Graduation looked different at our campus-ministry parish this year. We’ve become accustomed to a long row of 30 or so university grads standing before us at Mass.

August 29^th is September 11^th to the people of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

It’s the event that will define them for years, maybe generations to come.

The sounds, the images, the smells, the debilitating, horrifying fear — are seared into their collective consciousness.

As shocking, as horrible, as devastating as it may be, it is something they cannot shake ... and maybe they shouldn’t ... and maybe they don’t want to — at least not yet.

Everywhere we went we encountered people who were more than ready to tell their stories — where they were, who they were with, where they went if they evacuated — the roar of the wind, the water menacingly rising toward their homes, under the doors, up the walls — swimming to a neighbor’s house for refuge because maybe they had a second floor — returning to find dead bodies, bridges strewn like fallen dominoes, life completely like nothing it had been.

Six months after the fact, people still talked of it as if it had just occurred, telling stories they’d told dozens maybe hundreds of times as if it was being told for the first time.

The people need to tell the stories, Bishop Rodi of Biloxi told our group. They are still in shock. We are still in shock. Regardless of what else you do this week, he said, maybe the most important thing you’ll do is listen to a story.

I wonder if it was like that in the very beginning, however. That need to talk, that desire to share the experience, for some of the people at least came with time, came with perspective.

In the darkness of those first days, in the muck, in the stench, in the mind-numbing uncertainty and emptiness — the people were afraid of what had been, of what surrounded them, afraid of how they could possibly move beyond where they were.

I’m talking about the people of Biloxi, but I could just as easily be talking about the people who had come to embrace the preaching and the witness of this person they called Jesus.

Some of them, indeed the most prominent among them, were cowering in fear — probably hidden in a room somewhere. A handful of women venture out — there are just some things that have to be done — and what they discover does nothing to appease their fear. Indeed they run away, too frightened to tell anyone anything.

In the darkness of those first days, in the muck, in the stench, in the mind-numbing uncertainty and emptiness — the people were afraid of what had been, of what surrounded them, afraid of how they could possibly move beyond where they were.

But we know they will. These women will tell others, and even the more fearful prominent disciples will eventually come out of hiding and they’ll begin to share their experience. They might change a few details to make themselves a bit more courageous and convicted, but the story will be told.

Indeed, it could probably be said with some certainty that it was a story they needed to tell. Telling the story helped them grasp the reality. Telling the story only enhanced their amazement. Telling the story brought them all out of darkness into light and life.

We’ve listened to a lot of stories tonight, and as Bishop Rodi told us in Biloxi listening to people’s stories can be invaluable.

But this is a story we can’t just hear and sit on and remain silent. This is a story we have to tell. This is a story that guides us out of the muck of our lives, that lights our way through our darkness and the darkness of those we care about and maybe even those who are strangers.

How we tell this story will vary with each of us, but that we must tell this story cannot be in dispute. The women couldn’t have imagined how they could possibly move beyond where they were — but they did, they overcame their fear, they told their story — the same story we are given to tell — of resurrection, of new life, of people crawling out of the darkness, the muck, the stench, the fear and living with renewed conviction, renewed courage, renewed love.  TL

The little boy was probably about 3. He was eating an apple with one hand and holding his mom’s hand with the other.

In many ways the Haiti I visited in 2006 was quite like the Haiti I visited in 2000.

The roads were still horrible paths of giant potholes, sudden drop-offs and abandoned vehicles. An accident with even the slightest of injuries is probably a far greater matter of life or death than shootings and abductions.

The pastor was new and as a means of acclimating himself to the parish — and the parish to him — he initiated a question/answer series. People were invited to write questions on cards found in the window sills throughout the church. The plan was to answer questions at the end of Mass and in the bulletin. It seemed the response — 60 questions the first week — might have created something more demanding than he’d bargained for.

There’s the suggestion that some-one fears the liturgy is so easily threatened; that a few misguided ingredients or intentions will waylay the assembly’s prayer and leave it lacking. What the recipe-wonderers seem to negate is an accounting for God’s grace. TL

The clanking in the box was a subtle yet sure indication that something was amiss. These were solid pieces packed tightly in Styrofoam; there shouldn’t have been clanking.

As I pulled the statue of Mary from the box, several pieces of something fell to the floor. There were no apparent "injuries," but then I noticed several holes near the base of the statue. Whether in packaging or shipping, the statue had been damaged.

The box containing Jesus rattled as well. Some might have surmised that any baby should be sculpted with a rattle in hand, but I didn’t think that likely. Again, Jesus and his manger were in the box, but so were two chunks that had been knocked lose.

Another box offered no warnings of clanking or rattling, but here the damage was far more visible. The poor donkey had arrived without an ear. To be precise, there was an ear, it just wasn’t attached to the animal. It sounds like the premise for a Christmas parable: "The Christmas Donkey with a Broken Ear."

Considering that 12 of our new Nativity figures had been shipped, maybe we were fortunate that only three were damaged. That was hardly consolation, however, as I imagined Christmas with missing ears and cracked foundations. And that doesn’t even include the problem of Joseph’s wobbly walking stick.

As with so many aspects of Christmas, we idealize our imagining of the Nativity. The straw is clean; the animals well behaved, maybe even reverent; the shepherds refined; the baby never cries. There is no allowing for cracks and assorted imperfections.

The honest reality, of course, is that every Christmas, including the first, has been marred by imperfections. The straw probably needed freshening, if there was straw at all. The cows and donkeys and sheep no doubt behaved in a manner appropriate to cows and donkeys and sheep. The shepherds may very well have carried a rather pungent aroma and they might have spit or swore along the way. And, what healthy baby doesn’t cry!

Try as we might to achieve the Christmas we imagine, it will ultimately be no more perfect than the first, or no less. Christmas cannot exist apart from the reality in which we live.

The world God entered in the Incarnation was full of cracks and missing pieces; it was marred — or blessed — with imperfection. The world God entered in the Incarnation would be blessed, is blessed, regardless of the cracks and missing pieces, regardless of our imperfections. The world God entered in the Incarnation, the world in which God remains, is no less imperfect. Each of us knows of cracks in our own being and identity, and yet God came and yet God remains. TL

We know what Christmas is — or at least our Advent observance might bring us to that understanding — and Jesus won’t lose as long as we keep telling the story of his birth and what it means, and considering what our lives, as his followers, can mean. TL

As we celebrate confirmation this weekend, there’s also the aspect of a community ritual — in words and actions — to show our support and commitment to those young people and to let them know that we’ll be cheering for them along the way, and that we’d appreciate — and benefit from — a few cheers and kicks from them too. TL

In November, especially on the coming week’s twin days celebrating Saints and Souls, we remember those who have died and maybe once again we realize the disconnect between head and heart, between human grieving and hopeful rejoicing. As people of faith we push ourselves to understand what can’t always be understood, and yet, by God’s grace — with some of the mystery that allows an Easter lily to blossom in the brightening cold of spring or the darkening frost of autumn — the flower of resurrection is pushed to bring hope to our hearts. TL

Most of our student members are from the Diocese of Green Bay. Portage County, on the eastern edge of the La Crosse Diocese, actually was once part of the Green Bay church.

Three years ago my hometown, which is best left unidentified, was confronted by a crisis involving something produced by animals that has nothing to do with wool, meat or milk. A gentlemen’s agreement was reached at the time, although it’s believed some women might have been involved in the negotiations.

And if you’re taking any route through my hometown, be careful where you drive or walk. TL

The closest we came in Stevens Point to anything even approaching a hurricane this past summer was on July 23. The storm, which unlike hurricanes did not have a name, arrived just after noon.

Fall is really our busiest wedding time at Newman this year. Cooler temperatures and bright natural colors might be the appeal. Who knows? I don’t wish Joe and Heather’s experience for any of the couples getting married this fall, and yet I’d like them all to experience a good first, rather painless but important lesson of marriage when light becomes dark and the words we promise to one another are all that really matter. TL

I was out for pizza with some students the night before our Summer Late-Night Mass. I asked the group what songs we should sing.

"If you sing ‘Send Down the Fire’ I’ll be sure to come," one student said instantly. (We did sing "Send Down the Fire," but that student was noticeably absent. Oh well.)

"But don’t sing that psalm about the deer and running water," the same student said.

Since there are several musical settings of Psalm 42, I asked which version she didn’t want us to sing. "The one that goes, ‘As the deer that longs for running water, as the deer that longs for running water, so my soul is thirsting’" — At that point the server appeared and quickly disappeared.

The table erupted in laughter. We half expected her to return in a moment with a water pitcher ready to re-fill our glasses.

That would have been a perfect resolution to the story.

In reality, she might have simply been frightened by the less-than-stellar singing. She didn’t return with a pitcher of water because she probably noticed that our glasses were already full or full enough, regardless of what she might have heard some of us singing about water and thirsting.

God hears us ask for all sorts of things that we presume we need or want. Oftentimes when we don’t receive what we’ve sought, maybe it’s not because God hasn’t heard our prayer but because God knows far better our situation, our need, and that for which our soul is truly thirsting. TL

Just as that security guard was probably hoping not to find anything problematic or mortifying, I suspect God is hoping — if not rooting — for something quite the same. TL

That was the attitude Paul had noticed in so many of the people to whom he talked. It’s something we might notice in news reports. It’s an attitude that can become almost trite and taken for granted among people so removed from the situation. It’s the spirit of that man talking to his bishop that inspires us to remain vigilant in our attention, prayer and generosity. TL

You could call it my lunch with Colin Powell. We were sitting at the same table of only six people, but we were all facing one direction, rather than each other. Circum-stances did not provide for us to even be introduced, much less converse with one another.

When I asked the fourth graders last Sunday morning if they knew of someone important who had died, all of their hands shot into the air. I actually thought there’d be one or two who hadn’t gotten the message.

My first encounter with Father Mark Walljasper was sitting around his dinner table. The priest with whom I was spending the summer, one of Mark’s best friends, said he was someone I needed to know.

Mark was someone we’d call a loving critic of the church. He was not enthralled nor fooled by pompous, vain piety, but he recognized the grit and intensity of trying to make the good news come to life. He appreciated the friendship and support of other priests, and even bishops, but it was the people of his long-time parish in Sparta and new friends he collected along the way who mattered most. Regardless of our place in the church, many of us treasured our give and take with Mark, and it’s something we shall miss. TL

What I remember about her doesn’t really say much about her. I remember that she was the only girl in a family of boys. Four boys, to be exact. I was in the seminary on a summer parish assignment and was invited to celebrate the birthday of one of the brothers, the third oldest.

Maybe they didn’t intentionally make that choice, but it’s not something that just happened. Just as those brothers didn’t just happen to let something else get in the way of the faith their sister so genuinely embraces. It didn’t just happen. They let it happen, and that’s why their sister is so vigilant. So that it doesn’t just happen to her. TL

The Pointer men’s basketball team won it’s second consecutive national championship a week ago tonight at precisely 9:07 p.m.

Some of you who are at least a little familiar with the situation might be wondering how that could be, since the game started at 4 p.m. and basketball games, even with several overtimes, don’t last far beyond two hours.

Here’s how the Pointers won the championship at 9:07:

Since the game was being played during Mass, I taped the game. After Mass I did everything within my power to avoid finding out the score. I had to go to the grocery store, and I distracted myself so as not to overhear anyone talking about the game. I tried to avoid anyone who I might know who would want to share the news.

I stopped at the Center to check e-mail. I drove by Quandt gym without getting an inkling of the outcome.

I finally sat down and watched the game, and at 9:07, the Pointers won the championship. I say they won their second national title at 9:07, as you may have guessed, because that’s when I learned that they’d won. Until then, at least for me, it hadn’t happened.

We don’t have the slightest idea of the date or time of the resurrection. All we know is that it was after the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning.

We don’t know precisely when the resurrection happened. What we know, what’s far more important is that the resurrection happened, the resurrection happens when we find out about it. Or, more to the point, the resurrection happens when we tell others what has happened.

There are things that happen from time to time on campus, in the church, in the community that, for some reason, I know about, but which is not reported in the newspaper. One of my gripes, as some people know, is that it’s almost as if these things haven’t really happened if no one knows they’ve happened.

There’s something similar at work in terms of the resurrection. Regardless of when it happened or even whether it happened, the resurrection becomes a reality when someone tells someone else that the tomb is empty, that Jesus has risen, that a new way of life has begun.

And in the case of the resurrection, we know of the empty tomb, we know that Jesus is risen because there were people who first gave the report, who overcame their fears, who told other skeptical people the unlikely news. These first reporters of the resurrection might be Jesus’ most loyal friends — the only faithful, courageous friends who stayed with him when the others betrayed, denied and deserted him. These women who stayed with him in life and now were the first to discover the emptiness of the tomb and whose faithfulness and courage propelled them to share the news of the resurrection.

Easter happens for us because they first told of their experience, because they told the good news of the resurrection.

Easter occurs because those women carry the news and pass on the story, the words and the command: Go! They told the others to go back to their homes and their work, to their families and friends and neighbors and enemies. Go to those people and places and tell the news of the resurrection.

Easter occurs because we have the courage and the conviction to report the news, to pass on the story; because we have the courage and conviction to GO and live as people for whom the resurrection matters — people for whom the glory of the cross and the triumph of the empty tomb propel us to report the good news by forgiving and feeding, defending and promising, welcoming and rejoicing, building and believing.

It doesn’t matter when the resurrection happened. What matters is that it does happen because we report the news, we pass on the story, because we have the courage and conviction to GO and live as people for whom it matters that these faithful women found an empty tomb, encountered the risen Lord and told others the good news that is now ours to tell.  TL

This was preached as an Easter Vigil homily.

There were obvious reasons Oscar Romero was named archbishop of San Salvador.

He was, in many ways, by some estimations, the perfect man for the job.

He’d always been a prayerful, pious man. He’d gone off to a high school seminary at the age of 13. Having grown up in a small, remote, mountain village, he’d eventually conclude his studies in Rome.

Father Romero did everything by the book.

He said what he was supposed to say, and if there were things needing to be said that others didn’t want to hear, well, he wouldn’t have said them anyway.

He did everything he was supposed to do and that brought him important offices in the church — rector of the cathedral parish, secretary general of the regional bishops’ conference, editor of the diocesan newspaper, rector of the seminary.

He was loyal and obedient to the core.

And so in almost every regard, his selection as archbishop of San Salvador in 1977 made complete sense. In the eyes of many, whoever makes these decisions in Rome couldn’t have done a better job.

A few, of course, were not so sure. Things were not particularly stable in El Salvador. Since 1931 there had been a series of military governments, each of them responding to threats and political unrest with repression against the poor, those who had no land, those who had little in terms of employment or wealth, those who had absolutely no political influence or power.

The El Salvador of Archbishop Romero was a place of extremes, and everyone knew on which extreme of the spectrum to find him: with the wealthy, the powerful, the military establishment. Indeed, he even went so far as to condemn the presumably subversive strategies of priests and religious sisters who were standing up for the rights of the poor.

But, the government was so sure of his innocuousness that it launched a massacre of priests the very week of his installation as archbishop. Priests had been murdered before and Romero had written appropriate, back-channel letters of complaint. Now a good friend of his, Rutilio Grande, a Jesuit priest, was among the assassinated, and Romero realized that the church and nation he loved — its people and its priests — were under attack, and he was the one how would have to defend it.

If you’ve ever thought that someone simply can’t change, well you might want to look to the story of Oscar Romero.

Conversion isn’t something we can usually pin down, but for Romero there were specific moments over a three-year span in which his conversion was realized. Not a conversion from non-believing to believing, but rather a conversion from believing in Christ safely and proclaiming the gospel desperately.

He would go and spend days with the peasants. His Sunday homilies broadcast nationwide on the radio became litanies of the week’s injustices. He went to city dumps to help searched for those who had disappeared. He boycotted government events as a sign of his outrage. He demanded that the military stop the repression.

Three years after this man was installed as archbishop — this man who powerful people in Rome and San Salvador had thought they knew so well and believed would be so safe — three years later he had moved to the other end of the spectrum.

And on this very date (24 March), Archbishop Romero was celebrating Mass in the chapel of a convent where he lived. As he stood behind the altar, a shot rang out. He would die a few hours later.

But, as he had said a few weeks earlier, he did not believe in death. "I believe in resurrection," he said. "If they kill me, I shall rise again in the Salvadoran people. A bishop may die, but the church of God — the people — will never die."

Romero, of course, was guided in that understanding by Christ — Jesus who on the night before he died conveys the idea that while He may die, his church, his people will not die as long as they are willing to do what he did, as long as they are willing to do what is unpopular and uncomfortable and maybe even unseemly.

Romero washed feet in so many ways, specifically because Jesus had told him to. What gives the gospel story of foot-washing credible, I think; what makes our ritual of foot-washing powerful is that it’s not something that was just done once, but rather it’s been done throughout the centuries in so many diverse and gentle and drastic ways — by powerful figures like Oscar Romero and the very peasants whose repression he risked his life to stop.

Its been done in diverse and gentle and drastic ways by people just like us, who now perform this prayerful ritual in the hope that we might be diverse and gentle and drastic people among whom the Jesus of this gospel will never die.  TL

This was preached as a homily on Holy Thursday.

A stranger recently came to the door of the Cathedral in La Crosse. He won’t be a stranger for long, however; the person greeted at the door has become the ninth bishop of the diocese.

And, as is true with those seeking baptism, we have begun to welcome this man who has come to our door and we pledge our prayer and support. TL

As I greeted people leaving our 6 p.m. Ash Wednesday liturgy I was struck by how many had not taken any of the things I’d offered and encouraged to help honor the disciplines of Lent.

In his inaugural address last month, President Bush referred to chapters 5, 6 and 7 of Matthew’s gospel. He said, "Self-government relies, in the end, on the governing of the self. That edifice of character is built in families, supported by communities with standards, and sustained in our national life by the truths of Sinai, the Sermon on the Mount, the words of the Koran, and the varied faiths of our people."

There are several that have been prominent in the news and meeting agendas of late, but none may be as challenging as meeting the needs of 166 parishes, and hospitals and schools with a fast declining number of priests.

Last year, there were 91 priests in the Diocese of La Crosse. During that year two priests younger than 40 took indefinite leaves of absence. In the short term that left their parishes without pastors; in the long term that means there might not be two priests we thought we’d have far into the future.

This spring, 10 more priests will reach the retirement age of 70, and who can begrudge them a few years of relaxation. By 2010, it’s estimated that we’ll have 82 priests; 74 in 2015.

Not to take anything away from him, but I can’t imagine Bishop Listecki will have a magic solution to this circum-stance once he’s installed on 1 March. How we respond to these complex realities will require creativity and an understanding that few of us will go unaffected — people and priests, although I’d like us to remember in all of this that priests are people too. We can only ask so much; those 91 priests won’t be able to solve this problem.

The parishes of Portage County are going to be confronting this matter over the next few months. Newman’s Pastoral Council will discuss specific needs and possible flexibility on the part of our parish. There also will be a conversation involving representatives from each of the county’s 16 parishes.

In the end there may be some recommendations presented to the new bishop about how we utilize this dwindling supply of priests.

In an instant there were a few hundred people attempting to use a couple dozen phones, and there were even more people feverishly pushing cell-phone buttons. Some of us just stood in utter disbelief as the "CANCELED" declaration appeared behind more and more flights.

The announcements continued, repeating the same basic announcement in the same menacingly cheerful voice. The voice told us that someone was sorry for our inconvenience, but didn’t answer what seemed the most basic question: What do we do now?

I was able to book a seat on the first flight in the morning, but that was 18 hours away. The Tom Hanks movie "The Terminal" had just been released and I figured that if the movie’s primary character could live for several months in this environment, I could endure a few hours. I inquired and was told that was definitely not an option.

What surprised me was that neither the airline nor anyone else told us what our options might be. If we had to find "emergency lodging," as I was told, couldn’t someone identify what nearby lodging options might be?

Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt, I thought. Of course that wasn’t really true, but I was in a strange place, not knowing really where to turn, certainly not wanting to spend money I didn’t really have.

Eventually I found a hotel with a vacancy and airport shuttle service. The cost for that one night, by the way, was more than I’d paid for four nights of "non-emergency" lodging, but it wasn’t a stable out back and there were no cows or donkeys (or wolves) lingering nearby.

My moment of Bethlehem-like uncertainty came back to me a couple weeks ago as I walked past a pick-up truck parked at the Salvation Army center. It’s trunk was packed with items found in an apartment or home: a table and a few odd pieces of furniture, boxes of clothing, some toys, a televison. None of it was packed very well and all of it was exposed for all to see and for the drizzly rain to fall upon.

I imagined a family being evicted and having no where to go and no way to properly protect their possessions. I didn’t conceive of them with the same innocence and wonderment with which we imagine the holy family, but I suspect this family’s anxious fear was quite the same. Someone had taken them in, but what would happen now?

We pass by those parts of the story rather quickly in the Christmas gospel, but it’s all there and it will be again as the story continues to unfold, and it’s unlike any fear or uncertainty that most of us will ever, thankfully, experience ourselves. TL

Punta Cana? Thanks to Google, or at least because of it, I’ve discovered it’s a beach resort in the Dominican Republic. I suspect Nan Kempner would not want more people joining her there.

The columnist, Bob Morris, won’t be with Nan at Punta Cana either, but he might be nearby.

"If you’re used to having things just as you like them, from special order lattes and omelets to Caesarean sections to suit your business schedule, why not re-work the holidays to make them work better too," Morris writes. "With celebrations and preparations running people ragged for a month in advance, it makes sense that they actually need a real vacation by the time Christmas finally rolls around, right?"

Ummm, wrong?

Families, obviously, have to juggle numerous calendars and work and travel schedules. Divorce creates a myriad of complications as parents vie for time with their children. And Dec. 25 may not be the most convenient date falling, as it does, on whatever day of the week it chooses in any given year.

Still, that is the date. That is when we celebrate not a "holiday," as the columnist puts it, but rather "Christmas." If, as believers, this day (or season, as the church provides) is about more than hectic arrangements and presents and decorations, then wouldn’t a rather judicious approach to re-scheduling be important? Isn’t there a danger, especially in the hearts and minds of young people, if we too casually and distantly separate what we do at church from what we do at home, or in Punta Cana for that matter?

It could be argued, I suppose, that opening presents on Dec. 19 and then going to church on Dec. 24^h or 25 enhances the religious foundation of this holy day; our worship becomes the primary focus. It also separates, however, any sense that our gifts to one another might have any connection to our remembering God’s gift to the world.

It’s not like we’re setting out to institutionalize Christmas re-scheduling — ala Halloween — but it might be good to at least identify the ideal and not too casually sacrifice a Christmas celebrated on Dec. 25 or in the days or even week that follow. Some might say you don’t want to celebrate Christmas too late; might it not be more problematic celebrating too early?

That’s how Bob Morris the columnist spoke of those days at the end of this month that we celebrate, although I guess "the holidays" could also include Hanukkah, which began on Tuesday. Morris, as you know from receiving or maybe even extending greetings, is using what’s fast becoming the popular means of referring to what is supposed to primarily include Christmas.

This really has nothing to do with tolerance of other views or beliefs. Christmas is a Christian feast. It exists because Christians have chosen that particular day to celebrate the birth of the person upon whom we’ve establish-ed our lives. Others may not believe as we do, but then what are they really celebrating on Dec. 25, or whatever day Bob Morris chooses this year? If others want to be tolerant, they might recognize the Christian purpose of the day and refer to it as what it specifically is and not what others might like for it to be. And we might be sure to do the same. TL

Returning from an annual deer-hunting dinner with friends — the only hunting ritual I can claim — my front bumper had a sudden encounter with a doe. I didn’t hit the deer; it ran into my car.

I pulled off the road and discovered the deer plopped in the middle of my lane of traffic. It seemed alert and understandably startled — if we can really presume to understand how a deer might react to such an occurrence. For the first time in my life I called 9-1-1 and got the local sheriff’s department. I explained the situation and they assured me that a deputy was on the way.

Since the deer was a traffic hazard, I moved my car into the lane of traffic so that oncoming motorists might not be quite as likely to strike the deer. A car or two passed. The deer had settled its head. It didn’t seem able or inclined to move.

Fifteen minutes or so and several cars and trucks had passed when another in a series of cars raced past. The deer’s head shot into the air. It jumped to its feet and raced into the woods. Just like that, it was gone.

The first thing that occurred to me was the deputy arriving, finding no deer — or even any sign of a deer; I hadn’t noticed any damage to my car — and wondering if I’d made it all up. Why I would have done that might have been hard to surmise, but people often do strange, inexplicable things. Or at least that was a thought that ran through my mind.

The deputy arrived. She listened to my story and didn’t let on that she thought it was an unlikely scenario. Before long, I was back on the road heading for home.

It was a rather strange incident. It happened, I saw the deer in the road, but it left no mark on my car and no one else could verify anything of what I’d said. Did it even really happen?

That’s how people who encountered Jesus must have felt, at least a few of them anyway. They heard something or saw something that brought their lives to a halt; something that prompted them to pull off the road of life, as it were, to figure out what was going on. Jesus spoke to them, he touched them, he healed them, he forgave them, and then he moved on.

And what did they have to show for it? They might have wondered if anything at all had really happened, and yet they knew that something substantial had happened to them and, over time, others — those who knew them or encountered them — would come to that realization too. TL

I finished putting on my alb and stole for Mass and then looked around the room. "Is there someone here who wanted to ask me something? I thought I heard someone say they had a question for me." I said it good-naturedly; they knew I wasn’t trying to trap or indict anyone.

The woman who asked the question spoke up as I thought she might. She said she was concerned about things she’d read about what some bishops had said. It’s hard enough, she said, trying to figure out how to vote, but now there was also the fear of voting the wrong way and possibly being in some kind of trouble with the church and with God.

Her use of the word "fear" struck me. "You’re really frightened?" I asked. She nodded that she was. Others said that they too were frightened. I asked if they’d ever been frightened before as they prepared to vote? None of them had been. These were women in their 70s and 80s; they’d chosen between Eisenhower and Stevenson, and Bush and Gore, and they’d never been scared about how to vote.

One of them told me later that she’d simply decided not to vote because she wasn’t sure she could vote as some in the church had seemed to dictate. But now she was troubled because she’d heard a priest on TV say that it would be a sin not to vote — and to vote the right way.

What I realized is that many of these older Catholics lacked something that’s rather essential. Their primary source of information was one publication that is rather narrow and biased in what it reports. Furthermore, they were limited in terms of a community in which to discuss their concerns and fears; other people who might help them establish perspective. They did not enjoy a healthy exchange of information and ideas.

It’s one thing for candidates to manipulate emotions and instill fear as a political tool; something I think both presidential candidates attempted in the blessedly completed campaign. It’s quite another matter when the church and its leaders are perceived as using the fear of sin and damnation to all but force people to vote a certain way.

From my brief conversation before Mass, it was clear these women understood the concerns of the church and its leaders. It was clear they shared these concerns, and that there were other issues that troubled them. It was clear that they took the right to vote very seriously and that elements of their faith were influencing their decision.

In the end we agreed that we would all pray that God would help us make the right decision; that we would vote as our consciences guided us to vote; and that we would ultimately trust in the mercy of God for ourselves and our nation.

And then it was time to celebrate Mass. TL

About 12 miles later, I came to the end of the trail and turned around to begin the return ride. I discovered, to my surprise, that some rather threatening clouds had gathered in the West and followed me pretty closely on my ride. Hoping I’d be able to make it back before any rains came, I began the return trip. I also realized that I’d been wrong about the wind; I was riding directly into strong west winds.

I hadn’t ridden far when I felt the first drops of rain and then more and more drops. The rain intensified, the wind seemed to get stronger, there were a few distant flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. With nowhere else to go, I continued to ride.

The wind whipping the rain into my face made it increasingly difficult to see. As the lightning seemed to get closer I

I remembered a church in the general area, only a half a mile or so off the trail. I decided I’d try to seek refuge there. It was further down the trail than I’d thought, but I just kept peddling, watching through the driving rains for its steeple.

I left the trail headed for the church not knowing what kind of shelter, if any, that I’d find. Most churches these days are usually locked. Not only did this church offer cover from the rain under a carport overhang, but the doors were unlocked. I could escape the rain, dry off, warm up and pray.

The rain subsided and then intensified again, but skies in the west seemed to be brightening. Someone who apparently had duties to perform in the church drove up under the carport in a pickup truck. I offered an uncertain Hello, but she seemed too suspicious to respond.

Eventually the rains had passed and the sun peaked through, and I headed back to the bike trail. As I rode along, I thought of my own suspicions when people sometimes approach the Church with certain needs and requests. I can so easily think it unreasonable for them to ask something of the Church to which they do not belong or to which they offer so little.

I realized, of course, that I’d done exactly that. I’d gone to the Church seeking something I had no reason to expect and certainly did not deserve, and was grateful that its doors were open to welcome me. TL

There were already a hundred or so people crowded around the doorway of a hotel. People in front were looking very smug and in the know. People further back, especially those who were short of stature like our friend Zacchaeus, were stretching their necks, jumping up and down, trying to get at least a glimpse of whatever it was that this crowd had gathered to see.

Curious as to what this may all be about, I crossed the street and asked someone on the fringe of the mob what was going on. That person wasn’t sure, although he seemed quite content remaining there and waiting without knowing what it was he was waiting for.

Someone else nearby who had heard my question said that he thought he’d heard someone say something about Ricky Martin staying at this hotel and that he was going to be leaving soon to go out for dinner. Indeed, I had read in the paper that Ricky Martin was in New York that weekend for some TV appearances and it was plausible that he might be staying at this hotel, although I did wonder how any of these people could possibly know that Ricky Martin was going to be leaving soon for dinner.

The crowd began to grow; more and more people joined the. A little pushing and shoving occurred, a few harsh words were exchanged, but for the most part people waiting patiently for whatever it was they thought they were waiting for.

Again, reminiscent of our friend Zachaeus, some people tried to climb nearby light polls, hoping that would give them a better view. The handful of police officers who suddenly appeared, however, called them back down to earth.

I must confess that I did stick around, but I stepped back from the crowd. I was more interested in all of these people trying to see Ricky Martin than I was interested in actually seeing Ricky Martin. About 45 minutes after I’d arrived, and after the crowd had probably grown to a couple hundred people, blocking the sidewalks and practically blocking the street in front of the hotel — after about 45 minutes, someone who might have been Ricky Martin appeared at the door to the hotel, he dashed the few yards from the doorway to his car, people screamed and shouted, and the car drove away.

As the crowd disbursed, one teen-age girl came running to her father from in the midst of the crowd, she was so excited, "I saw Ricky Martin, I saw Ricky Martin," she said. And her father was excited too.

Zachaeus, I suppose, was excited in much the same way, except that there’s a big difference between Zachaeus who saw Jesus and this girl who saw Ricky Martin — and it’s not simply the fact that Ricky Martin is not Jesus.

What we notice most clearly in the story is that Zachaeus was agile enough, clever enough to see Jesus. What we might not notice, but which is really more significant is that Jesus saw him.

Jesus saw something in Zachaeus, in his determination, his eagerness, his curiosity, his faith. And that’s what made all the difference.

In the end, what’s important is not so much that we will see the Lord, but that Jesus will see us. Or at least we hope he would. And what — as he looks upon us and into us — what will he see?   TL

The tile, however, was an attractive feature in this new church with light-stained wood and other bright features.

In the center of the large vestibule leading into the worship space of the church was a baptismal font, which is common and basically essential to our understanding of baptism and eucharist. Everyone who enters the church for eucharist, first goes to the font to bless themselves as a reminder of the sacrament that came first.

I celebrated Mass in this church one morning with grade school children and as I greeted them they instinctively paraded past the font. Some of them barely dipped a finger; others swept their hands through the water. I imagined teachers spending more time than the matter warranted showing the children just how to do this. I

As I watched the last of the children slip into the church, I noticed the spots left by drops of water as the children dipped into the font and marked themselves with the sign of the cross. There was a clear pathway of droplets from the font as it guided the children to worship. After Mass, the reverse would occur; there would be a pathway of droplets as the children left Mass to see what the rest of the day would bring.

It’s rare that the signs of our baptism are quite so apparent, or at least they may not be so readily visible to us or to others. It’s also quite unlikely that true signs of baptism aren’t as easy to create. We’d hope, I think, that being baptized in Christ would result in something more substantial than a few drops of water spotting a dark tile floor, and something more enduring. It doesn’t take long for those spots to disappear.

The sacrament of confirmation that young people from our parish celebrate this weekend is an echo, it has been said, of baptism. It reaffirms the commitment, the promise, the possibility that is first experienced when water was poured, when promises were made and flickers of light were entrusted to be kept burning brightly.

There may not be lingering, visible consequences of what we celebrate in confirmation, but yet there might. We can at least hope that those of you who are confirmed will aspire to reveal something of the faith we celebrate at baptism and which we echo today. We can at least hope that the signs of your baptism will be even more visible and substantial than a few drops of water spotting a dark tile floor. TL

It was a beautiful day in the park and, in his estimation at least, a great day to hawk books. He was merely trying to give them away, but even that was proving difficult.

I remember that the book jacket was basically red with white lettering, that it was 350 pages deep, and that his toenails were painted bright purple.

"It’s a pretty good read," he said, attracting my attention. "A bit sloppy at times. It doesn’t really hold together in places," he added, thus adding credence to my initial suspicion.

The book, he continued, suffered from poor editing and a lack of courage on the part of his "publisher," a word I suspect he used rather loosely. "I think the mob got to him," he said in an almost whisper.

Maybe if I’d taken the man’s book I’d remember more about him; I’d at least remember his name. That’s how it is for most of us, of course. In the end, our stories become complicated by sloppy, poor editing; and sometimes even people who are close to us are brushed aside because the sloppy choices and complicated relationships become too demanding. We’d prefer an "easier read."

Sometimes our judgments — not God’s, we trust — put people into categories and sometimes we end up judged as well. Sometimes, for all we are and all we do, we end up in categories because of sometimes silly eccentricities, our own versions of bright purple toenails. TL

There have been several discussions — one would be exaggerating to call them arguments — in our office in recent weeks over this matter. People seem to be comfortably entrenched with what they’ve always known. New information and persuasion have no impact. If that’s what Mrs. Murphy taught me in the seventh grade, one student has reasoned, then that’s what I’m going to keep doing.

It’s not gotten to the point where advocates of one position cast aspersions against the other, or that one group of proponents avoids the other. But those holding the superior position can barely resist feeling sympathy for those who cling to a position that is wrong, misguided and unnecessary, or should that be wrong, misguided, and unnecessary?

You’ve no doubt already realized that to which I am referring. If not, you’ll find the source of the contentiousness, confusion and torment — or is it contentiousness, confusion, and torment? — right there before the "and" in that last list of words.

As Lynne Truss observes in introducing this topic in her curiously best-selling book, Eats, Shoots & Leaves: "Well, start waving and yelling, because it is the so-called Oxford comma ... and it is a lot more dangerous than its exclusive, ivory-tower moniker might suggest. There are people who embrace the Oxford comma and people who don’t, and I’ll just say this: never get between these people when drink has been taken."

The Oxford comma, again to clarify, is the comma after "confusing" in the first paragraph and the comma just before "and" in a few other lists. In Britain, most people don’t use it, but some people do. In the United States, those who claim to promote "standard usage" think, wrongly, that it should be used. Others, such as journalists, know that the Oxford comma in simple lists is unnecessary and should be omitted.

In the end, Lynn Truss offers a rather conciliatory and, I would maintain, unhelpful approach. "One shouldn’t be too rigid about the Oxford comma," she writes, thus leaving the writer (and reader) without any better sense of how to handle this pesky piece of punctuation.

She might be right in terms of the Oxford comma; maybe it is better not to be too rigid. Her approach could also be helpful in dealing with other, more substantive matters, if only to avoid heated debate. At the same time, there are clearly issues of great significance, matters of life and death even, that warrant a more inflexible stance. And yet somehow we strive to pursue that more inflexible stance with respect, moderation and good will; or — at the risk of inciting an argument — respect, moderation, and good will. TL

 She had fled Saddam Hussein’s Iraq a dozen years before, but brothers and other extended family remained.  First, during the initial months of war she had worried for their safety in the air attacks that sometimes threatened civilian areas.  Then, in the weeks that followed “peace,” she worried in a new way.

 As her neighbors in a predominantly military community celebrated what was proclaimed as victory, she heard from her brothers of increasingly hostile anti-Christian activities.  Her nieces and nephews were now forced to study Islam in school, which had not occurred before,  Her relatives feared break-ins and looting of their businesses and homes; to some degree because of general instability, but also because they were Christians and identified for attack by insurgents intent, it would appear, on dividing the Iraqi people.

Arsha was not a defender of Saddam by any means, and yet her family had been safer under the brutal grasp of a dictator than it was now.

Reports in early August of 15 people being killed in separate, coordinated attacks on one Sunday outside five churches brought Arsha’s story to mind.  Now the fear could not be limited to looting and verbal harassment.  Iraq’s Christian minority of 800,000 had been drawn into the nation’s bloody insurgency.  News reports told of checkpoints outside churches and people hiding the crosses they once had displayed publicly for fear of attack.

 But the news storied just contained numbers and names of faceless people.  Arsha knew real people with names and fear and pain that were all too real.  She knew victory wouldn’t mean the same thing for everyone and that peace wouldn’t either.  TL

She was riding in my car. We were stopped at a red light. And in the middle of the back window of the car in front of us was a stick-on decal that seemed offensive, if not obscene. Describing what I saw would only risk spreading the offense. To further the offense, in the minds of many I presume, the image depicted in the decal was meant to disparage the Green Bay Packers; the driver of the car was a Bears fan.

As we waited at the light and as, I think, we both looked at the car in front of us, I kept hoping that my mother wouldn’t ask what that was or what that image had to do with the Packers, or that she wouldn’t even comment on the grossly inappropriate nature of it. It seemed like a rather long time before the light turned green, but eventually the car and its offensive insignia disappeared down the road.

I wondered, however, why we had to look at what we’d seen; why other motorists waiting at another light behind that car would have to see what we’d seen. I wondered what might have happened if I had followed the car, maybe to a parking lot outside a grocery store, and asked the driver why he might have chosen to stick this image on his car. Did he think it was appropriate to display something like this in public? Didn’t he realize that many people would find it offensive?

I imagined him telling me it was a free country and it was his car and he could say or show anything he wanted on his car. I imagined him saying something or gesturing in a way that might only further the offense.

Of course I didn’t pursue that conversation, although I actually wish I had. At the time I was just grateful my mom hadn’t noticed it; and if she did notice, I’m glad she didn’t say anything.  TL

Of course the people could go inland, which would likely save them from physical injury and death, but we knew the narrow roads and we couldn’t really imagine thousands of people, bicycles, scooters and cars trying to go somewhere, anywhere.

The people of Haiti, confronted with Ivan’s successor Jeanne, faced an even more preposterous challenge. The roads, again as our students have witnessed, are far worse than those found in Jamaica. The homes and other structures are more make-shift and shabby. The communications systems are more rudimentary, where they exist at all. The degree of poverty remarkably more severe.

Regrettably, whatever existed a couple weeks ago is unimaginably worse, even monstrous. An Australian news service reported this past week that the death toll in Gonaives, the seaside city hit hardest by Jeanne, may exceed 2,000 with 3,000 others missing or injured. Those are nice round numbers, which only further misconstrue the reality.

As unlikely as it was for Jamaicans to flee Ivan, it was all but impossible for Haitians to escape the wrath of Jeanne. Sure, they had no where to go, but even if they did there would have been no way to get them there, there would have been no institutional system to coordinate the transport of Gonaives’ 250,000 people. I wonder how many of those people even really knew what was bearing down on them. We could see Jeanne approaching Haiti, and later the Florida coast, on CNN or we could track it day to day in the newspaper. Ninety-nine percent of Haitians would have been oblivious to such developments. Haiti’s intense de-forestation exacerbated the threat of erosion and flooding from the storm.

In the aftermath, while we can casually tally the numbers that help to define the calamity and watch occasional reports on TV, it’s the people who survived Jeanne that are left to live the tragedy that, in a sense, only intensifies with each passing day. Flooding has continue to plague Gonaives. The intense sun and heat create extraordinary discomfort in a city practically void of shelter. Relief efforts seem unable to make a dent in the shortages of water, food and medicine; people who haven’t eaten in a week are fighting over food shipments. Memories of the horror, intensified by superstitious notions that are common in Haitian society, haunt survivors.

Among the places some people have found refuge is the Catholic cathedral in Gonaives. They went there because there were few other places to go, but how fitting that they could seek shelter there. Jesus says in the gospel that those who are burdened should come to him and he will give them rest. We hope a few hundred people might find a taste of refreshment even in the midst of a city ravaged by death and fear. TL

The boy grabbed a second balling resting nearby and made a similar attempt, with a similar result. He retrieved the balls and began the process again — set, run, kick, tumble; set, run, kick, tumble, retrieve. This continued a dozen or so times; until I could no longer see the football field.

Later that day, I passed by that area again. This time the boy was there with a younger brother who took on the role of recovering the balls. The basic routine was the same as in the morning except that the boy’s foot now gave the ball a little lift. Rather than tumbling away from the tee as in the morning, the ball now popped through the air for at least a little bit. Again I walked from the area with basically the same ongoing pattern: set, run, kick, pop; set, run, kick, pop, retrieve.

Early the next afternoon, I made another pass. The boy was on his own again, setting the balls himself, retrieving the balls himself. What was most noticeable was that he was having to go farther to retrieve them. That was necessary, of course, because he was kicking the ball farther. The ball was no longer tumbling off the tee or popping through the air. Now the ball was actually being kicked with a strength and precision that sent it flying — and not just flying indiscriminately into some undefined space, but flying through the goal posts.

The tee was always set in the same place and the goal posts had been there on Saturday, the first time I noticed the boy. It hadn’t even occurred to me then what he was actually trying to accomplish. Those first tumbles and pops were so far from the mark that I hadn’t realized the ultimate goal.

He had known from the start what he was trying to accomplish and with his steady, determined pattern he got what he set out to accomplish.

St. Paul has spoken of the Christian life in terms of an athletic pursuit; something for which we train and in which we grow stronger. We may not regularly think of it in such terms, but every day is really our going through the training routine. Setting the ball, so to speak, making a running kick; hoping the ball might at least pop through the air if not slide between the goal posts. Neither our victories nor our failures may be as apparent as the boy’s results, but we continue the routine.

Later Sunday afternoon, the boy who seemed to have acquired the desired skill several hours before, was still in the same spot, still setting the ball, still running and kicking the ball through the uprights. He’d accomplished his goal, but that didn’t mean he’d stopped practicing.

I don’t know if we ever figure out how to really, honestly live as Christians. But even if we did, I think we still have to maintain the routine, we still have to keep practicing. TL

Nearly 10 years ago I heard Father John Heagle encourage one of those things, or maybe both, or maybe it was something else — I couldn’t really remember.

So, when he was here for the shared mission during Lent, I sought clarity.

John remembered the point. He had been speaking of two common groups in the Church, both quite different and both quite unhelpful to the Church’s well-being.

"Unloving critics," he said, are harsh, polemical, sometimes even mean. Their ambition seems to be tearing down the Church — its leaders, traditions, teachings. They are damaging and disruptive. Maybe they have been hurt themselves, maybe the slight is perceived, it’s possible the Church simply isn’t what they think it should be.

"Uncritical lovers," on the other hand, are unwavering in their complacent acquiescence toward the Church and its leadership. They seem incapable of critical appraisal, or they presume that questioning the Church is an act of disloyalty, and they would never want to appear disloyal.

The problem, as John identified it nearly 10 years ago and as it remains today, is that neither the unloving critics nor the uncritical lovers are helpful to the Church. We are not abetted by mean spiritedness or blind obedience.

What we need in the Church — then and now! — are critical lovers who eagerly embrace the teachings and traditions of the faith but who also bring a caring, critical eye; who struggle even in the midst of faithfulness.

What we need in the Church — then and now! — are loving critics: people who acknowledge all-too-honestly the many human foibles and violations committed by the Church and its leaders, but who, in the end, maintain a fierce commitment to the institution and a hope in what it can be.

I wouldn’t have acknowledged it then, but over the course of that fall semester I came to realize the benefit of the no-shorts policy, which also banned tank tops and flip-flops. It’s impossible to measure such things, but it was clear that our environment for worship was more reverent, possibly a tad more formal, but just a tad if at all. The policy was imposed to please some nit-picky bishops, but we who gathered each day for eucharist were the real beneficiaries.

If you’re thinking that such a topic — what is or is not appropriate attire for mass — seems rather trite for seminary rectors and future priests, well why should only parents and children have the fun of debating the point — on Sunday morning, with the car already running and the church bells beginning to peal?

Just as a teenager might claim that "God doesn’t care if I wear jeans to church," so I challenged a seminary faculty member: "You can’t tell me that I’ll pray better if I’m wearing long pants." Whether I prayed better wasn’t the point, nor necessarily his concern. The policy had been set. End of discussion.

I’m not sure what God thinks in terms of jeans, shorts or flip-flops, or shirts that barely cover what they’re meant to cover; it’s always dangerous for human beings to presume to know the mind of God. When in doubt, I’ve come to think we should probably err on the side of thinking that maybe God does care.

I’ve come to the point where I disagree with myself. It’s not that wearing long pants will help me pray better, or make me more holy or reverent, but I think that how we dress, what we wear to mass might affect the prayer of others; it creates an atmosphere for our worship as a community. It suggests something of the importance we extend to this experience. The key word in that last sentence being we. How we present ourselves for worship can, and I think does, affect how others pray, for better or worse or right or wrong, and that might be reason enough to give the matter more serious consideration.

Some of the children who march down the chapel aisle this weekend will be dressed in silky dresses and starchy shirts, in shoes that pinch and ties that choke; and how they dress I hope says something about how they — and their parents — approach the sacrament we celebrate. I’d also hope that these children and their parents — and the rest of us — might use this occasion to think about what our attire says about the reverence and respect with which we approach this sacrament and the community with whom we gather.

This occasion also prompts me to establish a new policy of my own. While on vacation I have always worn shorts to Sunday mass. No more. When I’m away in June, I will wear long pants — and they won’t be jeans — to mass and while that may not help me prayer better, it will help to distinguish that time and place from the rest of that day, and it might create a more prayerful, reverent atmosphere and attitude for me and those around me.

It was now a day or two after the Christmas season had ended — the church’s Christmas season, not the culture’s. A lone woman was in the church removing the evergreen wreaths that looked a little brown at the edges, as well as poinsettias that looked too vibrant to remove. They looked fine, but it was now Ordinary Time and the flowers no longer belonged.

As the woman worked, I prayed. I wondered if she missed the company and assistance of others who might be helping her. I imagined a whole crew of helpers prior to Christmas, when it was easy to be excited about the season; it’s just not as much fun taking stuff down. Or maybe, it also occurred to me, she might be enjoying this time alone. As the woman worked, she probably prayed too.

I’d been familiar with this parish as a visitor for about 10 years. I’d met the former pastor and been at liturgies at which he presided. I was always impressed by the community, it’s spirit, hospitality, participation at mass, the dignity and skill with which people performed their various ministries.

This was my first visit to the church since late spring of the prior year when I’d discovered the parish and its former pastor featured in a front page story in The New York Times. At the heart of the news story was a revelation that the pastor had assaulted a teen-age boy 20 years earlier and was now going to be removed as pastor. He’ll be one of the priests counted in a report on clergy abuse to be issued by the U.S. bishops on Friday.

The assault was news to me, but it wasn’t news to the people of this parish. The pastor had told them all about it several years before. He’d acknowledged in front of everyone at Sunday mass his sin, his mistake, the harm he’d caused; he asked their forgiveness.

It was the kind of thing that challenged the parish just as various events, choices and mistakes challenge the limits of a family’s patience, generosity and mercy. A few people left the parish, but the vast majority stayed and, not only that, they remained fervently committed to the parish. Among other things, a multi-million dollar school building project was well under way when the pastor announced his departure.

I wrote the letter knowing there were people on the other side. I expected that someone might challenge my position, but I couldn’t have anticipated the letter of response published in the diocesan newspaper. After a few introductory sentences addressing the issue, the author began attacking me. My mind is "easily boggled," he suggests and he wonders if I "have a deep abiding hatred" of rights guaranteed by the Constitution.

"Get real, Father Tom," he says, writing with a familiarity that contradicts reality and his harsh tone. "When you consort with snakes and weasels long enough you start to talk like them."

I saw the letter the day the paper arrived, but didn’t give it much thought. The comments were extreme and personal, certainly not respectful. In the succeeding days, however, others — the few I know who read this newspaper — expressed their dismay at the tone and at the fact that an editor decided to publish it.

The more I thought about it, the more curious I became as to what possessed this man to write such things. So last Sunday afternoon I gave him a call.

"You should work on the First Amendment, where it talks about freedom of religion and freedom of speech, and not worry about the Second," he said in response to my question about why he wrote such a letter. "You’re with the group that’s trying to change the Constitution." I told him that I didn’t want to change the law, but that he did.

More to the point, I wondered, why his response was so personal and mean-spirited. Certainly you’d agree, I proposed, that this is a controversial issue open to some debate, and that I was not the issue. "You are the issue," he said, although when pressed he couldn’t really explain how that might be so.

When I asked about the "snakes and weasels" line, he drew comparisons to Hitler and Mussolini who, he said, also denied their citizens of the right to carry concealed weapons. They were snakes and weasels, he said, and so, by extension I guess, was I. When I asked why he would say such a thing about someone, he said that it was simply "one man’s opinion." But how, I continued, could he have an opinion about someone he’d never met?

Continuing my attempt at persuasion, I said that it’s one thing to express opinion about an issue, but quite another to attack people only because their opinion differs from our own. Didn’t he agree? He wasn’t sure. Had he re-thought the harsh, personal language used in his letter? He hadn’t. Wasn’t he concerned that we couldn’t have conflicting viewpoints without attacking one another? He wasn’t.

Traffic crawled along the interstate, except for the occasional semi whose driver was somehow oblivious to the treacherous conditions. A few cars and trucks had spun or slid into ditches and medians. Drivers and passengers standing outside the vehicles at least suggested the hope that no one was injured.

The snow kept falling, the wind kept blowing, the traffic — eventually even the semis — rolled along at no faster than 30 miles per hour until we simply lurched to a stop. This wasn’t a matter of worming our way, bit by bit, down the highway. We were stopped, going nowhere. We had no idea of why we’d had to stop — other than that the car in front didn’t allow for a choice — or how long we would be stopped.

Initially, I kept my foot on the brake in the hope that whatever this was about would be resolved quickly. Fifteen minutes later, that no longer seemed likely and so I took the car out of gear. Fifteen minutes after that, I shut off the engine. An hour later, give or take, some adventuresome travelers from further back had walked forward and returned to report a 40-car pile-up.

After about an hour of waiting, not moving an inch, a car in the far right lane attempted to turn around, which required the coop-eration of cars in his path. Eventually he reversed course and, like an animal freed from a trap, headed back in the direction from which he’d come; going the wrong way along the side of the highway.

Soon, another car made the same attempt, and then another. The rest of us moved forward only because other motorists had been lured into this exodus of cars turning around and heading in the opposite direction. I looked at a map and wondered where they might go if they somehow found their way from this one-way highway to another highway. What they were doing seemed to satisfy the frustration of being stalled in traffic for two hours, but it probably wasn’t safe and not necessarily productive.

Mostly I wondered if it wouldn’t just make more sense to wait this out because eventually the accident would be cleared and traffic would start moving again. I must confess that I thought of turning around too, but knew that if I did that that’s when traffic would start moving again.

After a couple hours, that is what happened — cars and trucks began doing what they’re supposed to do on interstate highways, albeit more carefully than usual. We saw the site of the accident, the cars strewn in the ditch. And I wondered about those people who had turned back, where were they now, had their reversal been at all beneficial?

Those who know me well realize the impossibility of that notion, and yet I write this column more out of obligation than desire. Since so many other people — of various and curious backgrounds and with a fascinating range of perspective — have spoken to the matter, I feel compelled to share a few ideas as well.

First, this controversy has nothing to do with the separation of church and state. A church and its leadership can profess the precepts of its faith and offer instruction regarding that faith in matters of public policy. If a bishop in this instance could not state what he has stated, then there would indeed be reason to fear a violation of the Supreme Court’s ruling regarding government and religion.

Second, I fear this dispute has very little to do with life and bringing people to a clearer, more solid appreciation of life and the protection of life. People have only been driven further apart. Where there might have been a hope for openness in legislative and electoral discernment, the door has all but closed.

Third, I think abortion is wrong, euthanasia is wrong, the death penalty is wrong, war is wrong, and my faith has guided me to those determinations. I also understand that life brings often horrendous complications and such hard-and-fast declarations can become too difficult to hear and maybe impossible to abide by. At the same time, that does not preclude an accepted understanding — that taking life is far more than a "choice."

Fourth, the bishop’s message encouraging Catholic legislators to consider and strive to follow church teaching on matters of life has gotten lost in his ancillary statements about Communion. A large number of Catholics and non-Catholics seem to think the entire instruction is unfortunate, and many Catholics are outraged by the idea of someone being refused Communion. Regardless of whether bishops should issue edicts about who can and cannot receive Communion, legislators cannot justify their votes by simply linking them to the wishes of their constituents. Those who legislate, govern and adjudicate must be guided by more than public opinion polls or the number of phone calls they receive. When we vote, we should be guided by more than personal convenience and opinion. We expect that consciences are formed — and positions are determined — by various influences, including and especially one’s faith.

It’s our faith, hopefully, that guides us in making any number of decisions and choices. It’s our faith that may very well complicate our decisions and choices. That’s true regardless of whatever our vocation, our pursuit, our position of authority and responsibility may be. We are guided this way and we decide as we do not because of a feared punishment, but because of our desire to uphold life, to attain justice and to realize, if ever so slightly, a further fulfillment of the gospel we are destined to proclaim. TL

I’d heard of fish boils but had never been to one before. I’d heard there was often a perform-ance of sorts that accompanied the preparing and serving of the food; there’s a place in Door County that features a guy playing the accordion while you wait for the food to finish cooking and while you eat.

In this instance, however, we waited in clumps of people at picnic tables, there was no one to welcome us, it took a long time for anyone to see if we wanted something to drink. The guys doing the boiling would race through the dining area from time to time seemingly overwhelmed by the project.

It was all so minimal, so underwhelming, so less than what it easily could have been. The food was fine, but the preparation, the anticipation, the atmospherics were quite forgettable.

At least, I thought, he could have rang the bell with some enthusiasm; why not give it a few tugs, let us hear it, let the neighbors here it? Let that bell announce that something significant was about to happen, that this was going to be a meal worthy of bell-ringing.

The first Christmas was announced with considerable fanfare: angels bringing unbelievable messages to relatively trusting people, singing of God’s glory to unsuspecting shepherds. What if it hadn’t been done that way? What if the angels had only mumbled something about a baby being born and the shepherds hadn’t really heard or understood? What if the proclamation of that night had not been heard, what if other women and men who would encounter the one born that night had not listened, had not heard, had not gone along and spoken with some energy and purpose?

And how will we proclaim Christ’s birth? Will our words and living be mumbled in some "whatever" sort of way? Or will we proclaim Emmanuel with clarity and conviction, with words and living that attest to our believed reality that God is with us, that what we celebrate affects our entire being all the time — not just on this night or this day? TL

Since last spring, Carl has taken a new assignment. Actually, he’s taken three new assignments. Carl and another priest are co-pastors in a rather novel arrangement in which three large parishes share two priests. So far, in case you’re wondering, they say this shared approach to pastoring is working just fine.

One of their parishes, Saints Peter and Paul, is located in Hopkinsville, Ky. Located nearby is Fort Campbell, home of the 101^st Airborne Screaming Eagles. Fort Campbell supports the third largest population in the Army and the seventh largest in the Department of Defense. As you might imagine, the influence of Fort Campbell upon Hopkinsville is immense.

Because of its size, the fort’s personnel have been personally and sometimes painfully affected by the ongoing war in Iraq. More soldiers from Fort Campbell have been killed in Iraq than from any other military base. That fatal reality has come to permeate nearly every aspect of life in Hopkinsville, including the churches where the soldiers may have worshiped, not to mention the churches of family members, colleagues and friends.

Carl’s parish has experienced loss again and again. His co-pastor was interviewed a few weeks ago on the "Today" show about this preponderance of death and the challenge this imposes upon his ministry.

A few days later there was yet another funeral at Saints Peter and Paul for a man who died far too young in a place much too far away for a purpose deemed noble if not confusing. As is always true, there was the power of the Catholic funeral rite, its words and symbols. There was the dynamic witness of a community gathered to encourage one another in a moment of uncertain grief.

For Carl, however, the most powerful moment of the liturgy came during the communion procession. He was standing near the center of the church distributing the Body of Christ when suddenly standing before him was a parishioner he’d seen before, but whose presence in this setting was both startling and reassuring.

The woman waiting to receive communion was from Iraq; he knew that and he knew that a few other people did as well. Carl appreciated that she was there helping to tie together at least a few strings of war and peace, bringing a human face to an often obscure reality, acknowledging by her mere presence a unity of faith.

He wasn’t sure where this woman might stand on the war. He’s not sure where he stands and certainly uncertain how to speak of the war in a rather charged military environment. But giving this Iraqi woman communion at a funeral for a slain American soldier was a vague reminder of the justice and harmony suggested by the prophet Isaiah in readings proclaimed at Advent. They are words that speak of something too easily perceived as unlikely, but which in small ways are already being experienced. TL

It’s happened almost every weekend since. I sometimes wonder if I’m wearing a shirt or sign that proclaims: "Need directions? Ask me." If someone is uncertain as to where they are going, it’s easy to ask someone just walking by. And people visiting the university campus often seem unsure of where they’re going.

On one sunny afternoon this past summer, I had just picked up the bulletin at the university print shop and was walking past the Science Building toward the Newman Center. A car traveling east on Fourth Avenue pulled beside me and a man in the passenger seat asked if I could tell him how to get to Hansen Hall.

Sure, I said confidently, only then realizing that I wasn’t quite sure where Hansen Hall was located. I explained to the man and the woman who was driving the car that Hansen Hall was either along Reserve Street which, as I noted, was straight ahead, or on a street just around the block. All he had to do was turn left. If Hansen Hall wasn’t among the dorms on Reserve, then all he had to do was turn left from Reserve onto Maria Drive and then left again from Maria onto Isadore Street. And, I assured him, if it wasn’t on Reserve it would be on Isadore.

The man seemed confused and the woman who was driving seemed disinterested. "Is it up here or not?" he said, pointing to the Reserve Street intersection. I apologized again for not being sure, but repeated my instruction that all he had to do was turn left. If the hall wasn’t on Reserve it would be just around the block on Isadore.

"So, where do I turn left?" he asked. I repeated again that all he had to do was turn left at the stop sign just a few yards away. And then, I reminded him again as well, if he didn’t find his destination, he should turn left, go a block and left again; then he’d find Hansen Hall.

The man looked ahead. He glanced for reassurance from the woman who was driving. "It’s really easy," I said encouragingly. "Do you think you’ve got it?" He nodded yes. I offered again, "Turn left, and if it’s not on that street, just go around the block to your left to Isadore." The man began to roll up the window, he thanked me and the car pulled away from the curb.

The car waited its turn approaching the stop sign in the heavy summer traffic, finally getting its chance to stop at the intersection. Then, as I continued walking back to the Center, I watched as the car drove straight through the intersection. It didn’t turn left! While I wasn’t exactly sure then where to find Hansen Hall — I’ve since learned it’s off Isadore — I knew this couple wouldn’t find it where they were going.

I wonder if it’s not often like that with God. The directions for living faithfully are often so clear, they are reiterated and emphasized; and yet we simply ignore the guidance and encouragement. Instead of turning left, we go straight through the intersection. I know in my own life that it’s not a matter of God failing to lead or guide me, but rather that I choose to disregard those directions.

We celebrate the sacrament of confirmation this weekend with 27 young people from our parish who, as they grow in faith, will hopefully realize that it’s admirable to ask for directions on how to live, faithfully and courageously, and it’s even better — for all of us — if we follow those directions. TL

A woman came racing to the bus stop just as the bus drove away. It was the bus she needed to be aboard if she was going to be on time for an important presentation a half hour later. As she caught her breath and as the bus drove away, she said to anyone who would hear her, "Well, I hope that bus is in an accident."

In large cities people allow a lot of things, hurt as well as happiness, to go by as if it was not noticed. The couple dozen people who heard this woman’s comment didn’t respond, other than maybe a stern look or a rolling of the eyes.

Except, that is, for one man, probably in his 20s, wearing a uniform that identified him as working for the bus company. He was taking tickets and helping people find the right bus, but when this woman spoke, the young man stopped. He looked at her to make sure she was listening to him, and then he said in a very mannerly yet assertive fashion: "You know what you just said — about that bus getting into an accident? Well, that wasn’t nice."

They weren’t particularly eloquent words and maybe most people standing there, including the woman, didn’t hear them, but they were the perfect words for the moment.

The young man was graced with the courage to simply say what needed to be said. Such are the ways in which the gospel is proclaimed in the world. TL

On Monday the U.S. Senate approved, by a voice vote, an $87.5 billion appropriation for military operations and aid in Iraq. Depending on the news source there were either five or six senators who voted; one voted no.

The vote came the day after 19 Americans were killed in Iraq; 15 when a missile struck an Army transport helicopter.

In effect, senators were voting to continue the war, but because they didn’t want to suffer any political consequences the voice vote gave them cover. Votes for individual senators were not recorded. It was not even widely reported that only a handful of senators voted at all.

This isn’t a matter of whether the war, or continuing the war, is right or wrong; it’s a matter of senators at least having enough courage to cast a vote in what is clearly a matter of life and death.

Six senators, $87.5 billion, 19 dead and more deaths, regrettably, to come. Somehow those numbers just don’t compute. TL

I walked past the perfectly manicured flower beds, pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped from a muggy summer day into a cool, controlled environment.

Little did I know how controlled.

I paused just inside the door. Several priests — maybe as many as 15 — surrounded the altar. An orchestra of tuxedoed musicians was playing the "Holy, Holy" from the Mass of Creation. Few of the people scattered about the front third of the church were singing.

Before I could move into one of the many open pews along the back, a woman in an official-looking blazer and badge approached. "I’m sorry," she said, "this is a private mass. You will have to leave." In case I wasn’t aware of how I might do that, she pointed to the door through which I’d just walked.

I responded by pointing to one of the many empty pews and asked if I couldn’t just take a seat and pray. No, she insisted; it was a funeral mass, a "private" funeral mass. I would pray for the person who died, I suggested. No, she stated again; it was a private mass.

I asked if I could talk to her outside, and she followed. I told her that I’d been Catholic all my life and that I’d never heard of a "private" mass. "Well, there is such a thing," she said. "We couldn’t very well have just anyone coming in here now could we?"

I left the question hanging there without an answer. I knew the answer she presumed to be correct, but it wasn’t an answer I was going to acknowledge.

As a church we always struggle, we have always struggled, with rules and restrictions, guidelines and instructions. At best we’ve tried to find a healthy balance in which the rules enhance rather than inhibit the life of the church.

My nephew in seventh grade calls my mom, his grandmother, about every couple weeks or so. He doesn’t want anything in particular. One time he put his need quite plainly: "Grandma, I’m bored."

Early on two warm January mornings a couple students and I ventured into the already-bustling streets of the neighborhood in Port-au-Prince where we were staying. We didn’t know the area well, but our destination was only a couple blocks way. "Look friendly and look like you know where you’re going," we were told; important advice for walking these streets of Haiti’s capital.

A reporter asked me a couple weeks ago to write a paragraph summarizing the impact Pope John Paul II has had on my life as a priest. The request kind of took me by surprise; I hadn’t thought of my ministry in relation to the pope. The request left me wondering if I’d missed something; if there was an important element of my priesthood that I’d overlooked.

He was lying next to a building along a busy stretch of sidewalk. He wasn’t asking for anything or calling attention to himself in any way. In fact he was sleeping.

On Saturday mornings I need a few hours to get a lock on my homily for the weekend. Ideally, I spend those hours walking, and as I walk I try to think, imagine, remember and pray.

Father Dan Kozlowski died last Sunday morning at the age of 57. A priest for 31 years, he was the pastor of St. Stephen Parish in Stevens Point and St. Bartholomew Parish west of town. Fr. Tom, a friend, was asked to preach at the funeral mass on Wednesday. Here is an excerpt from that homily.

As people imagine a memorial to victims of the World Trade Center attacks of two years ago, a shrine has already developed to those who persisted in the hope of rescuing survivors and the grueling, exhausting, sickening work of finding bodies, removing debris and moving on.

Not far from the river shore, near the art gallery, there’s an expanded area of sidewalk where children once were invited to set their hands into wet concrete.

It was the kind of day on which a fountain seemed a cruel joke; too enticing for almost anyone and certainly for two boys taking a break from basketball camp.

A hot sun, no wind, late in the afternoon and a fountain shooting jets of water intermittently into the sky. Not only was the water itself compelling, but there also was the risk of racing between the streams of water. If you avoided one of the alternating jets, that suggested some skill of eye and movement. If you got splashed, you got welcomed relief from the day’s heat.

It was a win-win situation, except for a sign warning people to stay out of the fountain. The boys watched and pointed at the water. You could see them strategizing, imagining how good that water would feel. But they couldn’t see the water without seeing the sign.

After watching them awhile, the temptation became more than I could bear. "Why don’t you just jump in," I said, almost whispering, reluctant to be too bold in encouraging this delinquency. "You really think so?" one said. "Why not?"

And so they did. Both dodged the jets nicely the first couple times, but the intent all along had been to get drenched. One of them purposely got hit, and his friend copied him. Soon they’d accomplished their goal and they headed back to their room, to dry off in time for dinner.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t have urged them to do what the sign clearly prohibited, but you’ll agree that it’s hard to avoid water on a really hot day.

As Laura and Samantha stepped this Easter into our fountain they might have done it with some of the same trepidation as those boys. They wanted to get wet — that’s what baptism is about — but they weren’t sure of the consequences. None of us is sure what baptism will mean for us, even when we’ve been baptized for most of our lives. A little water at Easter helps to keep us on edge a bit, and maybe being drenched with some of those baptismal waters on a warm Easter morning might be kind of refreshing too. TL

Visiting churches has always left me feeling a bit awkward. Not because I’m uncomfortable being in churches, but rather because there’s something disconcerting about visiting a church in the same way we’d visit a museum or a zoo. A church is not meant to be a place for spectators.

A couple weeks ago, the City Council was asked to approve a resolution declaring opposition to a U.S. attack of Iraq. Similar resolutions had been adopted by several dozen city councils across the country in recent months as diplomatic and military posturing seemed to increasingly indicate the likelihood of war.

Two major protests in defense of life were held this past week. They occurred in the same space in the nation’s capital within just a few days of each other. In both instances, the number of marchers is disputed. There were thousands, but no one can say for sure how many thousands.

There is no peace in Bethlehem tonight.

Oh, there may not be gunshots or the explosion of bombs — maybe not tonight.
But there is not peace.
There are no decorations in manger square, no choirs singing "Silent Night,"
and the Christmas tree remains darkened.

Instead Christmas in Bethlehem features undefined curfews,
roadblocks and checkpoints,
armed soldiers roaming the streets,
shops and homes and schools boarded up,
posters memorializing people killed in the violence.

Christmas in Bethlehem is a time of fear, desperation, alienation, anger.
The Church of the Nativity itself remains desecrated from a military occupation.
It’s been reclaimed as a sacred site
and people will gather there this night,
but there are noticeable – unholy reminders — 
windows shattered,
stone scarred by tanks and stained by blood.

If it was true of Bethlehem on that first, dark, lonely night,
it seems just as true tonight — maybe more true —
the hopes and fears of all the years,
of people far and near —
Christian, Moslem, Jewish,
Israeli and Palestinian,
people of all faiths and nationalities and ethnic backgrounds;
the hopes and fears of all the years
are met in thee — 
are met in a frightened, fragile Bethlehem tonight.   TL

You could hear him coming from behind — it’s a sound we’ve come to recognize, the precise click of a skateboard’s wheels knocking over the cracks in a sidewalk. There were several people walking in both directions and yet he seemed to be approaching rather quickly.

I turned to see him weaving his way through the smattering of pedestrians; not at all concerned that his means of transportation might not be assimilating well with the others. A few people, apparently unsure of his skateboarding skills, chose to step off the sidewalk and walk on the grass.

As he raced along, dodging people coming and going, he carried a box, a rather large box that filled his arms; he had to look around the side of the box to see where he was going. I stopped as he got closer to get out of his way and to marvel at his skill, as annoying and dangerous as it might have been.

Passing me I almost laughed out loud as I read the warning on the two sides of the box that were visible to me. "FRAGILE!" was written in bold, red letters.

Soon he was well beyond me, the skateboard’s clatter no longer audible. He approached a rather busy intersection, one at which few cars ever stop for pedestrians; he didn’t stop either, racing right through with his fragile package. Those of us who were walking, annoyed or startled for maybe a moment, continued on our way.

There’s something of that skateboarding package carrier in each of us as we celebrate the wonder of this time, and really most of our time. We race along from moment to moment and day to day and year to year. We do the things that you’re supposed to do at Christmastime. We weave among the obligations, challenges and opportunities.

But it’s a rather fragile proposition, this idea of God becoming so humble so as to be like us. It’s a rather fragile proposition, this idea of God somehow depending upon us to be contemporary messengers of the news first attributed to angels speaking to some rather disreputable shepherds. It’s a rather fragile proposition, this idea of heaven touching earth, consecrating creation, exposing the holiness of humanity.

We know how fragile the package can be; we realize the fragility in deception, arrogance, violence, abuse, neglect; we see the painful reality of fragility even in places and institutions that we once believed to be sturdy and beyond reproach.

We know how fragile the package is, and yet that is the package we carry in these days when we tell stories and sing songs that seem almost too good to be true. The package is fragile and yet somehow God trusted us to carry it. TL

The statue of Mary rested in the same spot of the garden between the wet snows of April and the first flakes of autumn. In between it was surrounded by flowers, most notably lots of bright blue flowers. It was a statue of Mary after all.

As a child, he couldn’t ever remember their farmyard without the statue. He remembers the ritual of his mother digging it out of a deep corner in the shed where it was stored along with the plow and hay mower. On the first warm day of spring, she’d find the statue, dust it off and set it in place. On what she deemed the last day of autumn, she wrapped it in a gunny sack and put the statue back in hiding.

His mother got older and less steady on her feet. The statue got too heavy for her arthritic hands and arms. She had her son find the statue and dust it off. One fall, an early blizzard trapped the statue in frost, but on the first warm day she made sure that he returned it to its proper winter home amid the newer, larger tractors and farm implements.

The mother died one summer and after the funeral people gathered at the family’s homestead and sat around on lawn chairs; the statue of Mary listening nearby.

Its colors have faded, fingers and toes, fringes of her cloak are chipped. Now the statue is even heavy for her son to carry. The son’s wife decided long ago that she didn’t like the blue flowers that his mother had planted. But the seasonal ritual continues and this image of the Mother of God retains its place; a sign of spring’s new life, haloed by the sun in summer, the last vestige of warmth in the fall. It’s a ritual from the past, of people of the past, but the woman’s granddaughter seems committed to keeping it a ritual of the present, and potentially the future.

Lighting the candles of Advent and the best of our Catholic seasons and rituals — in our homes and our chapel — anchor us to the past, but they are not about what was; there is something hopeful and formative, something enlightening and challenging in these words and actions. Like an old statue, these seasons and rituals remind us of God’s love and faithfulness, and our attempts to mirror such faithfulness. TL

It was clear from the outset that Margaret knew who I was. That hadn’t been the case a month earlier when I’d conducted a 45-minute monologue, desperate to fill the silence and hopeful that some of my words would prompt a response. None of them had.

It was a bright, crisp Monday morning in the northwoods. My friend and I were the only two people in a bookstore in a town so small that, by rights, should not have a bookstore. Tourists, however, keep the small shop in business. Come late November, the owner tells me there will even be a fair number of hunters coming in for something to read; by Tuesday the appeal of the hunt begins to wane.

Gil was standing with a TV camera and microphone approaching shoppers as they left Target. Maybe it’s different for television reporters, but I know how reluctant people are to talk with reporters who approach them out of the blue.

(As an aside, I’ve had a fair amount of experience asking people questions such as, "So, what do you think of the Challenger exploding?" "What do you think of the United States attacking Grenada?" "What do you think of Prince Charles marrying Princess Diana?" This is the most uncreative approach to news coverage imaginable, but it’s one a former editor pursued with relish. Of course he was never out on the street approaching strangers with these inane queries.)

"What are you asking people?" I said to Gil. "Would you like to be interviewed?" he answered back. I controlled my inclination to let him know that he had failed to answer my question. "Why are you interviewing people?" I asked, trying a slightly different tact.

"There’s a new survey," Gil began with considerable enthusiasm, "showing that Americans are much more trustworthy than we’d ever imagined. So we’re asking people about who they trust and who they don’t trust."

As he explained all of this, Gil was readjusting the camera — the person before me had apparently been shorter than me — and gesturing for me to stand so the sun wouldn’t be shining in my face forcing me to squint. Gil seemed to trust that my interest in his pursuit meant that I was willing to answer his questions.

Not having the heart to leave him stranded after he’d already invested so much energy and enthusiasm, I decided to give his questions my best shot.

"Are you a trusting person?" Gil asked first. I said that I thought I was; that I wasn’t inclined to be suspicious of people right off the bat. The other questions he asked were fine — "Who do you trust most? Which occupations are most trustworthy?" — but they were difficult questions. Doctors and people in health care, I said, are pretty trustworthy. "And, I think journalists are pretty trustworthy," I added. "I don’t suppose you’ll have many people who say that, but I tend to trust most journalists." (That’s the comment that actually made it on the 10 p.m. news that night.)

I wished later that I’d mentioned teachers as well. I was so tempted to include priests in my honor roll of trust, but just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

"Who don’t you trust?" Lots of names and occupations were tumbling about in my brain, but most of those people would have trusted me not to proclaim my distrust on television. "Politicians," I finally replied rather lamely, realizing this was not a particularly creative observation. "Why politicians?" Gil persisted with his ever-ready glee. "It’s not that I think politicians are necessarily dishonest people," I explained, "but I think they’re always distorting their message so as to appeal to certain groups of people and I think that in the end people realize they can’t really trust what they say or what they promise to do."

That was enough. Gil thanked me for my time. As I walked away, I considered the complexity of trust. In not honestly answering the question about who I distrust, I had done exactly what I accused politicians of doing — crafting my message so as to avoid conflict or hurt feelings; saying, in effect, what people would trust me to say. TL

It took them awhile, but the bishops of the United States have added their voice — muted as it seems to be — to the national debate over war.

A parishioner asked me a week ago why the bishops had been silent on the matter of a U.S. war against Iraq. I’d been wondering that myself. Maybe, I suggested, the bishops were a bit gun-shy following the events of the past spring and summer. Fearing that their moral authority was now suspect, might they be avoiding the debate altogether? I had to hope that wasn’t the case.

Little did I know that as this parishioner and I discussed the bishop’s silence on war, the U.S. bishops’ leadership had already sent a letter to President Bush raising "serious questions about the moral legitimacy of any pre-emptive, unilateral use of military force to overthrow the government of Iraq."

"We respectfully urge you to step back from the brink of war and help lead the world to act together to fashion an effective response to Iraq’s threats that conforms with traditional moral limits on the use of military force," the letter concludes.

The letter was drafted by Bishop Wilton Gregory; he’s bishop of the Diocese of Belleville in southern Illinois, and is president of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops. It is common in such uncommon instances of threat, military preparedness and diplomatic urgency for the bishops to issue such a statement. They usually merit at least a mention in the mainstream press; the bishops’ words make at least a slight ripple in the pool of public discourse.

This message has practically gone unnoticed. We could speculate as to why: maybe the bishops didn’t want their argument broadcast to a larger audience, maybe there’s little interest in the bishops’ warnings in the current go-to-war climate.

Specifically, the bishops question whether there is "just cause" for an attack against Iraq, whether the United States possesses a "legitimate authority" to use force to topple the Iraqi government, and whether there is a probability of success without disproportionate consequences for the region and innocent Iraqis.

To that point, Bishop Gregory writes, "War against Iraq could have unpredictable consequences not only for Iraq but for peace and stability elsewhere in the Middle East. Would preventive or pre-emptive force succeed in thwarting serious threats or, instead, provoke the very kind of attacks that it is intended to prevent? How would another war in Iraq impact the civilian population? How many more innocent people would suffer and die, and be left without homes, without basic necessities, without work? Would the peace or would a post-Saddam Iraq continue to be plagued by civil conflict and repression, and continue to serve as a destabilizing force in the region? Would the use of military force lead to wider conflict and instability? Would war against Iraq detract from our responsibility to help build a just and stable order in Afghanistan and undermine the broader coalition against terrorism?"

The answers to these questions, and others, will affect the future of our country and the world. It’s good that the bishops have finally asked them. TL

Eddie Montanez is blind but he could skillfully navigate the streets of lower Manhattan — the area where the World Trade Center towers were located, not far from Wall Street or the boat that takes people to the Statue of Liberty.

All of that changed on a Tuesday morning a year ago. Streets were lost, sounds and smells changed, all kinds of "invisible clues" that had guided him on his way were gone. Subway lines were disrupted, buses no longer stopped where they had always stopped, people he’d encountered every day for years were no longer where they had always been.

I learned of Eddie Montanez through a roundabout way. While on vacation last month, I read a profile about a New York Times reporter, Jim Dwyer, in the Catholic journal Commonweal. Dwyer talks about working as a journalist following the terrorist attacks and the destruction of the World Trade Center. The profile writer mentions an article Dwyer had written in February for a series in the Times about "workaday objects that resonate in unusual ways in the aftermath of Sept. 11." The article was not really about Eddie Montanez, but rather the object he uses to see his way around — "his cane, a few ounces of fiberglass and aluminum shaped into a long, skinny rod."

"Long before the catastrophe," Dwyer writes, "Mr. Montanez’s cane served as an antenna that sent and received messages. Now it connected him to a drastically changed city."

In his mind Eddie Montanez had it all mapped out: places where he went everyday, places he went occasionally; he could find the Krispy Kreme shop by the squeak of its door and the Borders bookstore by the thwack of its revolving door. He knew that the Rite Aid drug store sent a different odor into the street than the Duane Reade drug store just a couple blocks away.

As Dwyer explained, Montanez has been forced to imagine new maps and identify new markers of sound and scent. Attempting that challenge has required him to slow down and take a lot more time; it’s meant tapping his cane to identify things but also to get the attention of people who long ago resumed moving as fast as ever.

Eddie Montanez’s object, his cane, may be unique to him and those who cannot see with their eyes. But the challenge of trying to adjust our vision, attempting to find our way in a world following Sept. 11th, that’s something we all share with him. It didn’t take long for those of us with perfect vision to resume our fast pace, attempting to go back to life as it had been, but Eddie Montanez realizes what the rest of us have tried to avoid: We can’t navigate as we always have; the world has changed; we must seek out new clues, visible and invisible.

As he uses his cane to keep sighted people from moving so fast, maybe the anniversary we observe this week could slow us down to concentrate on how we’re doing in seeing our way; to ponder whether we’re really seeing our way as well as we might like to think we are. TL

Three Cub Scouts were crammed into a tiny wooden booth. Their blue shirts buttoned to the neck and yellow neckerchiefs were too warm for the weather and the tight confines they occupied.

They were given the afternoon at a local grocery store to grill food and sell it to hungry people going in and out of the store, or to people such as myself who weren’t really that hungry but find it hard to pass up a grilled bratwurst.

The person in front of me ordered two hot dogs. "Would you like some soda with that?" asked the smallest of the three, the one who had taken the food order. "Wait a minute," shouted the taller boy next to him. "Soda is my job. You can’t ask if someone wants soda."

The parent hiding in the shadows of the tiny booth tried her best to restore some order. "Not while there are customers here," she whispered.

"Would you like something to drink with your hot dogs?" the taller boy repeated to the customer. "I already asked her that," the other boy said. "Maybe you should just get her her hotdogs," suggested the third.

She wanted a Coke. The first boy carefully took the hot dogs off the grill and set them in buns. You could tell he was new to the fast-food business, but he did his job with considerable care. He handed each item to the woman as a young parent might handle a newborn.

The taller boy had poured the Coke. The first boy began to reach for it so he could hand it to his customer. "I’ll give it to her," the taller boy said, jerking the cup away slightly and spilling soda over his hand and onto the counter. The third boy quickly filled another cup with Coke and handed it himself to the woman.

"Hey, that’s not your job," said the taller boy. "Not while there are customers here," whispered the parent again.

The third boy took the money. Apparently that was his job. "Thank you," he said.

I stepped forward. "Whose in charge of bratwurst?" I asked. I ordered two. "And," I asked, "would you have a plastic bag that I could put them in?" "Sure," replied the taller boy, "but that’ll cost you $50."

He laughed at his own joke and so did his partners, and no one asked me if I wanted a Coke.

We so often think of the disciples as pious and devout, always saying the right things and doing what was appropriate. In paintings or icons those twelve who followed Jesus most closely always appear so focused and reverent.

If we read the gospels closely, however, we’ll realize that they sometimes spoke out of turn. They were more insistent than decorum allowed as they sought special treatment or attempted to prevent others from getting too close to the Lord. Reading between the lines, we might hear them arguing over who was responsible for which task, and we might hear Jesus whispering from the shadows, "Not while there are customers here." TL

It’s come to be called a "crisis" in the church, a scandal. And for a long time I’ve approached this crisis as an observer, intensely interested in what was being reported, but not feeling particularly connected.

It was as if I was watching something from the outside. It was all happening to someone else. Allegations were being made against people I did not know — pastors of parishes I did not know. The allegations were of things that had happened long ago, 20 or 30 years. It was almost as if this was a crisis in another church, not my church, not our church.

That perceived distance, that facade of detachment disappeared this week — at least for me. I presume that most of you have heard or read reports regarding Archbishop Weakland of Milwaukee. Reports of a brief, inappropriate relationship, of a significant financial payoff in exchange for silence, possible investigations into the misuse of church funds.

I do not know Archbishop Weakland personally.  I have met him, I have heard him speak. When I was in the seminary, a few classmates and I occasionally would get up early on Sunday morning to drive to the Cathedral in downtown Milwaukee for the 8 a.m. mass at which he always presided and preached. He would preach from the center of the sanctuary with his Bible in his hand; speaking, as he always did, in a very gentle, matter-of-fact fashion; there was nothing flashy in his style, but he was certainly prayerful, dignified and insightful in his preaching and his manner of leading a church full of people in prayer.

There is a picture in my office of me talking with Archbishop Weakland. I’ve kept it there because of my admiration for what he has said and done during his nearly 25 years as archbishop of Milwaukee.

He has been one of the most influential voices in the church regarding how we worship and the important place of the assembly — the people — in our worship; the loss of his voice in that ongoing discussion is tragic at a time in church leaders seek to denigrate the role of the people at mass and to enhance the role of the priest.

He was the author of a pastoral letter endorsed by the all the bishops of the United States that called forth the attention of not only Catholics but all Americans to the plight of the poor, the injustice and indignity that accompany poverty. It was a controversial and somewhat revolutionary statement. It was the kind of statement that our bishops now seem reluctant to make. At the time at least, Archbishop Weakland was not frightened.

He also sparked controversy when he held a series of meetings with women who had had abortions. His intent as he insisted repeatedly was not to condone in any way the choices these women had made, but to reach out to them, to attempt to understand what this experience had done to them, how the church might help them seek reconciliation, how the church might help other women make a different choice.

I won’t remove that picture from my shelf because of what’s been revealed this week — it will still remind me of his wisdom and courage, his compassion and prayerfulness. But when I look at that picture now I’ll also be reminded of deception and disappointment. It will be a intensely painful remembrance.

Someone such as myself has no right to stand before you on the Lord’s Day only to speak of deception and pain and sadness. Somewhere we have to find Good News.

Ultimately, in whatever instance, the Good News is found — not in the church, not in its leaders, not in ourselves. The Good News, ultimately, is found in God.

We understand God in the sense of Trinity — Father, Son, Spirit — Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier; the God who gives life, the God who is our human companion, the God who inspires us to be as good as God. We attempt to understand the mystery of God in terms of a relationship.

But we do not attempt to understand the mystery of that relationship alone. We attempt to understand the mystery of God within our relationship with one another, within the relationship of a parish, within the relationship of a family, within the relationship of the church.

Within those human relationships there will always be disappointments, regrets, terribly bad choices; harm and even injury will occur.  And left to our own devices there may be no way to move beyond the disappointment and regret.

But we live in relationship and the community in which we live will guide us back to the mystery of God — and at the heart of that mystery is not what we call Trinity, something we struggle to imagine. Rather, at heart of the mystery of God are the mercy and graciousness revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai and which Jesus would attempt to reveal in his entire life. At the heart of the mystery of God is a rich kindness and fidelity.

Our faith as a community is not in one another. Our faith as a community — the faith we celebrate and struggle to live — is in our God, our merciful and gracious God.  TL  (26 May 2002)

As the news of recent weeks has been reported I’ve been torn between anger at the egregious acts themselves and the slightly less egregious cover-ups by church authorities; sadness for victims who were victimized directly and for parishioners who are victimized indirectly; concern as a witch-hunt atmosphere begins to develop; and a flicker of hope that something good might be realized from this darkness.

So much of what’s been reported isn’t new; priests and bishops resigning because of offenses committed decades ago. What’s new is bishops being called on the carpet for failing to address illegal actions of priests throughout those decades. Only one of them, as far as I know, felt his actions (or inaction) warranted resignation. Others have found it easier to blame the media for covering the story than to take responsibility for what’s being reported.

Some of what’s been reported isn’t accurate. The blending of pedophilia, homosexuality, church law, civil law, celibacy, etc., create connections that often are not valid and prompt some to propose solutions that are more personally desirable than factually warranted. This is not the result, necessarily, of the media or casual observers. The pope’s primary spokesperson, for instance, has made simply outrageous statements that further open the door to confusion and misunderstanding.

The host of a local radio show called me a couple weeks ago to see if I would talk for a half

hour about this "crisis." I agreed, reluctantly. He called back a week later to schedule the interview. As time had passed, I told him that I’d begun to have second-thoughts. I wasn’t sure what I’d say, wasn’t sure what I had to say that others hadn’t already said, wasn’t sure that many people wanted to hear more.

As we talked he did a good job of convincing me to go ahead with the interview, until he said, "There are just a lot of questions that people have." "Yes," I agreed, "that may be true, but I don’t have answers to their questions. I probably have more questions than they do."

I was still willing to do the interview, but he’s never called back to schedule it. Thirty minutes of questions without answers didn’t seem like compelling radio, I guess.

The light at the Easter Vigil did flicker, just as the light of the church is flickering in the midst of these questions and concerns. The light of that candle did dwindle away to nothingness that night, but it was revived. The light of the church will not dwindle away because we — the people of God — are far greater than these questions and concerns. The offenses, the violations, the cover-ups — none of that is to be overlooked — but the light of the church will not dwindle away to nothingness and may even shine more brightly in the end. Indeed I’m rather hopeful that it will.

Here’s a quote to ponder this Easter. The words were spoken by Father Walter Burkhardt, a Jesuit priest renowned for his social justice preaching. He said, "In the course of a half century, I have seen more Catholic corruption than you have read of. I have tasted it. I have been reasonably corrupt myself, and yet, I joy in this Church — this living, pulsing, sinning people of God, love it with a crucifying passion.

"Why? For all the Catholic hate, racism and sexism I experience here a community of love. For all the institutional idiocy, I find here a tradition of reason. For all the individual repressions, I breathe here an air of freedom. For all the fear of sexuality, I discover here the redemption of my body.

"In an age so inhuman, I touch here tears of compassion. In a world so grim and humorless, I share here rich joy and earthy laughter. In the midst of death I hear here an incomparable stress on life. For all the apparent absence of God, I sense here the real presence of Jesus the Christ."

How could the light of such a church dwindle away to nothingness? TL

They are dressed alike. Each wears a white robe with a foot-wide strip of black cloth — called a scapular — running neck to ankle on their front and back. One has a shaved head, two others more hair, one has none. Three have beards — one black, two gray. The one without hair plays a guitar.

The prayer is called Compline — night prayer. In the monastic schedule it is the final community prayer of the day. Theoretically, the monks go to bed when it’s over, even if it’s only 8 p.m. and the sun is still shining. Considering that the first prayer of the new day will begin at 3:30 a.m., bedtime is probably not far off for most.

The four stand shoulder to shoulder across the narrow width of the chapel. A dozen or so monks stand on either side, facing each other. They’ve spent the day together; in many instances these same brothers and priests have spent years and decades together, and they’ve ended each day in these places, in this way.

They sing Psalm 90 — known to most of us through "On Eagle’s Wings" — which speaks of trust in God, having no fear against the terrors of the night. Psalm 4 ends with the monks singing, "I will lie down in peace and sleep comes at once / for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety."

I marvel at the continuity even as I wonder about, what I presume to be, the monotony. In a world where so much is in flux, in turmoil, and in which there is so much variety and there are so many choices, I find hope and comfort in this daily ritual. I consider my need, our world’s intensifying need for their prayer.

Tonight when they prayer, I suspect they’ll break from the routine and add an "Alleluia!" here and there. The prayer might be slightly different, which is really true every day, even when it seems to follow the same routine. The prayer is as different as every day, even in a monastery. And in the end — Easter or not — they will lie down in peace and sleep comes at once. TL

In better, more peaceful days, throngs of believers, as well as curious onlookers, will join the monks. In more desperate days, such as recent months and certainly now, only a handful of folks follow the Via Dolorosa or Way of the Cross.

When everything seems in order, several minutes after the scheduled time, a monk with a portable microphone announces the first station, Jesus is condemned to death. Experts disagree over whether the spot near the Church of St. Anne is actually where Pilate handed down his sentence. As one writer observed, "The authentic place is not important — the following of Jesus is."

Monks of various nationalities, but in the same brown habits, tell the story and pray in several languages. When they’re finished, they sing and begin a jumbled procession to the next station. There the order is repeated.

These stations are not followed or prayed in the reverent quiet of a church or garden, but rather amid the chaos of buyers and sellers, people milling about, Moslems on their way home from Friday prayer. Some shopkeepers, fortunate enough to have a business near one of the stops, stand nearby hoping to do a little business with the passers-by. Most of the people are indifferent to the trail of pilgrims crawling through the narrow ancient paths. A few, who either don’t notice or don’t care, simply block the way of those moving from station to station and place to place.

There is a constant din of conversation, bartering, laughter, an occasional argument or warning, loud music coming from shops along the way. Sometimes the sound completely drowns out the words of the monks, despite their attempts at amplification. Yet somehow the pilgrims walking along know the unheard words being spoken. We have heard them before.

It’s all rather irreverent, by our culture’s standards anyway. It’s also, I would think, much too real. We imagine Jesus being condemned, going on his way to Calvary, falling and getting up, and we would presume in our imagining that everyone was watching and that everyone cared. We would have cared, so we think now, even if others had been oblivious to it all.

People that day had their own cares and needs with which to worry themselves. Some along the way may have noticed this desperate man and the throng accompanying him — the hateful and the loyal — but many would have found it to be quite an annoyance. Others, however, had to be intrigued. They might have followed the procession wondering who this man was and where the soldiers were taking him.

We keep the days of Lent in a world in which many may seem indifferent to our pursuits. We journey down streets packed with people, with commotion and activities that might compete with the Lenten spirit; some might even block our path. People we encounter may wonder about the ashen crosses on our foreheads, about our customs of fasting and abstaining from meat, about the extra time we commit to prayer, about the admittedly simple effort of giving alms; they might wonder and be annoyed or they might wonder and be intrigued.

We keep the days knowing that it will not be easy and not because others will affirm us or even notice us. We keep the days of Lent and we embrace the disciplines of Lent because we trust that these days will strengthen us in what those monks remember every Friday in Jerusalem — the importance of following the way of Jesus and making his way our way. TL

The first priest I’d ever known died just before Christmas. He was 95, the oldest priest in the diocese, and until just a few years ago he had celebrated mass at the church near his home where his funeral mass was celebrated.

Beyond the actual photos, the images in my mind are rather vague. I remember grand entrances for his weekly visits to our grade school classroom. Every week we would practice jumping to our feet and welcoming him. When the door opened at exactly 10 a.m., we would stand and face the door and proclaim: "Good morning, Father King."

"Good morning, children," he would say in reply. If we should by chance meet him on our way to the playground or walking on the sidewalk, we were to greet him in the same way. In retrospect, it wasn’t taught as a means of clerical deference as much as a lesson in common courtesy. During his classroom visits, he’d ask questions: Who is the second person of the Trinity? Where did St. Francis live? Where does the sound of thunder come from? They weren’t questions to determine our wisdom as much as they were starting points for him to share his own.

It was presumed that upon entering fourth grade, we would serve at mass. Sixth graders took responsibility for training us and they shared horror stories of Father’s disapproving glares — I think I may have now acquired something of that look myself — and his after-mass corrections. Reality did not compare with the fears they sought to instill. All I remember is the way he would yank the patten — the plate held under people’s chins in olden times as they received the host on the tongue — from the server’s hand after communion. When I eventually trained servers, I spent an inordinate amount of time practicing that yank.

He was a gardener and so as we played at recess we would see him in his black pants, white shirt, suspenders and straw hat tending his flowers and vegetables. Like most priests of the day, he was revered, but his hobby helped me see that he was essentially an ordinary person who got his hands dirty like all the other farm people in our town.

I always thought his name — King — was a perfect name for a priest, and he had a deep, booming voice to go with it. How could you not believe what he said? As a child, I presumed that his name alone would one day lead to his being named our bishop, if not pope. At the time, of course, I had no idea how such things transpired, and for the most part I still don’t.

He left our parish when he retired in 1974, which meant that good health allowed him a long, happy retirement. Our paths seldom crossed, but every year his Christmas card to my parents included a line wondering when I was going to enter the seminary to become a priest. It got annoying after awhile, but in the end maybe it was his annual reminders that finally prompted a more intense discernment, and while we were not close in recent years I can’t help but hope that the first priest I’d ever known has influenced the priest I am. TL

Vacationing in Michigan — yes, Michigan in January — I learned of the fire from a friend who sent the news and photos via email. It was a place where I’d enjoyed a lot of good times with that friend and others when I was in college, and since. The Camaraderie had been a restaurant (and, yes, I will admit, a bar) that was a comfortable place to be. It became associated with memories of people, mundane and momentous moments of life, victories and defeats.

Some who hadn’t been there in years, still had fond memories, an allegiance of sorts to this place. Now it was gone.

Jump ahead a few months to May. Some of the friends who’d contacted each other in the days after the fire, gathered in Eau Claire to celebrate the retirement of a respected professor. On one of the nicest days of the just-beginning summer, we walked a few blocks to the site of our old haunt.

We knew that’s where it had been, but it was hard to believe because the corner lot was so minuscule. We couldn’t quite figure out how all we remembered could have occupied and occurred within this tiny space. Our memories were vast and the location of those memories was not. Nothing we found there that afternoon helped us reconnect the memories with the place, except for the people gathered amid the debris of charred wood and bricks who had always found each other there before. Now we found each other there again.

We come to Christmas full of expectation and hope, but too often also experiencing apprehension and regret. Some of us are, regrettably, all too realistic and we presume not to find what we are looking for, nor to experience what we imagine could be.

Some of us, probably most of us, demand too much of this day and the days that precede and follow it. Singing songs of hopefulness and peace, we expect that somehow despair will give way and that the world will actually be put back as it was meant to be. Hearing of angels in the heavens, we long for angels to touch us and share at least a syllable of their good news with us. We look beyond the stars and try to imagine a day when the world might finally embrace the God who dwells with us.

We come to Christmas full of expectation and hope, no doubt more than the reality of a damp and humble manger should warrant. Yet we somehow see more in that manger, we remember where that manger takes us, and we realize we could not celebrate Christmas if we did not come to this solemnity with each other: people we’ve known forever and even a few we’ve never met and might not want to meet. Together, improbably, we find God at the manager again. TL

It’s not that I wasn’t interested. The next morning as people arrived for mass I asked several if they had gotten up for the meteor shower to end all meteor showers of our lifetimes. Several said they had attempted to see the meteors or whatever it was that we were told we would be able to see. A few students gathered in Schmeeckle, some people had driven out into the country attempting to escape the light of the city, others went into backyards or deserted streets. A couple people told me they’d looked out their window.

They’d all done much more than I had attempted to do, and yet none of them had seen what they were hoping to see. It was cloudy, stars weren’t even visible, and so after 20 or 30 minutes, most of the people I surveyed about the meteor shower had gone back inside, driven back to town, and returned to bed.

Having found no one who’d seen the meteors, I had pretty much given up asking about them by the time 6 p.m. mass rolled around. I threw the question at one more student. Had he tried to see the meteor shower? "Yes," the student replied, adding, "It was pretty neat." "What?" I asked. "You actually saw it? How?"

He explained that he’d gone outside at the appointed time, as had so many others. It was cloudy, but from time to time he noticed gaps amid the clouds. Figuring that if he could see the occasional star or two, then there might be a break long enough and large enough in which to see the meteor shower. And, sure enough, that’s what happened sometime after 4 a.m.; it didn’t last long, but long enough to see what he’d been looking for.

As Advent begins, the problem isn’t really clouds blocking the light, the challenge is seeing the light for which we’re looking in the midst of all the other lights. It’s a season in which voices from scripture call upon us to stay awake, to be alert when we’re getting drowsy and inclined to fall asleep. These are days in which our tradition of faith encourages us to keep looking even when that effort seems futile.

Advent holds out the hope that there will be a break in the clouds for an extraordinary light to be revealed, and for us to reflect. TL

"Wow, the circus! What a dream date," the other replied.

As he spoke, a woman on the far edge of middle age began unloading her groceries beside his cash register. He greeted her, "Good morning, ma’am." Then added, "Hey, would you want to go to the circus with me? Just the two of us. I’ll even pick you up."

The woman was wearing a wedding ring. My hunch is that she hadn’t been asked out on a date in quite some time. There was, understandably, a moment of hesitation, but it was slight. "When is it?" she asked. He wasn’t sure. "Well I do love the circus," she added. "Well then, let’s go. Waddya say?"

They learned that the circus was coming to town the next weekend and she had to be in Chicago with her husband the same night.

"Oh well," said the grocery checker as he began loading items into a paper bag, "Maybe we can hit a movie sometime." "Sure," she said, walking away with a bag of groceries in her arms and a smile on her face.

They never will go on that date; their encounter was all in fun. Drinking coffee and reading the newspaper nearby, I was delighted that she played along, that she didn’t reject the possibility of going to the circus. I’d like to think that if they’d gone to the circus on that "dream date" they might have both had a pretty decent time.

God too often — almost constantly — throws ideas and possibilities our way and we too easily and casually dismiss them as silly or not suited for us. In failing to recognize or embrace those opportunities, who knows how many nights at the circus we miss. TL

Martha, as many of you know, is Newman’s campus minister. She has been in Poland this semester with her husband, Eric, who is leading the UWSP study program there, and their children John and Alice.

On the day on which the Catholic Church remembers those who have died, the Yonkes made two trips to a cemetery in Krakow, where they are living. "It was an incredible cultural experience," Martha reports in an email message. "All transportation was packed; you could hardly walk on the sidewalks."

Despite heavy rains, there were thousands of people in the cemetery. "It seemed all of Krakow was there," Martha says. "The rest of the city was so quiet it was a bit unsettling."

Krakow is the home of Pope John Paul II and the region where he was serving as cardinal-archbishop when he was elected pope. Martha said Catholic images and rituals, such as the cemetery tradition, are visible everywhere.

At the cemetery, people placed flowers at the graves of family members and friends and lit candles. Visiting the cemetery again, at night, Martha says the light of the candles offered a stunning reminder of the dead as well as the hope of new life. "The candles left you with the idea of how we should remember all those who have died," she writes. "I thought the connection with life and death was so real that night."

Or, as John said, "It was so cool" — kind of like a rock concert. TL

The first frightening site was seen on a TV news report about the Israeli government demolishing the homes of Palestinians in East Jerusalem. The Israelis had arrived in the neighborhood at sunrise, roused the families from their beds, ordered them to leave and proceeded to destroy the buildings with wrecking balls and other heavy equipment. The TV news photographers captured emotional footage of weeping mothers sitting with their small children as they watched the destruction of their neighborhood.

I was reading a book at the time by a Catholic priest who as a child saw his Palestinian family and neighbors forced from their home-land to make room for Israelis a generation before. He had somehow been able to reconcile that violent assault; he did not feel the hate that so many others did. Now, I was seeing the cycle of hate continue. How could that child ever forget this experience? How would this little boy now held within the safety of his mother’s arms respond to this childhood memory when he got older? Would he even have a chance to get older?

The second frightening moment came this past week, this time in the Gaza Strip, a Palestinian region near the north end of Israel’s border with Egypt. The bombings of the Taliban forces in Afghanistan had begun and Palestinians in Gaza had been rioting in support of Osama bin Laden and opposition to the United States. Palestinian authorities had condemned the rioting and urged calm, but these men were not to be subdued.

The rioting is not defensible, to the contrary. Yet I couldn’t help but remember that little boy from another TV news report and imagined that these men now rioting might have one day been sitting at the side of their weeping mothers, watching a different but similar violation of humanity, not sure of what it meant at the time but storing away the images and emotion to respond at another time.

And what will become of the images we are creating and witnessing? TL

The word WELCOME was already in place and he was just adding the N and S completing CONGRATULATIONS when I came upon the scene. How could I not wonder who was being congratulated.

Using a long, metal rod with a magnetic attachment, the marquee man picked up letters and inserted them into the third line of the sign. Letter be letter, he’d latch onto a metal panel and put the letters in place — A - L - S — he stopped, moved the S to the right a bit, put a Y between the L and S — and then another S and A. He rearranged some of the letters so they’d be more center-ed, added A-N-D and then a T. As he reached for the next letter, the T fell to the ground. With the T reattached, he added I-M.

More letters were wiggled left and right for centered perfection. Then he stepped back to make sure it looked OK and nodded his head, apparently satisfied with his accomplishment.

I knew the couple — Alyssa and Tim — the marquee man was congratulating in the sign; I hadn’t realized their reception was being held at this hotel. It was nice that so many people — strangers and acquaintances — would share my friends’ good news. I appreciated watching the sign take form.

The marriage they were establishing, I thought as I resumed my walk, might resemble something along the lines of that sign: pieces being put in place, some with perfection and others not quite centered or in the wrong order, some even falling to the ground on occasion. More often than not, I hoped, that all the pieces of their life would fit into place, or that they’d figure out a way to make them fit, and that they’d be able to step back on occasion and appreciate what they’d created and maybe even congratulate themselves. TL

Most began to run, hoping that their speed might leave them just slightly soaked rather than really soaked. Without the umbrellas they’d left in their rooms, a few walked quickly, holding their textbooks, backpacks or jackets over their heads; one wonders what a textbook looks like after it’s been drenched. Some took refuge under awnings and in buildings, which didn’t help them get to their destinations, but helped them stay dry.

Amid the torrents of rain walked a figure apparently unconcerned by what surround-ed him; to the contrary, he seem-ed to revel in it. Wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt, he was like a walking sponge. He wasn’t even wearing a hat to at least keep the water out of his eyes. The only thing safe and dry were the books in his backpack.

While others raced by, he walked slowly through the puddles of water forming on the sidewalk. He opened his arms as we might in prayer, as if to get even wetter than he otherwise might, and he looked up to the sky as if to see where this rain was coming from. There was the hint of a smile on his face. The others were moving too quickly or were too preoccupied with staying dry to notice him or to think he was rather goofy, but in failing to notice him they also couldn’t suspect that he was on to something.

So often, it seems, our frustration or disappointment with circumstances compel us to grumble, at least, or even attempt to change what is often not within our domain to change, and sometimes these grumbles and attempts at change come without really appreciating the situation. That’s why that young man was as refreshing as the rain in which he walked. Unlike the rest of us, he was savoring what he’d been given — every last drop of it. TL

The caller was identified as "Dick from New Mexico." Dick said he was bothered by something. Yes, he was frightened by the week’s terrorist attacks, but he also was frightened by the prospect of our country’s response. There must be a response, Dick said, but he wondered if it was correct to call that response a war.

The word, he explained, didn’t seem to accurately describe what awaits us. War, as we’ve come to know it, may not always have a defined beginning, but there is usually an ending, or at least a perceived ending; there’s an outcome of some sort suggesting that war has come to an end. War, as we’ve known it, often involves certain strategies and personnel; the opposing sides and allies are identifiable.

Dick was concerned that few of those characteristics applied to this war. What happened in New York and Washington was horrendous, but he didn’t think it was a war.

The host of the radio talk show suggested that Dick was splitting hairs. Dick didn’t think so. The language we use is important, he said. The words used in speaking of what awaits us will be influential in terms of public opinion and policy. This is not a war, Dick concluded, before the host moved on to another caller.

Lots of people are talking about war; from the president on down to women and men chatting at coffee shops, reporters and commentators in the media, and speakers at prayer services. Military personnel are being keyed up to wage this war, countries have begun taking sides and some fear they may be targets of this war, and people in positions of authority have spoken boldly about winning this war.

Dick wasn’t just nitpicking. Words are important and to speak of what we seem to be embarking upon as war suggests something other than the reality of the situation. Of course this isn’t the first time we’ve used war to mean something other than war. We’ve fought the war on poverty, the war on crime the war on drugs. They were not wars in the conventional sense; the enemy was nebulous, the battlefield imprecise, the outcome ambiguous. We’ve claimed victory in some of those wars, although there is still poverty, crime and drug abuse.

Maybe war is the best word to use in this instance, but it also seems important that Dick’s point of clarification be recognized; that we can’t think of war, waging war and victory in the same way we would traditionally think of war. Even the church’s teaching on war, what we call "just war," is stretched by these circumstances and this understanding of war.

Many words have been spoken in recent days, but I think Dick from New Mexico made an important point about how we understand one of those words. TL

We are beyond the triumph of Jerusalem, the horrors of the cross, the amazement of an empty tomb. No, we are here amid the confusion of Gethsemane, knowing in some vicarious way the confusion of Jesus himself – sorrow, distress, fear, anxiety, emptiness.

Amid this confusion we do not know what to say or how to feel. Amid this confusion it is really too soon to truly know the pain of this day. It is too soon to know the depths of loss — the flesh-and-blood loss of thousands; the depths of loss for all of us who have presumed security, so many of us who have never known such a precarious moment of vulnerability. It is too soon to even feel anger or revenge.

Amid the confusion of Gethsemane, we do the only thing that makes sense for us to do — if anything we can do makes any sense tonight. Amid the confusion of Gethsemane we gather in respectful witness, as Diane Sawyer of ABC News said today. We gather in respectful witness to those thousands of people whose lives were tragically, horribly taken from them — from us; to the courageous rescue workers who sacrificed their safety to save the lives of others; to those who mourn tonight — not distantly as we do — but whose grieving is raw and intense as they confront losses that are all too real.

We gather in respectful witness to our president, members of Congress, cabinet secretaries, leaders of other nations and all who face the horrendous challenge of responding to a catastrophe that escapes our understanding. We gather in respectful witness to one another; willing by our mere presence to encourage each other in a moment in which that seems to be all we can do.

We gather in respectful witness to Christ himself, who knew the pain of fear and uncertainty; who knew the intense pain that human beings can inflict upon one another, but who, even in his darkest hour, urged his friends to remain strong, to stay alert, to resist the temptations of darkness, to somehow move beyond Gethsemane.

We gather in respectful witness, amid the confusion of Gethsemane, to pray. But even that is difficult; we wrestle to find words for our prayer — but that grasping for words is OK, the confusion is OK, because we trust that our prayer will guide us from the confusion of Gethsemane, because we trust that our prayer might give us something substantive to cling to and hope for, and because we trust that our prayer might guide us beyond emptiness and uncertainty to the day when we will be challenged to encourage peace and reconciliation when none of that will make sense.

We gather in respectful witness, amid the confusion of Gethsemane to wait and to pray. TL

But as the father moved further and further from the presumed safety of the shallow water to the unknowing dangers of the deep, the son began to scream.

The father would stop and tickle his little boy. The father would laugh and the son would giggle.

And as the boy giggled, the father would carry him a few more steps into deeper waters. The son would scream some more, the father would tickle him, he’d giggle again. The cycle continued until it was hard to discern the screams from the giggles.

Through it all, regardless, the son held tightly to his father, screaming at the fear of what he presumed was lurking in deeper waters, while clinging ever more desperately to the one who carried him there.

Eventually the screaming and giggling ended and the father returned his son to the shallow waters and he went to sit on shore. The son thought his dad was reading a book — he was holding a paperback novel in his hands — but he never really took his eyes off his son as he splashed and jumped and ducked and giggled some more.

"Watch me, Dad," he’d say from time to time, and the father would pretend to look up from the book he’d never begun to read.

Awhile later, when the father said it was time to go, the son protested. He was having too much fun to quit. "Then you stay. I’m leaving," the father said as he pretended to walk away. Without a moment’s hesitation, the son went running from the water, grabbed his dad’s hand and as they walked they both giggled some more.

We who believe instinctively cling to God in our moments of fear and despair. We might, on occasion, literally scream that God not take us in any deeper. The moment might even come in which those screams somehow give way to giggles of grace.

I have to think that in those simpler, quieter moments in our lives that God would like to know we remember. That in moments of joyfulness and gratitude that we might say, "Watch me, God!" TL

For one student, the at-home, post-mass punishment was sitting in a corner. "It happened so often," the student said, "that I began to think it was part of the ritual of the mass. Stand, sing, listen, kneel, sing, go home, stand in the corner." The punishment followed any number of offenses: talking to a sister, looking around too much, needing to go to the bathroom, failing to show proper decorum.

While they might have seen things differently at the time, none of the students now think their parents were too harsh or unjust in meting out punishment. Most thought they would follow an approach similar to the one their parents had taken.

Some traditions wax and wane in popularity, but it seems the ritual of going to the corner after mass may live on — at least in one household.

On the other hand, that student’s children may behave better than she did, and the corner might be empty more often than not. TL

After what seemed like forever, we made it from our school in the middle of La Crosse to the Interstate, and actually began our journey toward our destination — the State Capital. After we’d traveled another 10 minutes or so, I called for Scott to come and sit by me. Scott is one of the more, shall we say, precocious of the fourth graders, and I knew he’d be willing to go along with my ploy. It wasn’t anything dangerous, nor anything that would get Scott into trouble, not that that would have deterred him, mind you. I told Scott that I would give him 50 cents if he would go up to the front of the bus and ask his teacher this question, "Mrs. B., are we there yet?"

He loved the idea of doing something even remotely sinister, and he knew that if I was putting him up to it that he wouldn’t get into trouble. So, Scott did what I asked him to do. Mrs. B. gave him the look of exasperation I had expected and, when he told her the rest of the story, she gave me a look that made it obvious she was questioning the wisdom of having me along as a chaperone.

We eventually made it to Madison, the zoo, the Historical Society museum, the governor’s conference room, and back home. We made it there.

It’s a question I think we ask ourselves from time to time, maybe everyday. We wonder if we’re making any progress, if what needs to change will change, if what we appreciate and cling to will gave way to something less desirable.

That’s not unlike the Christian journey itself: We already experience an inkling of God’s kingdom, of salvation — but not yet. TL