Before

These are photos of my dad’s study in his house up in Tennessee.  I took them last month before I started dismantling it.  The photos were a last minute brainstorm, and one which I’m grateful I had.  Before I started removing items that I or my children might want, some of which I brought back and some of which I’m keeping in a storage unit up there, I realized that this room  - an addition to the house – was so important to my dad and such a powerful memory for all of us, it would be a shame not to have a record of his pride and joy:

As you can see much of what engaged my dad was politics.  He was a political scientist and a collector of political items.  The second of  my older sons, who is a political and history fiend himself,  would like to have those items but isn’t in a place right now to actually take them – hence the storage for a while , until he is more settled.

My dad died three months ago today (the 14th) and I have spent some time since going back and forth trying to take care of things (I am an only child – it’s all mine. Which is not as great as it sounds especially when you don’t want much of it and you’re handling it all alone without a spouse of your own for support and assistance.)

And I will spend more time in the next few months doing the same.  It won’t be over for a while.

Isn’t it interesting considering my recent interest in estate sales? I think so.

Much food for thought here.  About what’s worth having faith in and what’s not.  About what we cling to.  About what we overcome and then what we are overcome by.  About what we can’t let go of.  About how we change and the contrast between youth and old age between high hopes and sober realities.  About what we construct to represent ourselves.   It’s sobering but also energizing.

I saw my dad a week before he died.  He was in the hospital in bad shape, and seeing him I didn’t think he would be alive in five years but nor did I think he would die the following week.

My oldest son, who was probably the grandchild closest to him, made the trip up from Atlanta.  He had vacillated, having originally planned to come up the following weekend but upon hearing that we were coming deciding to make a quick trip.

How grateful he is for that intuition that pushed him north that day.

For as I said my father was struggling.  His wife Hilary was faithfully and valiantly at his side as she remained during the entire illness up until the very end.   It was hard, especially for her, but as I said, none of us expected how quickly it actually went after that week.

What I will always remember is this.

As I said ,my father and my oldest son were close.  Chris lived with him and my mother off and on while he was in college – in between apartments and so on.  Besides – he was the first grandchild.  They had known each other for almost thirty years.

And that Saturday afternoon, even as my father struggled , even as I often doubted he was all there, he showed that when he was there..he was.

He roused himself and said to Chris…tell me about your new pad..

For Christopher had recently moved into a new apartment.

He asked him about his finances…as he always did. Always concerned.

And then Chris, trying to find something to talk about, turned of course to sports.  It being October in Knoxville he started talking about the Vols. About the coach, Derek Dooley.

Amy… my dad said, his eyes barely open, his whole face slack and weakened..Amy…I want you to get me a pair of orange trousers

I thought..okay. He’s lost it. Because I wasn’t in on the joke.

But  Chris was and he started laughing and my dad murmured..I’m serious.

And I think I saw him try to smile.

Chris and I have talked several times since about that conversation.  About how even in his weakened state that conversation was exactly like every other conversation the two of them would have…Chris’ life..his career…his finances…the Volunteers…

About how grateful we are for that glimmer. To the extent he was there..he was completely there. It was exhausting for him, but right then, he gave the gift of himself one more time. It hurt, but he gave.

So…retreat or gift?

What will it be for us, today?

What, then, will it be?

To clarify

(Why I didn’t want to get back into substantive blogging over here…I throw out half-assed thoughts poorly expressed and end up having to take more time to clarify…because of my initial sloth…ah well.)

I obviously didn’t mean to hate on the concept of “a small group of Christians sharing fellowship and formation.” Or some such.  I meant to hate on the idea  - all the rage back in the 80′s and some of the 90′s – that every parish must be divided up into cells or groups  and real Christian community can’t arise in a Catholic parish until everyone is in a one of those small groups meeting weekly and sharing and such…

Some of you might not remember that…but I do.

What what was in my head was the truth I really believe that this laudable end – enabling Christians to engage in smaller settings – can happen in an organic way in a parish when the effort is rooted in Catholic stuff.  Eucharist. Devotions.  The works of mercy. Let me repeat – the works of mercy. 

It’s my contention, moreover, that lots of parishes have lots of small groups already happening in which the goals of “small groups” flourish.  It’s just that in our Catholic ways…we don’t invite.  We don’t see those groups – sodalities, rosaries, and so on – as missional, but rather as enclaves.

And to expand on my central point – I stick to my guns on defining daily Mass as the original “small group.”

When I go to daily Mass in this town, where ever I  go, there are at least fifty people there.  During Advent and Lent, far more.

Think about it – in your parish, during Lent, probably 200 people gather daily in a “small group.”

They enjoy catechesis through the language of the liturgy itself, the Scripture readings and the homily.  They enjoy the deepest fellowship of all through the Eucharist – being joined not only to the others present but to ever Catholic throughout the world, in heaven, and to Christ himself.

That catechesis, grace and fellowship are real.  The power of the fruit depends on our receptivity and disposition, true. It is not magic or a vending machine.  But honestly – when I go to noon Mass at the Cathedral here and see folks from all walks of life:  business people, students, homeschooling families, drifters like me…I am awed by the moment.  Awed that the members of this small group will walk out of the church building into the world, filled with the grace of Christ. Some of them greet each other and stayed behind to chat.  Some rush away.  Still others stroll outside, study the sky, and wandered off – perhaps in a different direction than they thought they’d be going before Mass started.

I don’t know where they’re going.  I don’t know how their lives were impacted by the experience.  I won’t be taking a survey of effectiveness.  Even if I were in charge – I wouldn’t be doing that.  I wouldn’t know, I couldn’t tell.  I’d just trust that God had brought them there and now they’re off again..a bit more conscious and grateful for God’s graciousness and mercy than they were before, and perhaps a little bit stronger and braver to share it.

So…you are dismayed by low turnout at adult ed? (Not saying that’s not a legitimate concern)

You’ve got dozens of folks showing up every day for Mass to be nourished by Christ.

That’s a good thing.  It’s not something to be waved away and taken for granted.

Starting with the reality of daily Mass as our foundational “small group” also releases us from ego.  It provides a corrective to the trap of placing our own efforts and plans at the center of parish life.  It works against the temptation to judge the “success” of a ‘small group” (or any parish activity) by how people respond to our efforts or by what we can see.

Sure…there should be more in  a parish. It’s not a simplistic answer.  Not everyone can go to daily Mass.  There’s more that other types of gatherings can offer – more targeted and specific catechesis. More particular ministry to..the young…parents..the old…the sick.   Traditional Catholic parish life is and always has been rich and diverse. But it all starts with prayer.

So I’m saying that when considering “small groups” in a Catholic parish…start with daily Mass. Thank God for what happens there…build on it…stop trying to invent, invent and invent some more.

…and maybe follow the old guys for their after-Mass coffee at McDonald’s and then their morning at the St. Vincent de Paul thrift store.  Fellowship? Check. Works of Mercy? Check.

It all starts here.

(First church picture I could pull from my computer. Good Samaritan in Ellijay,Georgia)

Be Saints!

Catholic Truth Society has published the exciting sequel to Friendship with Jesus:

This book is based on the Holy Father’s “Big Assembly” with school children at St. Mary’s University College in Twickenham. It features Ann Engelhart’s great watercolor illustrations with  quotes from the Holy Father’s talks as well as quotes from various saints (my humble contribution as “editor” being to write a brief intro and select the quotes).

The CTS page for the book is here.  It’s not available within the US but a lot of American readers ordered Friendship from CTS and most (I think) had good experiences and found the shipping wasn’t horrible.

By the way  - here are a couple of interviews with Ann about Friendship. 

With Elizabeth Scalia

and

here’s a very nice radio interview on Relevant Radio’s Morning Air with Sean Herriott.  Sean asks her quite a bit about her thoughts on art.  The interview starts at around 39:21.

Why does anyone want to know what *I* think about “small groups?”

(Or anything for that matter)

One of the “secrets” of having a blog and such is that you know what people are searching for.

Yes – it’s one of the amusing entertainments we do – collate the odd search terms that bring folks to our blogs.

And there are odd ones.

To be sure.

And there are consistent  and out of the box searches.  Like – I get daily searches for combinations of “introvert” and “parent.”

It without fail leads me to prayer.

Please help them cope!  Please!

And …

“Why have children”

(Every day on that one.  Every day.)

Help them be open to life! Please!

The past couple of days, though, I’ve gotten lots of searches about “small groups” and specifically what *I* think about small groups.

What?

Just email me and ask me okay?

(moreover..who bloody/freakin’/CARES?)

But if pressed…here’s what I’ll say: I’m an…

(wait for it)

INTROVERT

and I

HATE

forced, artificial and constructed….sharing. 

Yay for you if you want to be in a “small group.”  Go for it.  But the threat of organized “small groups” held out to me as a requirement for a “Serious/Intentional Christian” Badge makes me want to run to biggest “large group” around.

(Which is – in case you didn’t know – the Catholic Church.  You know. The one Jesus started. Big group.)

And moreover, I think that Catholics go way wrong when we accept the assumptions of non-Catholic ecclesiastical models.

Take that any way you like. 

And what I think?

Daily Mass is the original “small group.”

And people who don’t get it…are almost hopelessly anthrocentric and don’t believe in the power and presence of Christ there.

/rant

 

Dear brothers and sisters, in participating in the Eucharist we experience in an extraordinary way the prayer that Jesus offered, and continually offers, for each one of us in order that evil — which we all encounter in life — may not have the power to overcome us, and so that the transforming power of Christ’s Death and Resurrection may act in us. In the Eucharist, the Church responds to Jesus’ command: “Do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19; cf. 1 Corinthians 11:24-26); she repeats the prayer of thanksgiving and blessing and, with this, the words of the transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the Lord’s Body and Blood. 

Our celebrations of the Eucharist are a being drawn into that moment of prayer, a uniting ourselves again and again to Jesus’ prayer. From her earliest days, the Church has understood the words of consecration as part of her praying together with Jesus; as a central part of the praise filled with thanksgiving through which the fruit of the earth and of men’s hands are given to us anew by God in the form of Jesus’ Body and Blood, as God’s gift of Himself in His Son’s self-emptying love (cf. Jesus of Nazareth, II, pg. 128). In participating in the Eucharist, in nourishing ourselves on the Flesh and Blood of the Son of God, we unite our prayer to that of the paschal Lamb on His last night, so that our lives might not be lost, despite our weakness and infidelity, but might be transformed.

Pope Benedict XVI – 1/11/2012

Sunday in the Park

I have driven by it so many times.  It’s on my most common route home from school or downtown – that straight shot down First Avenue North. Ever since I noticed it last year, I had intended to go, but because of travel, and then obligations of serving and teaching at our own parish when we’re not traveling, never could make that single ten o’clock Mass they have.  And then many times when it might have been possible, I just forgot.

But this morning we finally made it to Our Lady of La Vang.

The Vietnamese Catholic parish that is, in fact, the Catholic church that’s closest to my house.  No more than a mile.

One of the primary reasons I had wanted to go was to experience the chant, which I had read was quite unique and beautiful. Which it was –  the entire Mass was chanted and sung (hymns in the regular spots), and I have to say what was most striking to me about the chant was the pauses.   The chanting was rather deliberate, with a discernible beat between each phrase. I’d never heard anything like it before.

Let me back up a bit.

We arrived just at ten.  Soon after we arrived (sitting in the second to the last row), the congregation – which probably tripled in size during the next ten minutes – stood and began chanting, led by an older woman in the back.  She had the hymn book open to some pages in the back but didn’t look down at it. I had no clue what was going on until at some point the tone of the chant shifted a bit and I heard, every time the woman did her part, Maria…ah, okay, got it – now they’re praying the rosary.  I am pretty sure they were doing something else at first – but whatever it was they wrapped it up with the rosary. I’m sure someone out there can fill me in.

Mass proceeded as usual.  My boys followed along the readings  in their Magnifikids! .…and yeah, so did I.  As I said, most of the Mass was chanted. The hymns and some of the Mass parts were in a more popular style, led by a very strong choir up in the loft – I couldn’t see them, but there seemed to be quite a few folks up there, with a violin and electric organ giving a definite Asian flair to the instrumentation.

I was surprised when the priest began his homily in English, but then I realized that it was for the children – he spoke for about ten minutes in English, finished that up, and then switched to Vietnamese.  And I have to say that his children’s homily was a model of what such a thing should be.   It was engaging, direct with one simple point – the Magi were lead by a light to Jesus.  When we are looking for Jesus,  we can be led by a light as well – the light in front of a tabernacle in every Catholic Church all over the world, where ever we go.

Simple and direct. I was impressed.

Yes, we stood out.  I’d say there were close to 250 people there, and the three of us there in the back were the only non-Vietnamese.  It was an interesting opportunity for me to reflect once again on the liturgy, universality, and the role of the ethnic immigrant parish in American church life.  It’s a hard question.  It seems odd to me that this little deeply Catholic parish with such a vibrant, evocative liturgy is tucked away, probably completely unknown by 99% of the Catholics in Birmingham.  It would also be a complete shame if it did not exist and the traditions of the Vietnamese Catholic community had no expression here and these folks had no choice but to be swallowed up in one more refrain of Lord of the Dance and the dreariness of spoken/mumbled – rather than chanted – dialogue.

It was really lovely. I’m glad we went.  But we’re not done here, not yet.

As I had pulled up to the fenced-in church parking lot before Mass, my instincts had whispered, “You’re going to get blocked in. Don’t do it. ” I ignored them and drove right in and found a place. The lot was not terribly full, a situation I knew full well would change, since I’d driven by the place at 11:30 am on a Sunday in the past.  The instincts repeated themselves. “You’re gonna get blocked in. Idiot.”  I pushed the instincts aside.  Why? I don’t know. Perhaps to test – once again – whether what my mother told me was actually true: “Always trust your first instincts.’

You can predict what happens next.

We left the church and went to the car and found one vehicle on either side of me and  an big old SUV right behind.  Blocked in.

Well, I reasoned, Mass is over.  They’ll be leaving soon.  And sure enough, folks did start drifting out to the parking lot.

They certainly did.  They’d come out to their cars, put something in those cars…and then stroll right back toward the church.  Laughing, even. Once in a while someone would appear with a plastic grocery bag or a styrafoam food container and I’d get all excited and hopeful and think..this is it…this is the beginning of the exodus..but no. They’d just stash those boxes and  sacks – it looked to me as if there were groceries as well as the prepared lunches  - and head back.  Of course – they’re having lunch. They probably do this every Sunday. Makes sense.

I wondered if we were going to be like Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny under the basket, stuck there for hours. I was fairly convinced that we were.  And I really didn’t want to be the idiot white woman wading  into the lunch crowd in their parish hall asking random people if they drove a silver SUV they’d parked behind a black Honda.  We could walk the mile or so home and I could walk back in a little while.  I considered calling our friends in the neighborhood and having them come pick up the boys while I would just sit there and wait it out.  I felt fairly stupid. I let the boys play Fruit Ninja on my phone.

But then the instincts kicked in again.  ”You’ve got enough space,” they hinted.  ”Pull up a couple of feet, angle it right, and you can get around that SUV. ”  I hesitated. I got out of the car and studied it and determined that, once again, the instincts were probably telling the truth.

They were.

But next time – believe me -  I’m parking in the street.

Found

Wandered around the first Latino grocery for a few minutes, unsuccessful. Couldn’t find the King Cakes. Finally spotted a rack near the front of the store with one left.  Got right up to it, ready for victory when some other, tiny, barely five foot tall  woman appeared from nowhere, reached under my outstretched arm, grabbed it, and rushed to the cash register.  She grinned at me as I made the empty-handed Loser Walk to the door.

“You got it,” I congratulated her.

No doubt.  ”I got it!” she agreed, clutching the box that seemed about as large as she was.

So up Green Springs Road to the next one, next to Office Depot.  There was a van from a local Hispanic radio station out front, adults setting up tables, and mobs of little children.

Inside, no shortage.  Stacks of cakes still waiting.  The cashier said the radio station was giving out presents to the children.

Back home, I made my guess as to where the Child was. There was a lump, I said. I think it’s there.  We cut it there, but it was only cake.

Joseph made is guess.  ”I think it’s there,” he said, pointing.

And it was. He has a knack for finding things, that one.

Then we asked God to bless our house and I got the ladder out and because we had no chalk I just handed Joseph a marker and told him to write it above the door.

20 + C + M + B + 12.

Reasoning that there’s such a thing as white paint, when the time might come that we’d want to cover it up.

But I don’t know day that would be.  I can’t think of one myself.

From the East…

…or from Ebay many moons ago…take your pick.

Viva!

Beautiful Mass.  Jammed church.  Dancers led the way.

 

Both parish priests concelebrated.  The parochial vicar is fluent in Spanish and he was the primary celebrant.  Music was mariachi but also some basic chanted responses.  The Responsorial Psalm was chanted a capella and was quite moving in its simplicity – as unaccompanied simple chant tends to be – in any language.

It’s a feast!  Incense in the house!

Viva!

Blessings of  sacramentals after Mass.

 

 

 

 

Danzantes

Midnight at St. Francis Xavier in Birmingham…

..the parking lot is full

..as is the church

The latecomer missed the Living Rosary,, but caught the end of Las Mañanitas and the Danzantes both inside

 

..and out:

 

 

 

 

Mary, in fact, is wholly associated with the victory of Jesus Christ, her Son, over sin and death; she is free from every shadow of death and is completely filled with life.   – Pope Benedict XVI 12/8

Mass – one of several around these parts – tomorrow night at 7.

Mass in Rome – 5:30 Italy time.  Program – for the “Holy Mass for Latin America” – here. 

St. Ambrose in Milan

Some sites from earlier this year related to the saint:

In the crypt of the Duomo – the baptistry where St. Ambrose baptized St. Augustine:

The Metro stop is nearby, and an underground corridor passes the baptistry.  You can peek out at the passengers rushing by, and if you are on the other side you could peek in to the baptistry – if you knew it was there.

A different type of modern transport juxtaposed with the ancient.   Some wheels from the city’s bike-sharing service in front of the Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio -

one of the four churches built by Ambrose. (of course what we see is not the original – but is the result of building and rebuilding on the site.)

Shawn Tribe on St. Ambrose over at the New Liturgical Movement.