staff colleague carefully prefaced a few curious questions  the other day. I told her I don’t mind talking about my weight loss. Same goes for you commenters. I’m happy to respond to any questions you may have.

My sister is suggesting I post before and after photos on Facebook. I’m not into that. Plus I don’t really have a good before-picture than shows my whole body. Certainly, I’m happy about being able to gain three belt notches and fit into pants I would have worn in college. (My wedding band is alarmingly loose, though–need to get something for that.) But I’m far more concerned about good health and a good attitude than I am with how I look. My friends see me and notice. Many have been very encouraging through the process.

I will admit that when I saw my face shot on the parish web site, I really noticed the change from last year’s picture. That’s when I thought it was probably a good time to transition off the diet and get into a full set of good eating habits.

My coach has suggested I bring my experiences, attitude, and knowledge to the program and coach others in turn. A little extra money might be helpful in the household these days, but I think I’m going to wait on that opportunity. I’m happy to share my story with those who ask. I know I would be a good supporter of a person who was on this or another diet. Believe me: if there was a temptation to experience, it flashed through my head at least once since the end of May.

 

Sarcasm

There is a danger in the spiritual life about asking for something: you may well get it. And get it in abundance.

Several days ago, I was having a chat with a good friend who, like I am, is an adoptive parent. We had met for a different purpose altogether and we ended up talking about our experiences of with raising adolescent children. One of the main sub-topics was sarcasm–how teens hate it, and how it is absolutely counterproductive to good parenting, not to mention Christianity. Is it really a problem? I mused. So I started to watch for it. I wasn’t home fifteen minutes that night before it came out. Si I figured I’d better ask God for a closer look on this. Did I get one!

My struggle with sarcasm has applications in the blogosphere, but I’m far more concerned about it as a parent. So I set to watching it last week. And it’s not been a good time for me, let me confess. The things that emerge from my mouth when I’m watching! Good heavens, what’s coming out when I’m not paying attention?! Makes me want to engrave Psalm 141:3 on my inner eyelids:

Set a guard, LORD, before my mouth, keep watch over the door of my lips.

God has been very good about a number of things lately: the grace to reduce weight, to renew my practice of lectio, finishing my musical. It seems to be a good time to attend to my emotional and inner life, especially on the point of sarcasm.

Liam once observed my blogobehavior is often a reflection on my surroundings. I think he meant it (correct me if I err here) that I sometimes behave on conservative sites as I see conservatives themselves act. A subtle sarcasm, but probably something I should strive to be rid of also.

In my lectio earlier today, I struggled with Judges 3:1-11. I admitted I don’t like the book. I don’t like tests. I don’t like warfare–though I don’t mind struggle. And I don’t like that word staring at me in the text: anger. But I suspect more surprises will be revealed to me in this journey through pre-Kingdom Israel. Like my own passions and negative emotions, I may not like them. But I will have to deal with them.

 

In A Flash

My hometown hosted two playoff games in fútbol over the past weekend. The young miss and I watched the televised one. I caught the internet results of the other. One involved women. The other, men. One was, granted, a match for a playoff title with the world’s top athletes. The other a measly semi-final. Local sportswriter Bob Matthews:

After a run of losing baseball and hockey seasons, Rochester fans appreciated a winning team loaded with world-class athletes. It didn’t hurt that the Flash were an offensive-minded team that even non-soccer fans could appreciate.

…

An impressive crowd of 10,461 watched the Flash beat the Philadelphia Independence in the WPS championship game Saturday afternoon at Sahlen’s Stadium. Only 3,598 watched the Rhinos lose 2-1 to Harrisburg in the USL Pro League semifinals the night before.

Still, it’s bold that women (first-year team) would outdraw men (a 17-year franchise) by almost a three-to-one margin in the same city on the same weekend.

You know: I love this sport. It was my favorite to play as a young lad. I went to a number of pro games in the 70′s while growing up and when I was in college. In the last decade, my family and I have attended two 0-0 draws. As a fan, I’m not excited (particularly) about driving 250 miles down the road to sit in $35 seats and see a lot of nothing happen on the field.

But I’d have to ponder a road trip with the young miss to see this game. Even if it is a friendly. The obstacle isn’t a 0-0 draw. It’s the birthday of the other lady of the household. She might come along for the sport of it, but I think we’d need to visit a really nice restaurant before kickoff.