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                         Are We There Yet?       
        Father Tom Lindner, Newman's pastor, writes a column for the parish bulletin titled Are We There Yet?   Here is a sampling of recent columns and a few from the "archives," including the first column which explains the title.

There’s going to be a pro-life march| It wasn’t exactly a war zone

Walking along on a quiet Saturday morning | Frank Zeidler was the mayor of Milwaukee

It was easy not to notice the call | If you make a statement regarding a controversial topic

As much as some of us might fear high places  | The Ideal Theater in the heart of Clare, Mich.

There was a room called “The Museum.”| I’ve been thinking for several years

The book sat prominently| It was a very important day | The man was intently studying his map

College students can be a rather easily overlooked segment

2005-06

Graduation looked different | August 29^th is September 11^th to the people of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. | The pastor was new

In many ways the Haiti I visited in 2006 | The little boy was probably about 3 | The clanking in the box

One morning not long ago I woke to news reports that a new war |The crumpled scrap of paper | The white Toyota van

I remember the night John Lennon died | We had Easter lilies blooming | The girl had probably just finished a summer cheerleading camp

Most of our student members are from the Diocese of Green Bay | Three years ago my hometown | The closest we came in Stevens Point

My friend George | St. Thomas Church was located along the gulf  | I couldn’t help but think that what we’ve witnessed this past week

I was out for pizza with some students

2004-05

Despite a sudden downpour  |  Hearing news reports of car bombs | I saw him first on Saturday morning

The voice of the news reporter | It was impossible not to see  |  It’s an issue that is so contentious 

His name escapes me | My first thought when I saw  |  I was just walking around one afternoon

It was a beautiful sunny day | As I prepared for Mass | A year ago this week I was driving

A column in last Sunday’s New York Times | I’d arrived an hour earlier | The reporter asked which matters

A disclaimer | In his inaugural address last month | As I greeted people leaving

A stranger recently came to the door of the Cathedral | There were obvious reasons Oscar Romero was named archbishop

The Pointer men’s basketball team | What I remember about her | My first encounter with Father Mark Walljasper

When I asked the fourth graders |The pope was a political figure

You could call it my lunch with Colin Powell | One of the stranger details

2003-04

Are you a "loving critic" or a "critical lover"? | Returning for my second year of seminary

Six months earlier the parish’s pastor announced he’d be leaving | In early December I wrote a letter to the editor

The weather was exactly as meteorologists had predicted. | Being away the past two weekends

Parking the car in Bayfield | Carl and I were in the seminary together. | My first weekend in Stevens Point

In large cities where most people don’t drive cars | The numbers just don’t compute.

The hearse and stretch limo were pretty clear indications | My nephew in seventh grade calls my mom

Early on two warm January mornings | A reporter asked me a couple weeks ago | He was lying next to a building

On Saturday mornings I need a few hours | Father Dan Kozlowski died last Sunday morning

As people imagine a memorial to victims of the World Trade Center attacks

2002-03

Not far from the river shore, near the art gallery,| It was the kind of day on which a fountain seemed a cruel joke

Visiting churches has always left me feeling a bit awkward. | A couple weeks ago, the City Council 

Two major protests in defense of life were held this past week. | There is no peace in Bethlehem tonight.

You could hear him coming from behind | The statue of Mary rested in the same spot of the garden

It was clear from the outset that Margaret knew who I was. | It was a bright, crisp Monday morning in the northwoods.

Gil was standing with a TV camera and microphone| Three Cub Scouts were crammed into a tiny wooden booth

Eddie Montanez is blind but he could skillfully navigate the streets

It took them awhile, but the bishops of the United States have added their voice

2001-02

It’s come to be called a "crisis" in the church | The flickering light at our Easter Vigil | The same four monks

Every Friday a group of Franciscan monks gathers | He was the first priest I’d ever known

Last January a place call The Camaraderie burned to the ground | It was billed as the greatest astronomical spectacular

They were two college students checking groceries | It’s hard to imagine that going to a cemetery

It was a frightening site | Waking recently in another city | It had started out as a beautiful morning

Almost a week had passed | We gather tonight amid the confusion of Gethsemane

The father was holding his young son | At lunch with students | On the Wednesday of the first full week of June

There’s going to be a pro-life march this weekend in Stevens Point and if there’s been a year in recent memory when such a march is warranted, this is it.

The timing of the annual march — days before or after the Jan. 22 anniversary of the 1973 Supreme Court decision legalizing abortion — suggests the overriding focus, but a truly pro-life event will be concerned with more than abortion.

A pro-life march this year, for example, would call attention to the November election and the fact that voters gave “advisory” approval to establishing a death penalty in Wisconsin. It doesn’t matter that people executed under such a penalty would have been convicted of murder or other heinous crimes. Life is life. Death is death. If we value human life, we have to be concerned as to where this newly opened door leads us.

A pro-life march this year, as another example, would be remiss if it didn’t remind participants and onlookers that, as of Wednesday, 3,063 U.S. military personnel have been killed in the Iraq war; that more than 34,452 Iraqis were killed last year; that 47,000 American lives have been affected by injury since 2003; or that 470,000 Iraqi lives have been disrupted by displacement since February. Such awareness isn’t a commentary on the war — why we went to war or what we should do now — but rather simply a recognition of lives lost and marred by the war.

A pro-life march this year could also make mention of people dying from HIV-AIDS in Africa, the genocide in Dar-fur, starvation, homelessness and assorted issues of neglect at home and around the world. In some of these instances thousands have already died; in other instances, countless lives are threatened or the quality and dignity of life is jeopardized.

Of course a pro-life march this year would also report the distressing news that 9,817 lives were claimed by abortion in Wisconsin in 2006, fewer than the previous year and the lowest annual abortion rate since the number of abortions peaked at 21,754 in 1980. Those statistics represent lives lost, lives that will not be lived. To be pro-life is to discourage any choice other than life, giving life, protecting and honoring life.

For too long the term “pro-life” has applied to only one dimension of social concern. That narrow focus is detrimental to the campaign against abortion since life is threatened and diminished in so many ways.

This linking of life issues came to broader public prominence in the writings and speeches of Cardinal Joseph Bernardin of Chicago in the early 1980s. Bernardin, who died in 1996, was chair of the U.S. bishops’ pro-life committee. He sought to broaden the definition of what it meant to be pro-life. He compared the various issues of life to a seamless garment with each of the various life issues represented by threads in the garment. To compromise on life, to suggest that the taking of life can be condoned in any instance, threatens the sanctity and protection of life in others.

While it’s been debated and disputed, it is a rational rationale. Accepting this consistent moral ethic does not suggest that one category of life is of greater value, but that all life — given by God — is to be protected. We need a pro-life march to convey that message — maybe this year more than most.  TL

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It wasn’t exactly a war zone, but it’s probably the closest I’ve come to being in one. We haven’t talked about it a lot — those of us who went to Haiti last January — but one morning we traveled into an area of Haiti’s capital with a name that is the ultimate in irony.

Cité Soleil is probably some of the poorest, most hopeless acreage in the hemisphere. You wouldn’t know that by the name; in Creole it means “city of the sun.” Indeed it is a city of sorts and it is almost always sunny, when the dirt paths and rusted sheet metal lean-tos aren’t deluged by torrents of rain and wind, but the name suggests a tourist’s playground, not the despair of Port au Prince’s most notorious slum.

We’d been debating the visit to Cité Soleil the entire week of our visit. Our group that visited in 2000 had spent an afternoon walking the paths and meeting the people of this enclave, but in recent years it had become far more dangerous, the already desperate people caught in the crossfire of feuding gangs. Indeed what we found this year was virtually a ghost town; the vast majority of people had fled, no one was quite sure exactly where, but the
hostility persisted.

“You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to go,” Father Tom Hagen had said when he first asked about us visiting Cité Soleil and saw a less than receptive expression cross my face. In fact I had told Tom in conversations before our trip that we definitely would not be going to Cité Soleil, it was far too dangerous, I couldn’t put students at such risk, that parents had trusted me not to put their children at such risk.

The students in our group wanted to go and Tom assured them — or me — that it was safe, or at least as safe as a neighborhood with feuding, armed gangs could be. And of course there was a United Nations presence that was meant to enhance the security, although others would contend the UN force only added to the instability.

So we went and were greeted by UN tanks manned by Brazilian troops who didn’t seem pleased by our presence. We no doubt added an unwanted element of uncertainty to an otherwise unremarkable day.

A tank raced up behind us as we drove along a perimeter road, we saw walls filled with bullet holes, we didn’t hear gun shots during our visit but had heard signs of conflict nearly every night from this vicinity. There were a few people trying to retain some semblance of life; I particularly remember one man building a wall, suggesting that one day life would resume.

Fr. Tom left our vehicle at one point to talk to one of the gang leaders. He returned to tell us that this man wanted to meet us. The man was concerned about when schools might re-open, when people could return. He seemed intrigued by our presence and interest. The gang leader and the priest talked privately for awhile; it was clear that this man trusted Tom.

That is why we could venture into this dangerous place, because Tom had been bold enough to approach leaders of the various factions and had gained the trust of people on both sides, or maybe several sides. Tom had realized that if there was going to be any possibility of hope, that someone — namely himself — was going to have to take the risk.

God, of course, doesn’t take risks, unless we consider all of creation a matter of divine risk. And yet Christmas is a recognition of God entering an often hostile, unseemly, desolate environment because God knew that what he’d created was capable of something grand. Jesus entered this volatile mix of humanity and ventured into dangerous places where no one would logically choose to go, he gained the trust of some and provoked the animus of others.
Being born into a manger isn’t a particularly bold stroke, and yet that moment’s impact upon history suggests that almost anything else pales by comparison. TL

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Walking along on a quiet Saturday morning there’s not much need to be alert. In a quiet neighborhood there’s little traffic. In the late days of fall, there’s no longer the hum of lawmowers and even the more annoying roar of leaf-blowers have pretty much subsided.

Walking along with no one and nothing in sight, I should have been startled when from somewhere above me came a fairly mundane greeting with a somewhat threatening tone. “Hey, mister!” the faceless, bodyless voice announced. I looked up and found a boy of around 10 or 11 in a tree. There were still enough stubborn leaves clinging to the branches that the boy could find plenty of cover, unless of course he started talking to passersby, in which case his cover would obviously be blown.

“Hey, mister!” he said again. I said something about what a great day it was for climbing a tree. “Yea,” he said, “but I really wanted to scare you.” I confessed that I hadn’t been in the least bit frightened. Hang in there (or up there), I said; you’ll have better luck with the next person.

Advent is a time for unexpected greetings to unsuspecting people from unanticipated visitors. Some of them are startled, some of them take these messages more in stride. All of them, regardless of the reaction, recognize and revel in God’s wonder.

Sometimes how God touches our lives can regrettably go unnoticed — we’re walking too fast down the sidewalk and we don’t even notice the tree, much less the boy hiding in its branches. There are occasions in which our revelation of God might indeed be somewhat unsettling, if not even frightening. Most often, our experiences of God’s grace are more agreeable, possibly comforting, maybe even encouraging.

I left the boy in his perch, waiting to drop a little grace on the next person to walk by, and reveled in the delight of the meeting. That is until I turned the corner and was confronted by the yap of a little white poodle, an encounter that prompted neither fright nor delight.  TL

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Frank Zeidler was the mayor of Milwaukee from 1948 to 1960. He didn’t smoke or drink. He didn’t own or drive a car; he traveled where he needed to go by bus. During six decades in the public spotlight, nothing in Zeidler’s life or conduct — other than a few political positions — was ever called into question; as one commentator observed: “He always seemed to do the right thing.”

He died this past July in the same city where he was born in 1912 and in which he’d lived all his life.

When family and friends gathered for Zeidler’s funeral, the church was packed, as one might expect for a popular mayor and Milwaukee institution. But there was something ironic about the overflow crowd, which a newspaper reporter noted in the beginning of his story: “As members of Redeemer Lutheran Church, Frank and Agnes Zeidler made it a point to go to every funeral for parishioners, even if they sometimes were the only ones there. A simple gesture and the right thing to do.”

The story didn’t delineate the motivation of the Zeidlers in going to all those funerals. It probably wasn’t much more substantial than realizing that it was something good for them to do — the right thing, as it were. They were members of this church and when another member of the church died, whether they knew that person or not, going to the funeral was what they needed to do.

I thought it was an interesting detail for the reporter to observe. Clearly it said something substantial about the priorities of this man who some recognized as a great leader of a great, or once great, city. I smiled at the notion of this couple standing alone in their church, offering a generous witness to the celebration of life — earthly and eternal.

It’s a generous witness that I’ve tried to encourage within our parish. When someone in the parish dies, there’s an expectation that we’ll all do the right thing. The church’s official guidelines on funerals actually speak to the important responsibility of parishioners gathering for the funeral Mass; to show support to family members and to profess the essential belief of resurrection.

A parishioner who also recognizes the rightness of going to funerals called my attention to a radio commentary addressing this priority. In “Always Go to the Funeral,” Deirdre Sullivan explains a lesson her father taught her when she was 16 and which she still believes to be true.

Sullivan says, “Always go to the funeral means that I have to do the right thing when I really, really don’t feel like it. I have to remind myself of it when I could make some small gesture, but I don’t really have to and I definitely don’t want to. I’m talking about those things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. ... In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It’s hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.”

What Sullivan believes seems to be what Frank Zeidler believed. And it’s also the right thing.  TL

Click on the "This I Believe" logo to hear Deirdre Sullivan's 2003 essay featured as part of this National Public Radio series.

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It was easy not to notice the call for a parishioner to trim the grass encroaching upon the sidewalks at the Center. It was buried in the bulletin over several Sundays.

It was easy not to notice or maybe ignore, but, thankfully, one person did notice and did call to offer his time and lawn edger.

He arrived on a warm Friday afternoon with the edger, yards and yards of extension cord, and his son. There wasn’t really enough work for two people and his son might not have been old enough to do very much, but I imagine he’d been eager to join Dad on this outing.

As the father set to work reclaiming sidewalk from weeds and grass, the son found a shady spot and set to reading his chapter book. From time to time, he helped his dad move an extension cord around a bush, or pick up clumps of debris, but for the most part he stuck to the book.

The job took about an hour and then he put the book aside and helped his dad roll up the cords, sweep and haul away the grass and dirt, and head for home, maybe to finish his book there.

While I was grateful the father had volunteered to do this project, I also was glad that he’d brought his son. Clearly he could have done the job by himself with very little extra time or effort, but it was important that he shared the experience with his son. Not only did the boy get a chance to do a little work himself, but more importantly he witnessed his father doing something necessary and worthwhile for his parish.

The son may not clearly realize what a parish is or how it works and how it depends upon the time, effort and support of its members, but someday he will and his understanding will be more concrete because of that afternoon he spent with his dad edging the lawn.

What we do for our community is not limited to this time and place. What that father gave to our parish that afternoon involves more than making our lawn and sidewalks look better. He planted an image and an idea, or at least I hope he did, and that’s something we might all do well to consider as we make our commitments to Newman and as we’re invited to share some of our time, effort and resources with our community.  TL

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If you make a statement regarding a controversial topic you shouldn’t be surprised when it prompts response. Indeed you might hope for some kind of reaction since it offers confirmation that at least a few people noticed.

Thus a letter in last week’s mail was not unexpected. It was basically a response to a letter I’d written to the newspaper regarding the death penalty referendum that we’ll be voting on Nov. 7. I argued against the measure.

The letter writer indicated support for that position, but he wondered why I hadn’t addressed the other referendum question on the ballot. That proposal considers amending the state Constitution to establish the parameters of marriage as between a man and woman, but it also includes somewhat uncertain language restricting “a legal status identical or substantially similar to that of marriage for unmarried individuals.”

He presumed to answer his question: I was merely writing, he suggested, to affirm the likings of my parish. If only it were that simple. Of course I know there are some in our parish who will vote for a death penalty. I know there are some who would clearly support the marriage amendment and others who would advocate legalizing unions of gay couples.

As I explained in a responding letter, I wrote regarding the death penalty because it is more clearly a matter of black and white; life and death. The consequences seem far more dire and specific.

What frustrated me was the suggestion that a letter was needed to convey my support of and commitment to the sacrament of marriage. I explained to the letter writer that I show public support for marriage all the time as I meet with couples preparing for marriage and celebrate weddings.

I explained that in wedding homilies I often speak of how this man and woman are counter-cultural in that they are willing to make public promises of sacrifice in a rather non-committal time, in which people rarely take on commitments and responsibilities that are not clearly defined, that don’t bring some obvious reward, and that aren’t too demanding. Women and men who make lifelong promises to one another, who commit themselves to fulfilling those promises, and who do everything in their power to honor those commitments are going against a pretty powerful current.

“Christ is on the front lines in the battle to save the SACRAMENT of marriage,” so stated the letter I received. “The bullets are flying. He’s calling out from his foxhole for reinforcements. Will you come to his defense, or will we turn a blind eye and party on with the in-crowd?”

To which I replied: Yes, Christ is on the front lines to proclaim a gospel of faithfulness and love, and Christ is realized in the women and men who embrace the sacrament of marriage with all of its wonder and challenge, joy and sacrifice, and I am privileged to assist these couples in proclaiming this good news.
That may not help you determine how to vote, but you probably didn’t come to Mass looking for that anyway. TL

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As much as some of us might fear high places, there also seems in almost all of us a fascination with what we find at such heights. Growing up on a dairy farm, one of my least favorite chores was climbing the silo. I almost never did it from the outside; it was too high and too unprotected. I could handle the climb from the inside — enclosed and seemingly secure; but not the outside — I could see too much around me, and below.

And yet when I come upon an observation deck of various sorts, I’m drawn to climb them, or get to the top by whatever means is available. The observa-tion deck of the Empire State Building is always an intriguing place; it gives a peculiar sense of removal and safety from the very environment it lets you peek into.

This summer a friend and I were climbing a hundred or so steps to get what we expected would be a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. The woman in front of us was climbing each step very deliberately. When we got about halfway up, she hesitated and suggested it was time to turn back. Her companion convinced her to keep going. “It’s only stairs,” he said. “You do stairs all the time.” To which she replied, “OK, but I’m not looking down. I’m going to look straight ahead.”

The woman made it to the top, and presumably made it back down as well. Her strategy of not looking down worked. Of course when it came time to descend, she had to look down, at least occasionally. When she made it back to earth, looking back at where she’d been might have even instilled a bit of satisfaction, or maybe just more fear.

What we find when we look back can often be soothing, or it can be all too unsettling. We can easily become disconnected from reality by frequently nostalgic notions of how it used to be. Or we’re pained by unfortunate, and possibly even tragic, decisions and options.

As much as we might want to stay focused on what is ahead — and regardless of Jesus’ admo-nition to keep our focus on the path ahead of us — looking back from time to time gives us perspective on where we’re going.

Whether we’re students in the midst of a difficult semester or juggling a complicated friendship, or a parent trying to maintain sanity in the midst of so many expectations, or a president confronted with a seemingly hopeless war — just looking straight ahead doesn’t really provide the security we hope it might, and probably won’t really get us to where we want to be.  TL

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The Ideal Theater in the heart of Clare, Mich., is, in some ways, an anachron-ism. The marquee, the 50-cent-a-bag popcorn, the $3 ticket, the tiny restrooms, the outdoor ticket window, the lighted clock advertising a local furniture store, and the single screen are something unfamiliar to most contemporary moviegoers.

Much of the Ideal experience has remained unchanged for a couple generations, which is quaint and somewhat comforting, but there’s a trend that seems to be less than ideal.

I see a movie at the Ideal every August when my friend Chris and I spend a week at a cottage on Trout Lake. We go into Claire one night for dinner and a movie. It’s not a matter of choosing a movie, since there is just the one screen. We resign ourselves to seeing whatever is showing, which at least half the time means we’ll see a movie we would have never chosen to see otherwise.

That was true this past summer. The specific movie isn’t of great consequence; it got decent reviews, it featured a likable and amusing star, and the movie had a few so-so funny moments. On the other hand, the movie was built upon a weak premise and was far too long.

It’s not the movie that was as troubling as the age of some of the people attending the movie. A PG-13 rating basically means that parents should be cautious in allowing — or bringing — children younger than 13 to see movies because of adult themes, nudity, violence and language.

Nearly all those elements were part of the movie we — along with several dozen children — saw this summer at the Ideal. Children were brought to the movie by their parents and then followed their parents’ lead in laughing at consistently raunchy, crude and explicit language as well as scenarios that they probably didn’t even understand.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve experienced this at the Ideal. I suppose someone could argue that I shouldn’t be seeing such movies, and maybe there’d be some validity to such a claim. Further-more, seeing a movie intended for adults with too many children present isn’t all that enjoyable. That, however, has nothing to do with children being exposed to content that should leave parents embarrassed rather than amused.

It’s not as if movies appear out of nowhere, without any indication as to what they’re about and what they contain. Newspaper reviews often include warnings specifically for parents, and there’s always the general movie rating.

A family night at the movie theater is a wonderful tradition, but only if parents are more discriminating in screening and deciding whether the movie is worthy of them and their children.  TL

The U.S. bishops’ Office for Film and Broadcasting offers helpful information, reviews and ratings to parents and all film and television consumers.

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In the seminary I attended there was a room called “The Museum.” People wandering in might have thought it was a rather haphazardly maintained storage room, albeit with a strange assortment of papal portraits, display cases with chalices and various liturgical wares, and shelves of seemingly ancient churchy books.

Hiding in one of the museum’s corners was a massive chair — a throne really — that was used only once: on Oct. 5, 1979, at a massive outdoor Mass in Chicago’s Grant Park. The chair accommodated the vibrant new pope of the era, Pope John Paul II. The wooden chair with gold trim was too large for a church and since it was used by the pope there was almost certainly no thought given to dismantling it. Instead, someone decided to house it at Chicago’s archdiocesan seminary and it eventually found its less-than-honored place in the museum.

I’ve seen the chair twice — at the papal Mass and in the museum. I’ve sat in it once — one day when I was showing friends the museum; we took turns sitting upon the chair’s gold-velvet-covered cushion. I suspect were not the first since the pope to sit in that chair.

I thought of the dusty chair and the disjointed museum when I considered going to an exhibit of Vatican art and artifacts in Milwaukee last spring. Thousands of people visited the museum, including a few Newman parishioners. Nearly everyone I’ve heard from spoke with awe, if not amazement, as to what they’d seen. I toyed with the idea of going, but before that happened the exhibit had left the state.

Certainly there’s something remarkable about the craftsmanship, the artistic wonder, the historic significance of the items that had been displayed. Yet there’s also the propensity to presume something grand about the Church because of its grand possessions.

Most of us don’t notice the Feast of St. Lawrence celebrated each Aug. 10, which I remember because it is also my birthday. It’s a good day to tell the story of this deacon of the church in Rome who was charged with taking care of the city’s poorest citizens. Challenged by a Roman official to turn over the church’s wealth — presumably wealth such as that on display in Milwaukee — Lawrence gathered into a room the poor, the infirmed, orphans and basically anyone the society had cast aside. He invited the official inside and announced, “These are the treasures of the church.”

That cute move didn’t go over well with the Roman official who ordered that Lawrence be roasted to death over an open fire.

Lawrence recognized early on what must always take priority in the Church — its people, not its possessions. And maybe there’s something reassuring about a haphazardly maintained seminary museum; maybe it suggests that people and resources were being spent on more crucial matters, maybe even the needs of the poor. TL

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I’ve been thinking for several years that I should write a letter to my hometown’s weekly newspaper thanking the teachers I had in junior high and high school.

I thought of writing the letter when Mrs. Hug died; she was, I would contend, one of the best typing teachers ever! And it’s one of the most valuable skills I’ve ever learned.

I thought of writing the letter when Mr. Bedwanic retired; he fed the spark of interest in history and current events that Mr. Witmer and Mr. Basombrio would foster later.

I thought of writing the letter when Mr. Mrotek, the band director retired; I wasn’t that great a musician, but that wasn’t really the point of the program — he and Miss Squire, who taught a humanities class, planted a love for diverse forms of music that offers an invaluable enhancement to my life.

I thought of writing the letter when Mr. Theisen died; he was unable to teach me geometry, but realized I might have some redeeming qualities despite my failures in math.

I thought of writing the letter when Mr. Hoffman and Mrs. Basombrio retired and Mrs. Butterbrodt died; they were listed as English teachers but their influence, especially the latter’s, spread far beyond literature and composition to forensics, journalism and plays; they encouraged skills and appreciation.

I thought of writing that letter and never did. And now my kindergarten teacher has retired — yes, you’ve read that correctly — and I’m thinking again of writing that letter.

Mrs. Pigott has retired after 40 years of doing what kindergarten teachers do, or did. I say “did” since I can’t imagine she was still doing her job at the end of her career as she had back in my day when she was pioneering our school district’s venture into kindergarten; mine was only her second class.

I thought of writing the letter because I fear that too often these teachers and so many others were too easily taken for granted or remembered for some inconsequential slip or slight, instead of the total body of their contribution and career. I thought of writing the letter not because their instruction contributed to me becoming some great, model citizen — far from it — but because much of what I’ve come to know and value is concretely attributable, at least in some measure — to them and their colleagues. I thought of writing the letter not because high school and junior high were extraordinarily wonderful years in my life, but because their influence was rather extraordinary.

I thought of writing the letter because I wondered if enough of us had ever thanked them for what they’d done, or what they’d guided us to do.

I’ve thought of writing the letter for several years, and now that Mrs. Pigott finally might have time to read my letter, maybe now it’s time to actually do it. TL

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The book sat prominently among a selection of books I’d never read. When I bought it 17 years ago it was a cutting-edge analysis of the Middle East by one of the country’s premier journalists. Certainly, I probably reasoned at the time, this was something I should read about and know about.

I’ve moved a few times since I bought the book and it has been moved and re-shelved with each of the moves. I had never so much as opened the cover until one night in early August. I was watching CNN reporters live in Lebanon and Israel and right below my TV I saw the book: From Beirut to Jerusalem by Tom Friedman. I turned off the TV and finally opened the book.

Even if I had read it when it was first written and published, I would have needed to read it again. The rather expansive background is still essential to even a beginner’s level of comprehension. Regrettably, Friedman’s penetrating take on things in 1989 would most likely be his frustrated take on things in the summer and fall of 2006, as well.

The book is built around the frame of Friedman’s experience as a reporter in the two capitals through much of the 1980s. He covered massacres, invasions, what would be the first machinations of suicide bombers, and too many false hopes for peace. What he covered then is simply too distressingly similar to what his colleagues in Beirut and Jerusalem, not to mention Baghdad and Kabul are covering today.

Of course some of the details are different — why Israel invaded Lebanon in 1982 is different than why Israel invaded Lebanon this year — but too many of the details and consequences are familiar. Friedman concludes that Israel invaded Lebanon in 1982 with only vague understandings of Lebanese society, not only among the general populace, but even among military and government officials. There were assurances that the campaign would be quick and easy. There was overwhelming public support that quickly morphed into general opposition. Israeli leadership continued to proclaim success and assured Israelis that victory would be their’s for far too long; it was as if, Friedman observes, they thought that saying something was fact would indeed make it fact. In the end, a stalemate prompted Israel’s eventual exit and the arrival of an international peace-keeping force, including U.S. marines who would endure deadly consequences.

“Indeed, instead of entering Lebanon with a real knowledge and understanding of the society and its actors, Israel simply burst in with tanks, artillery, and planes in one hand and a fistful of myths in the other,” Friedman writes. In the end, he concludes, the myths would undermine Israel’s military might.
Also fascinating and distressing to Friedman is the U.S. media’s obsession with Israel. He wonders why so much attention is focused on a country the size of Delaware which should be a relatively minor character in the world drama. Much of that has to do with lingering guilt regarding the Holocaust and the complexities of European and American involvement in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, but Friedman also sees something spiritual in the focus upon Israel. Israel exists on holy land and what happens there occurs in a rather mystical environment. There’s something, he suggests, that grabs the attention of even the most secular Christian or Jew.

But that obsession with Israel, as was evident even this past summer, comes at the expense of attention toward other matters. During the days when U.S. news organizations were focused so intensely upon Israel’s invasion of Lebanon, the war in Iraq was largely ignored. It seems rather obvious which story should have garnered more U.S. attention.

In the end, when I finally took this book off my shelf, I wish I’d found the information far more nostalgic than current. Something, essentially, to throw away, not to study as a lingering reality. I also wished, as I read, that maybe eventually the mistakes cited in old books wouldn’t be the mistakes reported in new ones. TL

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It was a very important day for this community of Benedictine monks. The worldwide leader of Benedictine women and men was present for a gathering of a couple hundred of those women and men. And, it was one of the most important days on the church’s calendar — the feast of St. Thomas the Apostle. Granted, that day is more key for some of us than for others.

The Abbot Primate — the curious title given the primary Benedictine abbot — was the presider for that afternoon’s Mass. After the liturgy began, the community’s abbot welcomed their special guest; he spoke of how honored they were and what a special day this was for their abbey.

Mass proceeded as usual: penitential rite, gloria, opening prayer, first reading, and then came the responsorial psalm.

One of the monks approached the ambo. He didn’t quite hit the first note right off the bat, but he found it eventually and made his way through the refrain. As he guided us through the psalm, there were other notes that weren’t exactly sung with precision and his voice wasn’t particularly strong or appealing, to be honest.

But we prayed the psalm. He did his part the best he could, as did we who responded. It wasn’t as perfect as one might have expected with such a prominent guest on hand, and yet there was something perfect in this minister’s authenticity and humility.

The guest was so special that he got to experience this community of monks for what it is, not unlike our own family or parish community — a group of people of varying talents who, in our finest moments, can offer nothing more than to give our best shot to the task at hand. Sometimes we hit the note and sometimes we don’t, and maybe there’s a perfection realized simply in the attempt. TL

The man was intently studying his map as he walked along the trail. He’d stop occasionally to look off in various directions, attempting to compare something of what he saw in the distance with the map in his hands.

It didn’t seem that the two were complementing each other since he kept looking at the map. But he also kept walking, suggesting that maybe he was going in the right direction after all, or at least he hoped he was.

I had noticed him as I walked toward him. He had walked by with his nose in the map. I wasn’t even sure he had noticed me. A few moments after our paths had crossed, he called back: “Excuse me. Could you tell me where we are?”

Now, how is that for a question, although I of course knew what he meant. The problem in this instance was that I knew where we were, but I didn’t know where he wanted to be. His destination wasn’t a place with which I was familiar and it wasn’t clearly marked on his map. The man resumed walking in his chosen direction; something about that apparently felt right to him. I walked in the direction I’d been going. And as I watched him for awhile I couldn’t help but notice that he kept looking at his map as if by some miracle it was suddenly going to show him the way.

I learned later that the man was going in the right direction and I suspect he found the place he was looking for. What occurred to me as odd was that he was the guy with the map and yet he was asking me for directions, and that he kept looking at the map even when we’d concluded it wasn’t really going to help him.

We all do things like that, I think. Seeking security and direction from sources that simply aren’t going to make it happen. Or maybe walking right past those people or situations that might bring us some clarity.

I’d like to think that every Sunday could be a time for clarity; a sharpening of direction and focus. I know that’s too unrealistic to even be idealistic. And yet I’m confident that its outcome is far more promising than what comes from wandering aimlessly, our heads buried in what might be and, from time to time, I’m equally confident we’ll get a more clear understanding of the path to take, or maybe we’ll simply stumble into the truth by the grace of God.  TL

College students can be a rather easily overlooked segment of the church population.

That may seem hard for us to imagine — they’re sitting with us at Mass every Sunday, or maybe you are one — but if not for Newman what would the Catholic Church offer the students who are the priority of our parish?

Indeed, what has largely gone unnoticed has been a slashing of diocesan resources for campus ministry, which would be a primary means of funding outreach to college students across the country. The Archdiocese of Los Angeles, a few years ago, essentially cut all of its funding for campus ministry. The Archdiocese of Milwaukee has made significant cuts as well. Those dioceses are not alone.

Little is said about such cuts since the college students who are the beneficiaries are not in a position to mobilize a concerted response; they don’t really have anyone to defend their case; and while such cuts might seem unfortunate, for most Catholics it’s largely a non-issue.

As an internet blogger recently observed: “This is an unwritten scandal of the current state of the church in this country.” He continued: “Now more than ever ... the mission of the Newman Center (or Parish) must remain to firstly and foremostly engage and encourage a school’s Catholic community in the value and vocation of the life of faith.”

Rather than cutting campus ministry programs, the author contends, such efforts should be expanded.

The parish-based nature of campus ministry in the Diocese of La Crosse has protected these programs from the cuts suffered elsewhere. Those who sustain campus ministry — the members of Newman parishes — see first hand the need and benefit of such outreach. Our diocese also has maintained its financial support of Newman ministry at UW-Stout in Menonomie via the Diocesan Annual Appeal.

That’s not to say we can take any of this for granted. The concept of Newman parishes — campus ministry rooted in and sustained by a parish community — is still viewed with suspicion — if not outright opposition — by some in our community and in the larger church Much of that is due to misunderstanding of our mission and a failure to recognize how important our ministry is to the future of the church.

In addition to doing what we do as a parish, maybe we also need to take advantage of opportunities to help others understand why what we do is so important for the students who are part of our community today and who will be part of faith communities near and far in the future. The blogger noted that Newman ministry is one of the church’s best kept secrets, and maybe it’s time to let everyone in on the secret.

And one final word from the blogger: “Newman folk, God love you for the work you do. Eternal thanks from a grateful product of it.” TL