O, Chicago, O’Hare

O, Chicago, O’Hare
By April Ossmann

One among the shifting mass
of humanity intent
on countless destinations,
one hungry stomach

and dry mouth among many,
one brain dazed
by the speed and altitude
of flights unnatural

to any animal, by herding,
followed by waiting
succeeded by rushing,
waiting, herding—

and more flight
incomprehensible
to any body contained
in this seemingly unwieldy

mass of metal lifting
improbably over Chicago,
where a misty orange aura
hovers over the city’s

brighter lights, as if
its soul sought ascension
it could only attempt,
as if the aura

might break free
and follow us,
wherever we might fly,
wheresoever we may rest—

one with the multitude
of humans en route
through mystery,
to mystery.

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz
By Alicia Ostriker

As if there could be a world
Of absolute innocence
In which we forget ourselves

The owners throw sticks
And half-bald tennis balls
Toward the surf
And the happy dogs leap after them
As if catapulted—

Black dogs, tan dogs,
Tubes of glorious muscle—

Pursuing pleasure
More than obedience
They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,
Sometimes they’ll plunge straight into
The foaming breakers

Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence
Toss them, until they snap and sink

Teeth into floating wood
Then bound back to their owners
Shining wet, with passionate speed
For nothing,
For absolutely nothing but joy.

Happy Father’s Day

My Father

BY JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE
My father was a tall man and yet the ripened rye
Would come above his shoulders, the spears shot up so high.
My father was a tall man and yet the tasseled corn
Would hide him when he cut the stalks upon a frosty morn.
The green things grew so lushly in the valley of my birth,
Where else could one witness the luxuriance of earth?
The plow would turn so rhythmically the loose, unfettered loam,
There was no need of effort to drive the coulter home.
My father walked behind his team before the sun was high,
Fine as a figure on a frieze cut sharp against the sky.
And when he swung the cradle in the yellow of the grain,
He could command all eyes around, or when he drove the wain.
I wonder if his acres now that lie so far away
Are waiting for his footprint at the coming of the day.
I wonder if the brown old barn that still is standing long
And ghostly cattle in the stalls are waiting for his song.

Ash Wednesday Homily for High-School Students.

Have you ever been really lost? I mean… way, way, way off course?

Many, many years ago, I spent a summer in South Central, Los Angeles volunteering to serve the families affected by gang violence. I lived in a rectory of a vibrant Church, and I met many wonderful people. But it was a rough area. My first week, as I was lying in bed with the window open, I heard a gun fight right behind the church. Then, someone ran right past me down the alley. I could hear him huffing and puffing.

Like all volunteer programs, we got a break day, and so we decided to head out to the California beaches about 20 miles away. This was Los Angeles, after all, and we were young, scrappy and hungry. So we hopped in a car and, with a general idea of where to go, and we were off.

Now, if you’ve been out there you know there are some long, straight roads… and we just kept driving and driving, talking and talking.

I’m not good at geography, but I remember growing more and more confused as I saw hills and mountains getting closer.  When we finally pulled over, we ask this a man where the beach was. “Dude,” he said, “the Pacific Ocean is about 60 miles that a-way.”

We were way off course. When we had left our neighborhood onto the main road, we should have taken a left, not a right.

That wouldn’t have happened today, of course. No, today I have an iPhone and GPS. Google Maps. Now if I take a wrong turn, it doesn’t yell at me, or make me feel bad. No, with incredibly patience, it whispers in my ear… “rerouting”.

It’s amazing how that works, isn’t it? Analyzing all that traffic history, collecting thousands of real-time data points from people travelling, projecting how long it will take to get me where I need to be. The safest route.

Like Lent, if you think about it. Like when you fail, when you miss the mark, when you sin against God and neighbor – and end up feeling guilty, anxious or depressed. You might be feeling like that right now. You feel way off course. Truth be told, we all do at times.

But today – Ash Wednesday – if you can look beyond your guilt, your shame, your suffering, you’ll realize that God is showing you a new way. You’ll realize that Jesus will take you right where you’re at – on that dead end street, in that relationship heading south, in a group of friends that at times seems like they are not moving — and patiently suggest the right path, a solid blue line.

Imagine God’s voice for a moment…

“I know you’re lost. I know you’ve sinned. I know you’re not the person you want to be.”

Rerouting.

“You might feel terrible right now, but I won’t let your guilt destroy your identity.”

Recalculating.

“You are not the sum total of your sins.  A contrite heart is My delight.”

Rerouting.

“Come travel safely with me.”

Recalculating.

“I only desire prayer, sacrifice and almsgiving.”

You are on the fastest route.

There are many ways, of course, to find your right course. After all, it’s been done many times. Like maybe stop using foul language, to stop eating when you are not hungry, to stop trying to be funny at the expense of others.

Just another way of saying “fasting…” from today’s Gospel.

Or maybe for you rerouting means a little more solitude. In your room, in Church before you receive the body and blood of Christ. Taking a break from your racing mind going on and on about your GPA, about college, about co-workers.

That’s “prayer…”

Or, maybe committing a few dollars to our mission collection, or giving up Starbucks for 40 days and donate the money you saved.

That’s “almsgiving…”

You know, our Catechism says that the call of Jesus is “radical reorientation of our whole life, a return to God with all our heart, a turning away from evil with the desire and resolution to change our life with the help of God’s grace.”  That’s our promise.

So this morning, let’s re-imagine what those ashes on our foreheads will mean. Let’s see them for what they are — a sign. A sign that says we trust in our Tradition, our community, our GPS system.

The same Tradition that guided C.S. Lewis and his favorite book Sacred Scripture. The same Tradition that gave us Pope Francis and Gregor Mendel. The same Tradition that gave directions to Dorothy Day, Flannery O’Connor and St. Thomas Aquinas.

A Tradition that reminds us, again and again, that we have been saved by Almighty God.

We finally made it to the beach that day. And I promise that if you open your hearts and listen very carefully to the Lord this morning, you will make it to your destination.

“Repent, and believe the Gospel.”

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Rerouting…

God or mammon?

Once there was an old Cherokee grandfather who was talking with his grandson about the battle that goes on inside all of us.

“It is a terrible fight. And it’s between two wolves.”

“Two wolves,” the boy said.

“Yes,” the grandfather replied, “One is all about evil – he is anger, envy, greed, arrogance, resentment, superiority, and ego.”

He continued, “But the other brings out the good – he is joy, peace, hope, serenity, humility, generosity, and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked, “Which wolf is winning?”

The grandfather simply replied, “The one you feed the most.”

Which wolf am I feeding the most these days?

That’s the challenge Jesus poses for each of in today’s Gospel.

Let’s start with mammon, a word that no one can seem to translate.  When St Matthew uses it, he probably meant several things — “treasure”, “daily wages,” “money.” But somehow mixed in with that definition he means the abuse of these same things as well: “greed,” “possessiveness,” “misuse of power”.

In other words, mammon means not only all the things that we need to live, but — if we are not careful – allowing those same things to become the most important thing in our lives.

For me, it’s worrying about every ‘breaking news’ story on my smart phone, my constant companion. Maybe for you it’s golf clubs. Or a bank statement. Or a job title. A big house. Maybe a small business start-up – necessary as it is – which brings out the worst in us.  Being gone from the family 80 hours a week. Or maybe it’s the pressure of getting straight “A”’s in school. Or never, ever missing a day at the gym. Or an innocent hobby or sport that’s grown into something a little too time consuming, pulling us away from loved ones… every weekend.

All of us probably have something that started out good, but now pulls us away from God. In Catholic theology, St. Augustine planted the seeds of “fundamental option” theory within his City of God. Everyone gradually develops a basic orientation either for or against God.  We are for God if our life is fundamentally devoted to the love and service of others, and we are against God if we find ourselves devoted to our needs and our desires.

So, how do you choose God? It’s simple, really. If you are choosing to serve God, serve God. Build His kingdom, love your enemies, pray, fast, abstain, go the extra mile, share your gifts with the poor. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. If something isn’t right, fix it. If you are tired of the nightly news, the problems in our city, try to fix it. Walk the walk. For God.

Imagine if we all fed that wolf for a while? Imagine if we all were always confident God’s promise from our first reading from Isaiah, when God says: “I will never forget you?”

Because as a community of faith, we believe God will lift us up in our struggles. God will give us strength to do what we need to do this Lenten season. On Wednesday, we’ll hear “Repent, and hear the good news.” Let that be our reminder to stay the course, to affirm our choice of God over mammon. We are on the right path. There is no reason to be anxious. Today is a new day in Christ.

Through our quiet prayer, through our contrite heart, through our daily decision to look at our lives and say “I know which wolf is getting fed today!”

Through our simple “amen” may we always declare, in word and deed, again and again…

I choose the Lord.”

The Beatitudes

Have you ever had something happen that you thought was the worst thing that could have ever happened… but you survived? You found comfort? You found peace?

Maybe it was something simple, like getting on the highway and getting caught behind an accident? Or losing the bid on your dream house? Or, not getting promoted at work? Not getting into the school you wanted? Or, perhaps losing the person you thought you could never live without?

But guess what? Things always seem to work out. You survived. You’re OK.

In fact, after a while, you even started smiling again. And now you’re here.

Another point: have you ever noticed how that just keeps happening? Like a cycle, we see that good things happen, and then bad things happen, and then good things… and through it all, you just keep going. Again and again. We either celebrate, or dust ourselves off, stand up tall, and keep going.

That’s resilience. That’s the human spirit. That’s what Jesus is talking about. And that may well be God’s greatest gift to us.

Friedrich Nietzsche said “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” Some people say that God never gives us something we can’t handle. But today’s challenging Gospel from St. Matthew takes it a step further in pointing out that God delights in our resilience. We are blessed by hanging in, and hanging on. He knows what you’re going through. And in these Beatitudes, He lets us peek behind the curtain of our pain and suffering for just a moment, and reminds us the we are not alone.

Normally we could say our peace, our comfort flows from things like family, work, a passionate pursuit. But it can flow just as deep through sacrifice, through surviving.  When we pause and consider all that we are going through, and that we are going to move forward anyway, we are looking at life through God’s eyes. He’s right beside you.

Maybe that’s the hardest part about this Gospel for us: we don’t understand how God can be so close to us in our suffering. We don’t understand how we can be “blessed” in our tough times.

But maybe that’s the point: St. Matthew is reminding us that there is a greater purpose to your life. Suffering is real, but so peace and hope. You are not defined by your loss, by your challenges, but rather by the fact that you got out of bed this morning, faced your addiction, your bank statement, your loss, your broken relationship, whatever is not going well in your life… and did not turn away.

You are not far from the Kingdom of God.

Let’s keep in mind that Jesus is talking to the common people of his day… people who have good days and bad, people under the oppressive rule of Rome, people who have experienced loss, confusion, disappointment. And yet, He’s saying how “blessed” they are.

The Greek word that begins each beatitude is makarios, meaning “happy” in an ordinary sense, but it also means ‘one who is especially favored or fortunate’. That’s why it is translated “blessed.”

That’s who you are in the eyes of God.

St Paul says just the same in our second reading today, as well as in the Letter to the Romans:

“What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? No, we conquer these things overwhelmingly through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

He who is broken in the Eucharist becomes for us the greatest force in the universe. Love. The source of our resilience, our perseverance, the reason we get out of bed in the morning.

“Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.”

So, maybe the next time we are facing difficult times, we can tell ourselves…  “God’s in this somewhere.” Even if we don’t see how God could make things any better, He can. That’s the promise.

If God could turn Good Friday into Easter Sunday, He can surely turn our hungers, our loneliness, our loss, our poverty into a blessing. The worst that could have happen to God, happened in the Crucifixion. And in the end, it turned out magnificent.

Just imagine what God’s love can do for our broken hearts this morning.

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This homily was inspired by the writings and homilies of Fr. Joe Robinson.

Christmas homily, 2016.

I was reminded of a story by Max Lucado as I sat down last week to pray about our Christmas readings. I’ve adapted it here.

Long ago, there was a tribe of people hiding out in a dark, cold cave.  They often found themselves huddled together against the chill of the outside world.  They cried out for help for a long time.  It was all they knew how to do. They had never known joy.

But then, one day, they heard someone entering the cave, but they could not see who it was. “I have heard your cries,” the voice announced. “I have felt your chill, and seen your darkness. I have come to help.”

The people in the cave grew quiet. They had never heard a voice as hopeful as this. But they were still suspicious. “How do we know you are telling the truth?”

Silence. The cave people peered through the darkness at the figure of the stranger. They realized he was building something.

“What are you doing?” one cried nervously.

The stranger didn’t answer.

“What are you making?” one shouted even louder.

The visitor stood tall now. “I have come to set you free.” With that he turned to the wood pile at his feet, lit a match, and dropped it.

The wood ignited, flames erupted, and light filled the darkness. But the cave people turned away in fear. “Put it out!” they cried. “Will this destroy us?”

“Just the opposite,” he answered.  “But you need to draw near to feel the heat and light.”

“Not I,” declared a voice.

“Nor I,” agreed a second.

“Only a fool would risk exposing his eyes to such light.”

The stranger stood next to the fire. “I know this is not what you are used to. Maybe it’s not how other cave dwellers live. But this will change your life forever.”

For a long time no one spoke. The people hovered in groups covering their eyes. The fire builder stood next to the fire, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Slowly, one of the cave people took the long walk toward the fire. “It’s so bright,” she proclaimed when she arrived. “I can see.”

The stranger said nothing.

“It so warm!” she extended her hands and smiled as her chill left her.

“Come, everyone! Feel the warmth,” she invited.

“Silence!” cried a voice from the distant darkness. “Dare you let this stranger lead us into a trap? He must leave us, and take this fire with him.”

She turned to the stranger. “Why won’t they come?”

“Some people chose the darkness, the cold. It’s all they know.”

“And so… will they always live in the dark?”

“I’m afraid so.” The woman, now warm… but not at peace, stood silent.

“You can return to your people,” he said softly.

She paused. “I cannot. I can’t bear the cold. But nor can I bear the thought of my people in darkness.”

The stranger thought for a moment, reached into the fire and removed a stick, still flaming. “Here, carry this to your people. Show them the light, and the warmth. Explain how it’s meant for everyone.” She took the light… and turned toward the shadows.

And that is how the flame sharing began.

Christmas is a time to remember our fire, our light, our warmth. The light that began not in a cave, but a manger.  To pause to consider the flame we carry within, and to ask ourselves how we have shared that which we have been given.

Christmas, in fact, is really a time we recall how God became one of us, to build a kingdom of hope, a kingdom free from suffering and fear. A kingdom of eternal joy.

It’s a time when we are reminded of the words of St. Luke,

“Do not be afraid;
for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy
that will be for all the people.
For today in the city of David
a savior has been born for you… who is Christ and Lord.” (Lk 2:10-11)

Wow. The Promise to David has been fulfilled in our hearing. Our salvation. I don’t know about you, but this is too big for only a one-day celebration. It’s bigger than Advent. It’s bigger than… just about anything. That is truly ‘joy to the world.’

And what that means is we are ‘on the hook’.

See, every day God is asking us to walk out of our “caves” – our fears, our anxieties, our burdens – and carry the fire of Christ to everyone in our lives – brothers, sisters, moms, dads, grandparents, friends, co-workers. Everyone in your life!

Every day God is grateful when we proclaim ‘peace on earth’, and practice good will to all men and women.  Is there no better message for our times?

Every day we are called to be humble and grateful for all our gifts. For the blessings of family and friends, good food and conversation. For life!

All of that is bigger than one day, isn’t?

So, today, let’s make a deal as a community of faith. Let’s agree to try to make every day Christmas Day.  Let’s follow the light and warmth, wherever it leads us. Let’s trust God, and not be afraid. Let’s celebrate new life, and new love. Let’s all trust that God will bless us, again and again, in 2017. Let us walk out of the shadows, and into the light.

The light we celebrate today. The light of Christ our Lord.

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