My friend is always there when I need him

Let me tell you about my oldest and dearest friend. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t around.

That childhood day in the swing on the front porch was quite a time. I sat there holding my old cat, Rhubarb, feelings so sorry for myself. “Rubie,” I said, “you’re my only friend in the world.” It was truly a feast of childhood self pity. I didn’t recognize it as such, of course. I was steeped in my bittersweet emotions with abandon. Who should come along, though, but my old friend. It wasn’t long before dumb Rhubarb had lazed off under the foot-a-nights and I was swinging high with my friend singing made up songs.

We used to run for high pop flies together in a neighbor’s field. It’s funny. I wouldn’t be aware that he was running with me. I was a terrible baseball player, but my friend never let on like he minded. I tried out for Little League. That pitcher threw the ball so fast I didn’t even see it. My fellow Little League aspirants were impatient for their turn to try out at bat. They kept taunting me with “What do you want, pal?” All I wanted was a ball I could hit. I was a washout, but my friend made me feel better about it.

I went to St. Thomas Seminary in Louisville what I was 14 years old and I was really glad that my friend went with me. When I hit those terrazzo floors and sniffed those unfamiliar smells at St. Thomas, I was one frightened and homesick boy. I can’t tell you how intensely my friend and I talked that first night when we were supposed to be quiet.

My friend and I rode home together for Christmas that year – Glory be to God! Home! I recall that “Telstar” was playing on the car radio and my friend and I “dum dah dummed” to that instrumental song with happy gusto. What a joyful and sweet day that was.

When I left the seminary in February of my second year in high school, I couldn’t believe it, but my friend came with me. That was particularly comforting because my parents weren’t too happy about me leaving.

When my mother died, I honestly could not have taken the pain without my friend there with me.

There were some years after that when I lost much interest in my friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with me. I guess I just didn’t want to be with him. He didn’t like beer bashes and I did. It’s hard to explain. I got all full of bitterness inside. My friend would get in touch with me, want to know if I wanted to talk. For some reason or other, I got mad at him. He just took it. I’ve never heard him say an unkind word to me.

I kept it up, kept it up. Here was a friend who had never hurt me, had been with me through thick and thin, called on me what I wouldn’t call on him; but I started blaming him for everything I found unpleasant in my life.

Somehow or other, we got back together. I’m reasonably confident it was his doing. I told him I was sorry for being such a jerk. He just shrugged and said forget it. He gave it to me straight, tough. He was as honest and true as you can get.

He said we weren’t kids anymore, and the time had come for me to decide if I wanted to be his friend or not. He’d always been my friend, he said, and he certainly wanted to go on being so. What was I going to do, though? Was I going to keep asking him to go places and do things I knew very well he didn’t like? Was I going to go on blaming him for every rough place in the road I came across? Was he going to be the only one to be the friend in this friendship?

He had a good point.

I know that there’s not another one like him. He’s bailed me out of more scrapes. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I forget about him, don’t call him. I can’t remember one time when he wasn’t there for me.

My friend told me one time that there wasn’t a single living, breathing human being in this world he didn’t love deeply. I said wait a minute, you know everybody I know, and even though you’ve been down the line with me, we’re acquainted with some pretty low types. He said, o yeah, who?

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on October 12th, 1986

The Rosary

October is the month of the Rosary. My mind runs in a hundred directions about the Rosary in my life. How about you? Have you ever thought back to some of the Rosaries you’ve said?

My namesake is Blessed Alan de la Roche (d Sept. 8, 1475), a successor to St. Dominic in encouraging devotion to the prayer. But that certainly doesn’t make me a Blessed or a saint, particularly when it comes to the Rosary. The Rosary is a devotion to our Lord through the intercession of our Blessed Mother which has fallen on hard times. Used to be, everywhere you turned there was a queue of Catholics praying the Rosary. Today – how does it go – we’ve got one around the house somewhere. Now where did we put it?

Our tradition tells us with alarming simplicity that the Rosary has great power, power enough to effect world peace. We don’t have world peace, but of course we don’t say the Rosary either.

It’s not a little intriguing that one place where the Rosary still has widespread popularity is at wakes.

What a mysterious, inexplicable attraction this prayer holds! I’ve rushed through it empty-headed, persevered through it thoughtfully, begged it, pleaded it, wondered at it.

I’ve turned to it in desperation, interceded for others with it, cried through it.

I’ve been moved to imponderable peace during it, fought my way through it, been flooded with doubt about it. I’ve had deep confidence in its efficacy and let it go unsaid for long periods of time.

Real blessings have come my way in the wake of it. I’ve experienced profound temptations in the midst of it.

I’ve prayed Rosaries in airplanes, cars, hotel rooms, woods, living rooms, bedrooms and bathrooms. I’ve prayed it on my fingers, in my mind, out loud in groups and out loud alone.

So much can be said about this prayer. Indeed there are books. Our own second bishop, John Cardinal Carberry, has a volume called “The Book of the Rosary” (1983, OSV). It’s a nice enough work. It takes the reader through the Mysteries with Scripture and has a good introduction on the meaning and value of the prayer.

The enduring classic, however, is “The Secret of the Rosary” by St. Louis de Montfort (Montfort Publications). St. Louis knew the Rosary I know. Consider his words: “One must not be looking for sensible devotion and spiritual consolation in the recitation of the Rosary; nor should one give it up because his mind is flooded with countless involuntary distractions or one experiences a strange distaste in the soul and an almost continual and oppressive fatigue of the body.”

Now there’s a man who has said the Rosary.

I believe in this great prayer. I know in my heart that the devil hates it.

I will do this: I will pray the Rosary each day this month for the readers of the Visitor. If you have a need, a hurt, an ache for solace, a fear, a hope, claim this Rosary as your own.

Please don’t confuse the one praying with the prayer. I’m not puffed up about this. In fact, I have “a strange distaste in the soul and an almost continual and oppressive fatigue of the body” just thinking about it. I’m aware that someone may think I think I’m something special. I’m not. However, it often has helped me to know that somebody’s praying for me. It’s as simple as that.

Also, please don’t expect any assurance of particular fervency or the assiduous attention of my mind. I know from experience you'll have to rely on the great power of the Rosary to help you and not on me.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on October 5th of 1986

‘St. Joe and Paul’

They’ve torn down my old school, Sts. Joseph and Paul Grade School in Owensboro, Kentucky. I’m reminded that our children have been growing up but don’t quite realize it. They don’t discern the memories they’re accumulating.

St. Joe and Paul we called it. It’s funny the things that come flooding back from this place that is no more.

I remember wonderful red apples in a book in the first grade. Sister Dorothy Marie’s face shown so pleasantly from her Ursuline bonnet.

I was Sister George Ann’s “little messenger boy” in the second grade. Sister George Ann became president of Brescia College in Owensboro where I also went to school. She died a while back of cancer.

Sister Angelica was indeed an angel, such a kind person. Sister Mary Mercy was very strict and disciplined, but I knew her gentleness, too. Sister Sylvia Mary kept us nailed in our desks and our desks nailed to the floor. But I also remember taking a keen interest in “Voyages in English” that year.

I got my comeuppance as Sister Mary Rose told me one day, “You think you’re pretty smart, Tommy Russell, but you’re just average, boy, just average.”

Sister Mary Rose gave me an “H” on my Kentucky scrapbook. My family had gone on a trip around the state and I included silly things in my scrapbook: bark from a tree at the Lincoln Birthplace Memorial and a rock from the entrance to Mammoth cave. Our grades were S-, S, S+, H, and E in those days, with the more familiar D and F on the other end. Sister Mary Ruth succeeded Sister George Ann as president of Brescia.

Sister Rosita, my eighth grade teacher, got bopped on the head with a ball on the playground, knocking her bonnet off. You can believe there were wide eyes on the playground at that noon recess.

School days, what days they were! I recall tracing an outline of the National Cathedral on a stencil for the school paper. Every class put on a play. I recall dancing a minuet in knickers. I was City Mouse one year and had to eat real crackers on stage!

I so well remember serving Mass. “Ad Deum qui laetificat, juventutem meam.” That was pretty easy. The “Suscipiat” was another matter. I recall laying out vestments, making neat designs with the cincture.

Every year we’d be surprised with fried chicken at lunch and we’d ask Sister what was the special occasion. It was a golden opportunity to tell us about the Feast of Our Lady of Prompt Succor.

I remember the day I learned to spell “Immaculate Conception” and I ran to tell Sister Mary Rose. Sister Mary Mercy told us how important it was to have clean hands and fingernails, “It’s the first thing people notice about you.”

Sister Rosita said never begin a letter with the word “I.” Always think of a way to say something about your reader first, that way you’ll get their attention, she said. It’s also a good way to think about humility.

Sister Aloise, our principal, would play classical music during lunch, and a student would walk around with the name of the piece on a sign. Such odd words! I never entered the contest Sister Aloise conducted to see who could name the most classical melodies.

My school was all education, whether I was warming my hands on the chimney at back of church or having Sister Mary Rose show me how to put depth perspective in a picture of a lane. I learned the meaning of the word “uniform” by aligning all the slats in the Venetian blinds in the cafeteria. Sister Rosita taught me.

I value my Catholic education as one of the great treasures of my life. Those Ursuline nuns gave me gifts of love and friendship and knowledge and faith. My heart is full of fondness for them, and gratitude.

Our children are receiving their education now. It warms my heart to think of the richness of the thing that is happening. We’ll never know all about it. It will be something that belongs to them.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on September 28th, 1986

Afraid of the dark

OK, I’ll admit it. I’m afraid of the dark. You’d think a grown man could shake it off, but when I turn off the light at the top of the stairs at night, something akin to low-grade panic sets in. It’s a good thing that there’s another light switch a few short steps away. Who knows what fearsome creatures could come out in the absence of light?

My case is relatively mild. I cope. While my circumstance is more rightly described as a phobia, there are some genuine fears, I believe, common to the lot of us in the human frame.

Take, for example, the fear associated with making a decision. I’m not talking about what to wear today. In my closet, that choice is somewhat limited anyway. Will I wear these blue pants or those blue pants?

But what about the decision to change some aspect of my behavior? Whenever I get my throat blessed on the feast of St. Blase and the priest asks me, “Will you turn away from sin and follow the Gospel?” my throat opens up right away for the gulp in it.

Sure, sure, I say yes; but what’s really going on is a qualified maybe. While part of my indecision is an awareness of fundamental incapacity, part of it is fear as well.

One of the most startlingly honest lines I’ve ever heard preached in a homily was: “Living the Christian life sometimes can be very boring.” As I struggle with the decision to live the Gospel, I fear boredom.

Sin, you know, can seem very exciting, indeed be very exciting, until dues day, remorse day, awareness of emptiness day, until the day when I realize I’ve been duped by the devil and feel weak and stupid.

Having sinned before, sometimes I am blessed with the recollection of payday before I do the deed again – so I back off. However, short of making any real commitment to fix the situation by a head-over-heels surrender to the Lord, I just kind of hang there afraid that becoming a down-home, broken-hearted Christian will be real boring.
I hang on to a few “pets.” Not that I actually plan to do this sinful thing again (Whew! Who needs the ag?), I do like tinkering with the exciting prospect once in a while.

I was told the story about a woman who had a problem with pornography. She’d go to the porno shop, then go to confession, then repeat the process over and over.
One day she was in a different town, New York City, and she popped in to St. Patrick’s Cathedral to go to confession. The priest asked her if she really wanted to do something about the thing she kept doing. She was in a bind, like me having my throat blessed. What could she say? She said yes.

“For your penance,” the priest told her, “fast and pray every day for a year.” Well, she did it. And from that day to this she hasn’t had the problem.

I’ve heard it said that the opposite of fear is not peace of mind, but love; because when we are in the presence of love there is no fear.

When a child gets afraid at night, he runs to his parents’ bed. Because why? Because there he will be in the presence of love. He may not be able to articulate that, but that’s what happens. With mom and dad, he is not afraid.

We often associate fear with big scary panics, but sometimes we are simply afraid we’ll be bored. However, if we run to our Father’s arms and become willing to do what He asks of us, like St. Paul says, eye has not seen nor ear heard, nor has it even occurred to us the reward which God has prepared for those who love Him.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on September 21st, 1986

Loving our enemies

There are some people in this world I just don’t like. Of course, I’m reasonably confident that I fall into an unliked category or two myself.

So it goes.

The reigning philosophy is that you can’t like everybody – so don’t worry about it. The Christian modification to the reigning philosophy is hate the sin but love the sinner. Love your enemies. Yeah, right.

I’ve had a lot of trouble with that love your enemies business. It’s easier for me to understand things like “Cross me once, shame on you; cross me twice, shame on me” and “I don’t get mad, I just get even.” These concepts seem imminently more practical – you know what I mean?

Besides, Jesus had people He obviously didn’t like: like some Pharisees, for example. St. Peter had pretty much contempt for people who sidled up to new Christians and tried to take advantage of their newfound innocence and lead them back to the old way.

Thomas Merton tells the story in “Seven Storey Mountain” about the fat man who entered the Monastery of Gethsemani the same time he did. Merton said the fellow used to sleep during the night Office. It was obvious Merton didn’t like him, and he even kind of gloated when the guy washed out.

Then, though, there are the St. Theresa stories. The Little Flower was bothered by the nun in the choir whose teeth kept clacking. She offered that up, her biographers tell us. There was also a certain nun in the cloister Theresa simply couldn’t stand.

The nun of the saint’s displeasure apparently also had the distinction of not being well liked in her community in general. So it was, however, Theresa was assigned to work alone in the kitchen with guess who.

The story goes that St. Theresa found her kitchen companion a truly irritating individual. Nevertheless, after some time, Sister Irritation approached Theresa wanting to know why she alone, among all the nuns in the convent, was the only one who liked her.

There you have it, folks. All that’s required in dealing with people you don’t like is heroic sanctity.

Well, not possessing heroic sanctity, these patient endurance methods have left me in a pickle. I’ve had to search out other ways. I mean, not liking somebody hurts – if not them, then certainly me.

It seemed to me that there ought to be a Christian technique at least as practical as the vengeful, cold-shoulder, resentful scenarios that breathe up out of hell.

By golly, I’ve found one. Guaranteed, foolproof, works every time. Just follow these simple, easy-to-read instructions:

– Think of somebody you don’t like and pray for them.
– When I’ve got a good resentment going, I say this prayer every day:

“O Lord, give _______ every good thing I would want for myself and my family. Give them peace in their heart and health in their mind and body. Keep them free from harm and shelter them from all anxiety. Keep them healthy and happy. And yes, Lord, bring us together to eternal life with You.”

– I’ve found that if I pray this, even if I have to grit my teeth to do it, the hurtful feelings go away.

I’ve found that after a few weeks, the object of my prayer may still be a jackass, but my attitude toward them has changed. I may continue to dislike what a person does, but the person they are in Christ is more apparent to me. That must be hating the sin, but loving the sinner.

There are still people around who rub me the wrong way. I don’t like them, don’t want to be with them. But what I mean by that is different after praying for them. It’s what they do that bothers me. In and of themselves, I know that God loves them as much as He loves me.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on September 7th, 1986

What is faith?

When I was a boy in the 1950s, I was not aware of the McCarthy hearings. Somehow it filtered down to me, though, that communism was a grave menace.

One of my childhood fears was that the Communists would come to our front door, come in with their guns and demand that everyone in the family deny God or die.

We were doomed, of course, because I just knew that they couldn’t torture us enough to make us deny God. I took solace about my slow, painful death knowing that I would quickly be given the inheritance of the saints.

Somewhere in that abstruse childhood vision was a germ of faith. Strip away all the fears and irrationality and conjecturing and you have a small boy with a simple statement upon his lips: I believe in God.

I laid turning in my bed the other night with this faith business. I say I believe, but what am I doing when I do that?

It occurred to me that I had said, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, an in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord…” so many times. Have I merely become conditioned by saying the words? Do I really believe what the words say, the reality that the words represent? What is faith, anyway?

St. Paul says in Hebrews: “Faith is confident assurance concerning what we hope for, and conviction about things we do not see.”

Country and Western singer Tommy Hawk says everybody has a “knower” inside of them, and faith is knowing something in your knower.

I heard the story about a man who lost a child in a cruel accident. He became very bitter toward God and turned away from Him. Then the man lost another child in another cruel accident. The man then turned back to God and fell on his face in surrender to Him.

It seems to me that in both instances the man had faith. He believed in God. The only thing that changed was his relationship with Him.

I was always taught that faith is a gift. It therefore seems logical to me that it was conceivable that I didn’t get mine. Scripture says, however, that each person is given a measure of faith.

Father Joe Redinbo told the story in our church the other Sunday about a fellow listening to the Gospel about Jesus saying if a person had faith like a mustard seed, he could tell the mountain to hurl itself into the sea.

Father’s fellow thought he’d try that. Before he went to bed that night he told his wife that he was going to tell a tree in his garden to be gone. He got up the next morning and the tree hadn’t budged. He said to his wife, “I knew that tree would still be there.”

Of course, the man had no faith. Had he had faith, he would have been forced to conclude that what he saw in his garden was a very similar, different tree, come to take the other one’s place.

St. Paul goes on to say in Hebrews, “Anyone who comes to God must believe that He exists, and that He rewards those who seek Him.”

I suppose if the Communists were to come to my house today and put a gun to my head, it’s altogether possible that I would tell them what they wanted to hear, I might scream a lot of things to save my hide.

I’d be ashamed not to have the courage to state openly my belief in God, even at the cost of my life. But whether I said it or not, I’d still believe it. It’s like it’s out of my hands.

Even if they put me feet first through a grinder, I don’t believe it’s possible to change the fact that I believe in God, the Father Almighty, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord.

I guess that’s what faith is.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on August 31st, 1986

To change the world, begin with yourself

People who go around smiling and happy all the time really get to me. The way I’ve got it figured, a little worry is healthy.

My friend Brenda gets after me for glooming and dooming about the mess the world’s in. I have got to make some suggestion for fixing things, she says. By golly, folks, I don’t know what to do, do you?

There’s a “be positive” ethic going around that troubles me. It’s like there’s some kind of holy responsibility to be positive about everything. I’ll be honest. I think being positive all the time is part of what’s wrong with the world.

We get so busy being positive we lose sight of the proper alarm we should feel about some of the horrors abounding about us. Oh, there’s always hope, but hope exists because there’s a need for it.

We’ve been told a lot lately by a variety of media means that the Western world is partying, mindless of our heinous and evil circumstances. We’re drunk on decadence, we’re told, thinking we’re invincible, that the day of reckoning is too far off to be bothered with.

One commentator on the social mores of Americans said we lack but one perversion which was rampant in the days of the fall of Rome. I’ll not mention this particularly disgusting thing. God forbid that I should give anybody any ideas.

I wonder if they smoked pot and jumped to acid rock.

Jesus warned us about complacency. Watch out! He said. You don’t know the hour when the Master will return.

Sometimes I sit on my front porch smoking a cigarette and I look up and see the billowing clouds in the sky. I think to myself, I could look up there a couple of minutes from now and see the Son of Man coming again in glory to judge the living and the dead.

I see myself quickly flicking away my cigarette and fanning the smoke. Gracious. Caught in the act. Doomed. Accountable. He’s not going to be concerned about whether I planned to do His will. He won’t be counting the times I said Lord, Lord. He’s interested in him who does the will of His Father.

Then I figure, though – nah, He’s not coming right now. So far, I’ve been right.

I’ve lived in this community for about eight years. However, not being a native, I don’t know a lot of people in the obituaries. Just the same, I skim them each day, looking at the ages. Do you do that?

Seems like a lot more people my age are in there than there used to be.

So the world’s in a mess and we’re complacent about it. But we really don’t know what to do about it anyway. There’s hope, but we’ve got these character defects we can’t seem to let go of. We’re hoping we have more time to get straightened out, but we keep seeing people our age in the obits.

All in all, there’s a yearning inside us that’s roughly akin to the old bluegrass song lyric: “Everybody wants to get to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”

Somebody said about the speed of light: “186,000 miles a second: It’s not just a good idea, it’s the law.” So it is with the law governing this vapor of a life we live here: We may think it won’t end, but it will.

The problems I can fix are the ones inside me. At least I can try. I think being worried that I ought to be getting started is a good negative emotion.

God has given us a great gift. It’s called a conscience. It lets me know pretty clearly what to do. I may not be able to fix the world, but by changing me – being obedient to God’s law which He has written in my heart – at least one smidgen of a smidgen of the world will be a better place.

Lord, don’t let me be caught red-handed.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in August of 1986

Modesty: a virtue for all seasons

Sacraments are outward signs of inward realities.

The signs, in and of themselves, are just pieces of business: A bishop’s touch on a young person’s cheek, a bit of oil applied, a quantity of water poured. In the context of sacrament, though, these acts take on great meaning for us. The meaning has such depth, however, that no one comprehends it fully.

In the context of sacrament, Jesus asks for faith, not mere understanding; trust, not half-heartedness.

This writing is about modesty, high on the list of misunderstood virtues these days. In our society, modesty is scoffed at. It is the subject of chuckles.

Have I been immodest? Yes. I say so plainly. Let there be no intimation that I come speaking from some sacrosanct perspective. Neither let there be any thought that I sit in the judgment seat. I sit beside you in the pew.

So straight to the heart of the matter: Modesty is not a sacrament; but it is an outward sign of an inward grace: the grace God gives us to love our neighbor.

Modesty occurs in thought, word and deed. But mostly we think of it in terms of the way we dress. No matter how much we are led to believe otherwise on TV, in magazines, newspapers, and elsewhere prevalent in our environments, dressing publicly to enhance, rather than to subdue, our sexuality is immodest.

The rationales for immodesty are legion, hammered at, reinforced, repeated constantly from all sides. Some common ones: “I’m not trying to turn anybody on, I’m just trying to keep cool.” “People distracted by scant clothing simply have dirty minds.” “Everyone knows how we’re built. It’s no secret anyway.” “Why should I dress like a nun?” “The prudes like to force their values on everyone else.” You know the litany.

I’m convinced that immodesty in dress has gotten to the point where people just don’t think about in anymore. People don’t realize they’re being immodest. More seriously, it has become deeply ingrained in some people that modesty is actually something ridiculous, a throwback, just dumb.

However, the truth is, that modesty, like a sacrament, says on the outside who we are on the inside. That doesn’t mean an immodest exterior bespeaks an evil interior. It does mean though, in the very least, that right-thinking is not happening within.

As with a sacrament, we cannot fully comprehend all that it means, we cannot fully appreciate all the effects of our modesty. Indeed, I suspect that most of our immodesty affects people we don’t know, people we don’t see who see us.

It’s also not their fault that they are affected. If I shoot you with a gun, is it your fault that you wretch in pain? If I call you a blockhead, is it your fault that you are offended? Yet by not shooting others, not insulting others, have I affected people I don’t know, people I haven’t seen? Of course. My restraint, my obedience to God’s law written in my heart, allows my neighbors to move about in peace.

In the same way, I am not free to assault the sensibilities of my neighbors, to attract them sexually, publicly.

In the last analysis, I may not understand all the ramifications of this virtue the Master asks me to practice. But in faith and in love for Him and my neighbor, His still, small voice is very clear about modesty. He has not modified His expectations to beat the heat.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in July of 1986

Who’s being taught?

I can’t remember very many homilies, can you? Sister Mary Mercy used to make us fourth graders write a paragraph saying what Father said in his sermon on Sunday. (They called them sermons in those days). What torture! Next in severity would be bamboo shoots under the fingernails.

It was probably the most taxing task of my grade school career (besides, of course, anything having to do with geography). Knowing what I know now, Sister Mary Mercy herself, doubtless would have had difficulty doing her own assignment.

Psychologists tell us that we remember only about 10 percent of what we hear, so the expression “in one ear and out the other” must have some validity.

All of this brings me to my point: How and when and under what circumstances are Catholics being taught their faith? I submit that we are starving.

This is a strictly subjective opinion, of course. Opposing views are most welcome. But it seems to me that the only Church teaching most adult Catholics receive is that 10 or 15 minutes each week at Mass.

Sure, Father puts his very best into the preparation of his homilies. But can this be sufficient teaching for a living faith?

Of course, CCD is in place. Catholic schools are open. Many parishes have RCIA programs for new Catholics, which help some old ones in the bargain. But what about most Catholics between high school and the grave? There is no question that television has a greater place in many Catholics’ lives than learning about their faith does.

The Holy Fathers have written a bunch of encyclicals. Why do they do this? Honestly now, have you ever read one?

The U.S. bishops have taken to writing pastoral letters on a variety of life-touching subjects. Can you apply the content of these letters to your life?

The problem, of course, is to find a way for this teaching to reach the people it is intended to guide.

The call these days is to individual responsibility, ownership of our relationship with God and the Church, personal accountability. However, there are two flies in that ointment.

One: The concept of responsible leadership has not been abandoned.

Two: There are still plenty of Catholics out there who are like sheep without a shepherd, despite protestations to the contrary. People need to be led, inspired, guided, shown the way. A sheep won’t say, “Lead me.” A sheep will wander aimlessly – or watch TV.

I won’t offload to the priests the whole responsibility for communicating Church teaching, but I will give them their share. They certainly are leaders, and in a position to make a difference.

Laity with some gumption also are needed in this task. Laity with God-given leadership abilities should be rising to the God-given mandate to share this faith of ours.

Parents have a primary teaching role – ahead of the schools and CCD. That has to imply that they themselves bone up: either to put themselves in environments, or to create environments, wherein the faith is nurtured.

The Catholic press has been woefully underutilized. Catholic newspapers and magazines simply are not in the same league with the secular press, but can and should be a primary and effective tool in communicating Church teaching.

To the credit of many pastors and parishes, adult education classes are offered. But who goes? Nine or 10 show up, half of whom are qualified to teach the class themselves.

There’s plenty to be learned. Besides the steady outpouring of teaching by the Magisterium, it might be a good day for Sacred Scripture to make a comeback. We, Catholics, have lived in fear of private interpretation of Scripture for so long that we scarce crack the book unless we’re in the presence of a priest. That has got to stop.

Perhaps I have lapsed into a little testiness and cynicism. Forgive me. My point is that homilies – and I’ve heard some good ones – are not enough. For one thing, I’m going to be looking into some ways for this newspaper to be a more effective forum for communicating substantive Church teaching. Surely there are other ways to boost the resources we have.

The hour is late for creative leadership and greater personal responsibility, but not too late.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in July of 1986

Too much stuff!

One of the paradoxes of the Information Age is the sheer volume of information we are expected to internalize and deal with. Being ethical, decent people, perhaps we run around with a load of guilt because we simply can’t find the time to care about all the things we’re supposed to care about.

Everywhere there’s a newspaper article, a TV spot, a radio segment, a flyer in the mail, a handbill at the supermarket, a knock at the door, a pre-recorded phone call, a letter sent home from school – all of them urging our undivided attention. Each one asks for money, prayers, or a letter to our congressman.

Phew! If you’re like me, you want to go live in the desert and send out appeals asking for undivided attention, prayers and a generous contribution in the postage-paid return envelope provided.

Here’s a sampling of the important things brought to my attention in recent days, stirring in me a sense that I ought to be doing something, or at least unsettled me in one way or another:

Altar girls, neo-paganism among feminists, abortion, denial of care to deformed infants, Satanism and promiscuous lyrics in rock music, welfare reform in Indiana, alcoholism and drug abuse among young people, Crack, the homeless, strident liberalism in the Church, strident conservatism in the Church, problems of the aged, rural poverty, unemployment, the lonely, the Third Secret of Fatima, intellectual arrogance, anti-intellectualism, world peace.

One that drives me crazy is John Huston saying “Give to prevent blindness.”

Believe me, folks, I don’t make light of any of these things. But you and I both know that this is just the tip of the iceberg. You could knock out a list longer than mine.

Among all the things that competed for my attention, here’s what I did something about:

- I made out a check to my parish church.
- I took my daughter to and picked her up from baton practice.
- Saturday I met with my Cursillo group and went to the Full Gospel Businessmen’s dinner meeting; Sunday I went to Mass; and Tuesday I prayed with my prayer group.
- I had a conversation with my wife, an argument with my wife and a de-argumentizing conversation with my wife.
- I hugged my kids.
- I hollered at my kids.
- I mowed the grass.
- I started reading a new book.
- I came to work every day at the best job in the world. (This is my job, you see).
- I prayed for a friend who wasn’t feeling so hot.

All of this is to say that these may not be the right things to do, but somehow they’re going to have to be for now.

God made us fearfully and wonderfully. He knows we can’t take on all of this stuff. That’s why, I suppose, we understand that we are but parts of His Mystical Body – each of us with a role to play, a job to do. We have to depend on Him to lead us into areas that we can do something about. He will teach us. He will guide us.

Perhaps by the very awareness we have of global concerns, we are given a better understanding of the awesomeness of God. I, however, am not awesome. I can’t do something about everything.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in July of 1986

Prayer is essential

Every time I sit down to write one of these episodes, I pray – if I remember. Perhaps I should pray that I will remember to pray. However, I suppose I could forget to do that, too.

Of course, there is no guarantee that prayer will sharpen my dull wits. Certainly I will be unable to blame God for failing to do the work He has assigned me. Even so, prayer is a great companion to any endeavor.

It seems to me that my prayer life is very weak. How about you? From “Day One” we have been taught to say our prayers. Early on we are taught the Sign of the Cross, the Our Father, the Hail Mary. Later on in life we learn prayers like “Help!” and “God have mercy on me!”

A Passionist priest told me that if everyone would say “Jesus I love you” once a day, it would change the world.

O, I pray; but I don’t pray, you know what I mean?

Show me somebody who spends 45 minutes a day in personal prayer and I’ll show you somebody who’s accomplishing God’s will in their life.

Why can’t I spend 45 minutes a day in personal prayer? Why is it such a struggle? I bet I could find 45 minutes for a good installment of “Hill Street Blues,” or 45 minutes to linger over a good meal, or 45 minutes to dawdle. But pray? Infinitely postponable. It’s like there’s a numbing, rejection mechanism inside me that goes off similar to the feeling I have sometimes facing a ransacked kitchen after a hot meal, complete with pie, and it’s my turn to do the dishes.

Perhaps I am intimidated by not really having anything to pray about. Of course, that is no excuse.

Probably you have heard the story about the old man who would sit in church hour after hour until one day the pastor approached him. “What are you praying about?” the pastor asked. “Is something troubling you?” “No,” the old man said. “I just sit here and look at God and He looks at me.”

A teaching on intercessory prayer recently at St. Boniface in Lafayette by Stephanie Culhane gave me some delicious insights, even though I wasn’t there. Those who did attend told me about her point that distraction in prayer may not be a distraction at all. It might just be the Holy Spirit guiding us as to whom or what to pray about. That makes a lot of sense to me.

Jesus told us to go in to our room, close the door, and pray. Our heavenly Father would hear our prayer offered in secret would reward us in secret.

So there, I have no excuse. I should be praying even when I don’t have anything to pray about, and I become distracted. I should be praying because Jesus told me I should be praying.

Maybe I don’t have 45 minutes. But what about five? There’s a modest proposal, huh? Surely I have five minutes a day when I can go in my room, close the door, and pray. Five minutes. Surely I’ve got to be the last one left who isn’t offering at least five minutes a day in real prayer to my God.

O well, I’ve always said that I don’t care if I’m the last one in the Pearly Gates. Just please don’t close them without me, Lord.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in June of 1986

Close moments

People who are involved with Cursillo speak of “close moments,” but you don’t have to be in Cursillo to have had a similar experience. Surely you have had one, for example.

Close moments refer to those times when an individual feels particularly close to Jesus Christ, those times shot through, as it were, with the awareness of God.

These moments can come at any time and can last but an instant or go on for a long time. Nothing I know of in my Christian experience compares with a close moment with Jesus.

It’s helpful to reflect on these times in our experience. They bolster our confidence in times of pain. They are a practical assist to a faith sometimes gone dry. They remind us that God is with us even when it doesn’t seem like it.

I have learned that there is nothing I can do to cause such an experience. Jesus is the Master of the encounter. Indeed, a person doesn’t necessarily have to be a believer. Paul, on the road to Damascus, certainly was no believer. Stories of conversion experiences abound, wherein a hardened sinner turns around owing to a close moment with God.

If Jesus Christ chooses to reveal himself to someone, there doesn’t seem to be much the individual can do about it.

As I grew up, I believed close moments (although I didn’t call them that) were reserved for saintly mystics.

I love the story of St. Francis of Assisi experiencing ecstasy. He cried out, “Enough, Lord, enough!” Apparently that close moment went on and on.

There’s the story of St. Catherine of Sienna being held in such rapture that her sisters believed she was dead. Her confessor had to come and call her back to the real world, so to speak. She cried, the story goes, because she became separated from her union with Christ. Another long one.

I’ve come to find out that Jesus does reveal himself to lowly and unworthy and ordinary persons like me – just plain folks who don’t have a mystical bone in their body.

Let me share with you a couple of close moments.

My son, John, is five. When he was three, my wife, Elizabeth, reported to me what John had told her one morning. She had written it in his baby book.

John said, “He made my sore better! He came into my room last night. He walked in and said, ‘I didn’t know you had a Mickey Mouse bed.’ And He made my sore come out! Jesus did! He called me my name! He called me John!”

Doubtless it was a close moment for John. But I cannot recall that little story without remembering the close moment I had with Jesus the first time I heard it.

Another time, I was returning from Holy Communion. I wasn’t feeling particularly joyful. In fact, I wasn’t feeling much at all. To be sure, I wasn’t running my mouth as I am wont to do. On this occasion, Jesus got a word in edgewise.

I was making my way between chairs toward my seat and everyone began to sing, “Yahweh, I know you are near.” It is not within my power to express to you the experience of what happened in that moment. It was as if my whole being was transformed, from that to this, from the old Tom to the new Tom. I could not stay the same.

Who can say? He touched me. Tears came into my eyes. The experience was physical, mental and spiritual – all encompassing. It was mighty and powerful, yet incredibly gentle and sweet. It was awesome yet peaceful, joyful and life-giving.

I shall always be grateful for the gift of that moment – an instant, really, of eternity.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on June 15th, 1986

Opposing abortion in our minds and hearts

As the annual Right to Life March made its way from the Tippecanoe County Courthouse, I was taken by the notion that opposition to abortion is not a matter of carrying a sign, but a matter of mind and heart.

Most people don’t march in marches, and that’s fine. The really important activity occurs on the inside of individual persons.

Have you made up your mind about abortion?

I listened to National Public Radio the other day as a doctor described the experimental use of fetal liver tissue as a substitute for bone marrow in bone marrow transplants. “Now doctor,” the interviewer asked, “are these livers from aborted fetuses?” “Yes,” the doctor answered. He explained that the liver produces blood and that fetuses had not yet developed sufficient defense agents and therefore their liver tissue stood a better chance of not being rejected by the recipient.

How can anyone listen to that without being horrified? A fetus has a liver, you say? You mean it’s not just so much tissue, good for nothing? Surely if fetal liver can produce blood for a fully developed human being, it can produce blood for itself. Ah, but it hasn’t yet developed defenses. Indeed, a fetus is defenseless.

We don’t have to carry signs, but we can make up our minds. Have you made up your mind, or are you still on the fence?

The important work of opposing abortion doesn’t occur on the courthouse steps, but in the mind and heart convinced of its position. It occurs in coffee shops and work places and neighborhood queues. It occurs one-to-one, couple-to-couple, person-to-God in prayer.

You’ve had a situation in your life when abortion was discussed, haven’t you? It was a conversation at work, or in a restaurant with your group, or in your living room with your neighbors. What did you say then? Did you make your position known? Or have you cowered, like I have, with my mouth shut, not wanting to offend anybody, not wanting my friends to think I’m a crackpot, not wanting people to think I don’t have an open mind.

I was lukewarm, cowardly, afraid to take a stand. Abortion is an issue out there, somebody else’s problem. I can’t change it so why should I have to be embarrassed, be scoffed at, ridiculed, scorned? I’ve read the papers. I know what people think about those pro-lifers, how they laugh and jeer and say, “Go to hell!” I don’t want to put up with that. Leave me alone.

But my conscience won’t leave me alone. I’ve had to make up my mind. I don’t have to carry a sign, but I do have to speak up when the opportunity arises. I have to face my friends and co-workers and acquaintances, and that’s a lot harder than carrying a sign.

The effects of abortion are complex. Circumstances surrounding it are complex. We must have compassion for women, millions of women, who already have had abortions. I don’t have all the answers for all the sticky moral dilemmas. But of this much I am sure: that babe in a mother’s womb is a person, with a liver and eyes and a nose, just like me. I cannot deny that. I cannot skirt that issue anymore.

The Catholic Church is known for its staunch opposition to abortion. But the official Church teaching means nothing if it is not embraced in the heart and soul and mind of individual Catholics.

Carrying a sign is easy. Looking your neighbor in the eye and speaking from conviction is hard. But that’s the important work in the fabric of society. You know you’ll have the opportunity, and so will I.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in May of 1986

Lucy Alice

My mother died when I was 15 years old, almost 25 years ago. She was a friendly woman, hard working, deeply faithful.

Mothers are always special. It takes a long time into adulthood sometimes to believe they have any faults – any at all.

My mother was born near a place called Dermont, Kentucky. Actually, where she was born doesn’t have a name. It’s just the country. We had a blue plate in our home when I was growing up that testified about where my mother’s family used to trade. On the underneath side it said: “Sog Hinton’s Grocery Store, Dermont, Kentucky.”

Her name was Lucy Alice. I came in from playing one day and she was standing at the kitchen sink with her friend, Snooks Kluck. I said, “You’re name is Lucy? Maybe we ought to get a screwdriver and tighten you up!” She roared with laughter. I remember her laugh more than a lot of other things about her. It was so full and so ready and so uninhibited.

She was a strict disciplinarian. There was none of this sitting in the corner business. We got what she called a “thrashin’.” It came swiftly and without hesitation, with a belt or a hairbrush or a willow branch, whatever was handy. I loved her so awfully much.

She’d clean house every day, but Friday was housecleaning day in a big way. She’d dust the baseboards and the tops of pictures and wipe the bottoms of the kitchen chair legs. Lunch was most often leftovers, except on Saturday when there’d be Spanish bar cake and lunch meat from the A&P.

During the week, she lie on the couch at the noon hour in the T.V. room and watch “As the World Turns” on the Lowboy. She’d put her feet in my lap and I would rub them, and her legs. They hurt her from being on them so much.

Every night at 9 o’clock, we’d kneel down in the living room and say the Rosary. Dad would give and we would answer. My mother had a special devotion to Mary. Mother would have coffee many a late morning with her friend Madge who lived up the way. As often as not, it was a faith sharing.

We had a cloister of Passionist nuns near where we used to live. Madge would say, “Now, Lucy, how in the world can them women live in there like that? Seems like they’d go crazy. I would, I know.” And they’d both laugh, and my mother would explain. My mother would talk about Mary. She knew her as a protectress, an intercessor, a friend. To this day, Madge has a statue of our Blessed Mother in her living room. “She’ll keep me safe,” Madge says. She is a Baptist.

When the Rosary was ended, Mother would stand up and I would hold her because she was dizzy. I would hold my arms around her waist and look into her face. Her eyes would be closed and her head would sway gently to the right and left. Then she’d open her eyes and smile, and I would kiss her good night, as would my brothers and my sister.

My mother’s first two babies were miscarried. The doctors told her she would never have any more children. I was her ninth and last pregnancy. She died of cancer when she was 54.

When I was born, my mother named me “Alan,” after Blessed Alan, a Dominican who spent his days encouraging devotion to the Rosary. On my birth certificate, they put “Allen,” and that made my mother mad. She sent it back and made them change it. My birth certificate has “Allen” scratched through and “Alan” handprinted on it. A lot of people called me “Tom” or “Tommy.” My mother was wont to call me “T. Alan.”

My mother knew a lot of pain in her life. She wore a back brace for a long time because of surgery for a slipped disc in her back. I’ve never witnessed anyone have such pain for such a long time as she had with that.

But she also had joy. I remember her dressing up for a party in our home as a Chinese woman, just acting silly. There was so much happiness that night. Her friends were good friends, and many, and life-long. We were a home of extremes, I guess. Our pain was intense. Our laughter was abundant.

On Mother’s Day, all of us think of our mothers. It’s a simple observance, really. We remember that they gave us life. We reflect on how much we love them. For those of us whose mother’s are gone, the day is no less meaningful.

Sometimes in my mind’s eye, when I’ve done things I’ve had no business doing, I became aware that my mother knows everything about me now. I have no secrets from her.

Sometimes, too, I see myself coming into heaven and Momma’s there to greet me. She runs up to me and hugs me hard and says to me, “Honey, come look!”

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in May of 1986

Humility

Humility: The word is almost anathema anymore.

Bring up humility in your next polite conversation and see what reaction you get.

It’s amusing to reflect on the irony of the reaction one might get from writing a column about humility. “Who do you think you are, Bud: The world’s most humble person?”

There’s no way to defend my capacity to discuss humility. I don’t mind putting my cards on the table. I acknowledge that I’m selfish, overindulgent, lazy; and I’m not particularly fond of having people notice these things about me.

I have a difficult time speaking my convictions in public. Rather, I prefer saying what I think you might like to hear. Better you agree with my half-baked platitudes, than have you mad at me because my deeply-felt, but unlived, ideals make you uncomfortable.

But saying these things doesn’t make me humble. A person might indeed be proud of his character defects.

Can we talk about it?

It seems to me that our society is wallowing in humanistic absolution. The “Yeah, but” syndrome has taken over.

Some examples:

“You’re not spending much time with your family, are you Charlie?” “ Yeah, but a man’s gotta make a buck.”

“You’re not spending any time at all in prayer, are you Charlie?” “Yeah, but nobody’s perfect.”

“What was that you put in the collection basket, Charlie, a nickel or a bottle cap?” “Yeah, I put a nickel in, but I couldn’t pay my bills if I put it all in the collection.”

You get my drift. It’s easy to find agreement for our short-comings and in it absolve ourselves and get lost in the great complexus of the human condition.

What is humility? There’s probably a classic definition out there somewhere that would give us erudite insights. But humility is nothing if it’s not real to us. It is perhaps best defined as lived in the life of someone we know.

If we have been privileged to know one or two humble people in our lives, surely we have been favored with a special grace from God. Then we have been favored not only with knowing about humility, but of coming somehow closer to understanding.

Bishop Fulton Sheen was wont to distribute crosses in his travels for the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. It was one day in Africa that he presented a cross to the outstretched hand of a leper.

He tells the story in Treasure in Clay, his autobiography, that the hand “was the most foul, noisome mass of corruption I ever saw.” He held the cross over the man’s hand and dropped it.

“I had taken that symbol of God’s identification with man and refused to identify myself with someone who was a thousand times better on the inside than I,” he said. “Then it came over me the awful thing I had done. I dug my fingers into his leprosy, took out the crucifix and pressed it into his hand.”

Yes, we have value before God. Yes, we are special. Yes, God loves us beyond all understanding. Yes, we are all imperfect.

Humility is not groveling, or false self-derision or even a poor self-concept. But it is the awareness of the truth of ourselves. It is the willingness to acknowledge and honor the worth of another, without reference to self.

Humility is a most valuable, nay precious, virtue; and I vote for its resurrection in our society. It can exert such power over so much of our behavior. Humility awakens the awareness of truth. The awareness of truth brings us into the presence of God.

What flareup of anger could not be soothed with humility?

What arrogant, intellectual confrontation could not be assuaged with humility?

What strides could be made toward Christian unity with humility?

What sickness of headlong greed could not be healed with humility?

We just can’t seem to do it. We know about humility. We even understand it. We just can’t accept its challenge.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on April 20th, 1986

His name is Eugene

His name is Eugene. He’s out there somewhere today – maybe Cincinnati, maybe Logansport or Lafayette. You might miss him, though, for all the angels crowded around.

Eugene came very quickly into my life and just as quickly was gone. But he was the closest I have come in a long, long time to Easter Sunday morning coming down.

The great miracle of Easter leaves me saying with the words of the old hymn, “I scarce can take it in.”

But the small miracle that came to me one Saturday afternoon helps me to understand that God loves us, that He sent His only Son that we might have eternal life.

I sat pouring out my troubles to the priest. My job had me down. I didn’t know what God wanted me to do with my life. I couldn’t see a way out. I hurt and couldn’t stop hurting. I was miserable, confused, frustrated, angry, broken.

Father was very kind to me. He showed me that he understood my dilemma and offered me patient and caring possibilities. We talked of prayer and soliciting the prayer of others.

As kind as Father was, and as insightful was his council, still I didn’t have much faith that things would change. I felt hopeless and detached, as if there was nothing anyone could do, really. I had prayed. It just didn’t seem like God was listening.

There came a ring on the rectory bell. Father left the room and I could hear him conversing with someone at the door. Before long, he returned asking if I could give a man a ride to the nearest truck stop. That’s what he wanted, Father said.

We talked a minute longer before I came into the hall and met Eugene.

He was looking for work, he said, and he couldn’t find any in Lafayette. He’d be willing to do any kind of job, he said. He wasn’t looking for a handout.

I told Eugene that I didn’t know which was worse, having a job or not having one. He said he’d be grateful if I could take him to a truck stop so he could catch a ride with a trucker to Cincinnati. He’d left Logansport not finding work. Lafayette didn’t have any jobs. Maybe Cincinnati would be the right town. I told him I’d be glad to give him a ride.

Eugene was in every respect a gentleman of the road. But unlike other fellows I have met along the way, his eyes were clear and his manner cheerful.

“I don’t have no education,” he said, “but I’m a good worker. I’ll find a job soon enough.”

I told him he seemed pretty confident of that. He said indeed he was. “God takes care of me,” he said. “I walk along the road, but I don’t worry about anything. I’m happy because I know God’s not going to let anything happen to me. I haven’t got nothing and I don’t have no good education or anything, but I haven’t gone hungry yet.

“I believe in God,” Eugene said. “I don’t drink, but I do smoke.” His clothes were not much, but they were obviously clean. His hair was combed neatly. He smiled often, and spoke animatedly and with conviction. I offered him one of my cigarettes.

“What’s your name?” he asked me. “Tom,” he said, “you know what I do when I’m walking down the highway? I pray. I don’t have anything else to do so I just talk to God. I pray for everybody. I’m not one of these that just prays for the poor people. I know everybody’s got troubles. I pray for them that’s not got money, and I pray for them that’s got money, too. I know God loves everybody.

“Sometimes I get scared when I’m walking along. These big trucks come by and I’m afraid I’ll get hit or something. But you know, Tom, God sends His angels down to protect me. He absolutely does. Before you know it I’m walking down the road with a bunch of angels.”

Not once at the rectory nor once along the way to the truck stop did Eugene ask me for anything but a ride, nor even indicate that he wanted anything more.

When we arrived at the restaurant, I told Eugene that I sure was glad to have met him, that he helped me a lot more than I helped him.

In my heart, I felt redeemed. I was reminded through this man that the quality of our earthly stay has more to do with confidence in God than in our circumstances.

He said he would never forget me. He said that when he was walking along, he would pray for me. He said that when we got to heaven we’d see each other again, and he was really looking forward to that.

Happy Easter, Eugene, wherever you are. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, too.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on April 13th, 1986

Catholic Identity

Father Thomas Savage, S.J. said, “Catholics are struggling with what it means to be Catholic. They’re saying it is important to me, but I’m not quite sure what that means.”

It’s an intriguing question, this identity business. We Catholics these days are a veritable litany of souls looking for commonality that somehow exceeds our grasp. That is not to say that each of us is not brimming with certitude about exactly what is Catholicity.

For a few examples:

-The lady sidles up to an acquaintance in her parish church ready to go aghast in commiseration about the pastor’s dog (Saint’s preserve us!) being a part of the joyful celebration of the pastor’s anniversary last Sunday. A dog brought in to church on Sunday morning, mind you! Whereupon the lady learns that her acquaintance had no inkling that anyone might be offended, she is doubly indignant. Surely her acquaintance must be one of those “liberal” Catholics.

-The fellow who always sits in the fourth row back just happens to comment about his belief in the power of the Rosary and the comfort he has found so often in reciting the “Memorare.” Two in the group roll their eyes at one another about the poor fellow who hasn’t gotten with it and is not likely to. And what in the world, one says to the other after the meeting, is the “Memorare?”

-Two in the Charismatic prayer group talk about Sunday Mass being one dry, routine, somber service. Two in the pew across the aisle share a chuckle about the “Holy Roller” Mass the Charismatics have.

-One parish priest wants to hake the high, ornate altar out of the church, saying it’s a distraction to the central act of worship occurring on the Table of Sacrifice. A band of his parishioners is prepared to post an armed guard around the ornate altar to see anybody just try to take it away.

-One man eschews bombing vacant abortion clinics. His friend asks, “Would it have been okay to bomb the ovens at Dachau?”

-One woman devoutly receives the consecrated host in her hand. Another woman asks, “If we really believe this is the Real Body of Christ, why are we not on our knees in reverence as we receive Him?”

-One priest wears a Roman collar. Another wears a necktie. One Sister wears a veil saying she wishes to express her identity. Another Sister wears a modern, attractive suit, saying she wishes to express her identity.

We Catholics, we love our Church, and love is the right word. We look askance at, criticize, chuckle at one another. But we love one another because we are the Church.

We may disagree about what constitutes decorum, but we rejoice in the celebration of our faith.

We have different ideas about piety and prayer. But we, all of us, seek God in prayer.

We discern the liturgy in this mode or that, but we come to worship as the People of God.

Our views of symbolism go from stark to gothic, from multiple to precious few, but we value symbolism as a part of our heritage.

Not one of us questions the dignity of human life. Not one of us denies the Real Presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist.

We bristle on both sides of the clerical garb issue. But we do not question priesthood. We continue to honor the Sisters who dedicate their lives to the service of the Church.

How does the song go? “At that first Eucharist before You died, O Lord you prayed that all be one in You. At this our Eucharist You now preside, and in our hearts Your law of love renew.”

This little piece of writing does not presume to resolve the question of Catholic identity. But one thing is for sure and Psalm 100 says it: “He made us. His we are, His people, the flock He tends.”

written by Thomas A. Russell on April 6th, 1986

A vocation view

What do you think Jesus meant when He said, “Take up your cross and follow Me?”

Could it be that this is the question we skirt as we wrestle with the dilemma of our shortage of priests?

To be sure, we have to look elsewhere for the cause of this difficulty.

- We blame celibacy

- We figure there are plenty of fellows being called, but they’re too selfish to answer, or the world has them dazzled, or we commiserate with their rejection saying nobody could be expected to live such a life.

- We suspect the staid influences are gone. Home life isn’t supportive or sufficiently faithful. Our schools are full of lay teachers. Can any good come out of such a place?

- We boo the strident right-wingers and hiss the screaming liberals.

- We quietly harbor the notion that there’s something wrong with the Church.

Our focus has been on him and them and it and that and See! Here is the problem, or No! There it is. Perhaps we don’t want to look in the mirror and say, “What do I think Jesus meant when He said ‘take up your cross and follow Me?’”

No one can fathom the mystery of the Cross. But surely it meant for Jesus what it means for us. It means obedience.

Can we look out across our Church today and see a wide-spread hunger to do, not what I will, but the will of my Father, Who is in heaven?

Do I find myself saying to my children, “What do you think God wants you to be when you grow up?”

In these New Testament times, the people gather around the center of the Holy of Holies. The priest celebrates the Sacrifice made once and for all, and lifts up the Living God, giving Him into the very body and soul of the people He loves.

That is the cross of the New Testament priest. It begins by his taking it up the way Jesus did: with a simple yes, Thy will be done.

If I’m a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker, that is my cross. It is if my life is a showcase of the road not taken: not because I’m a dreamer or a vagabond, but because I have obeyed God.

Those He sends, He empowers. They will be nothing more, nor nothing less than what He would have them be. If I have been obedient, my meats will feed His people, my cakes will delight His people, my candlesticks will bear light to His people.

Brother Raphael, the story goes, was the gatekeeper at the monastery. Visitors always met him first and found in him a warm greeting, a ready listener and a sage counselor.

So valued and inspiring became Brother Raphael’s word, that the monks of the monastery began to seek him out, and his fame spread from the visitors to the area roundabout.

Raphael began leaving his gat and giving sermons and retreats. He published books and treatises and went abroad for lectures.

One day in the monastery chapter, Brother Raphael sat pondering the homilies he was to deliver a week from Sunday, when an old monk entered and knelt behind him.

The old monk, a denizen of his cell for 30 years, leaned forward and whispered a word in Raphael’s ear. “Phony,” he said.

Tears streamed down Raphael’s cheeks. He ran to the Abbot and fell to his knees before him and begged for the privilege to again be the gatekeeper.

It must be that if doing God’s will, of taking up my cross, came into vogue, then surely that would have an effect in many ways.

I suspect that when I turn away from the self will in my life, when I surrender my life completely and say not my will but Thine be done – then I will be doing what those who are called to the priesthood are asked to do. Then it may be that somewhere a bishop will place his hands on the head of a weak, surrendered deacon and empower him to lift up the Living God.

written by Thomas A. Russell in March of 1986

"Bless me, Father..."

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. I can’t really remember how long it’s been since my last confession – six years, eight years? It’s been a long time. Probably some of those confessions when I did go weren’t ‘good’ confessions. I know I didn’t tell about some things I should have. I know that today I can’t possibly remember all the things I’ve done. Some of the things I have to say are so embarrassing and petty, I’m going to need God’s special grace just to say them. For all of that, here I am. I want to be reconciled with God.”

So began, roughly, the confession several years ago of someone with whom I’m well acquainted: me. I share this with you today to try to put an experience with the Sacrament of Reconciliation on a one-to-one level. We human beings are like this, I think: We can understand the personal experience of another person sometimes better than all the intellectual, educational, social – even scriptural and ecclesiastical reasons – that abound for going to confession. These latter things sometimes even enable us to keep our distance, keep us “thinking about it.” Here’s a guy going into the box.

Sorry. You won’t get to hear what I said after that. The only sin I’m going to tell you about is the one that kept me away a long time. You guessed it: Pride.

Suffice it to say that the Hound of Heaven was after me. It was He who overcame my pride. My spiritual life was pretty empty. I really didn’t know what I was looking for.

There’s a saying, “If you keep doing what you’re doing, you keep getting what you’ve got.” I kept living the way I was living: and I kept being hungry, or uneasy, or guilty. Whatever it was, I kept being that way. I didn’t want to live that way anymore. You can laugh at this if you want to, but I wanted “fullness.” I don’t know how else to say it.

I wanted to be honest. I wanted to be able to be honest, but I guess I had gotten so far away from God I couldn’t even imagine what being reconciled with Him would be like. At best I’d feel okay for a while and then I’d get real bored, real fast. At worst I’d face a bunch of impossible demands for perfection, demands I’d never be able to meet.

When I was just a lad, I had been in the confessional one day and had just said my contrition. Then, Father asked me what I had just said. I said I had said I was sorry. Yes, but what else did I say? I couldn’t think, I was I was truly sorry, Father. Well, don’t you know that I also made a firm purpose of amendment. I said I was going to change. Father made it clear that amendment was part of contrition. It was that same firm purpose of amendment that stuck in my craw those years later. It was both a stumbling block and what I wanted to do.

Enter now that pride I mentioned. Please don’t get me wrong in this. I’m not quite sure what it was all about. I am trying to be honest with you and this is, after all, a personal story. But it wasn’t the big wrong things I had done which were keeping me away from confession: you know, like the banks I robbed and so on. It was the petty, embarrassing, sniveling, mean things I had done which were the hardest for me to face. Does this make sense to you?

So there I was, spiritually empty, afraid to change, afraid what change might bring, knowing I couldn’t meet the demands out there, nagged with the idea that I’d been away too long.

Then one day I hear this little bit of wisdom. The story goes that a man died and met St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. Fully expecting a thorough interrogation, the fellow was ready with a long list for when St. Peter would ask him, “What have you done?” Much to his surprise, however, that wasn’t the question. Instead St. Peter asked him, “Who are you?”

It occurred to me that sin was not so much what I had done, but who I was. I am a sinner. That’s before, during, and after the confessional. Sin was a condition in my life, and sin meant those actions which lacked love. It wasn’t so much that I committed this sin of pride, or that one – although certainly I did. But it was that I reacted pridefully to situations in my life, including the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Because I had not been loving, I was consequently very empty. I needed to come and let Jesus fill me with His forgiveness and His love.

I’m no authority on the Sacraments. But Christ gave His Church the power to forgive people, and the Church vests that power in her bishops and priests. I fit somewhere in the “People of God.”

No doubt there were many more dynamics in my coming to Reconciliation than what I have detailed here. I did go, though, with all my imperfections, all my embarrassment, all my memory loss, all my uncertainty, all my emptiness.

There was no magic in there, just a lot of honesty, gentleness and love. I’m still as imperfect as they come. I don’t hold myself up as better than you.

I came away from that confession reconciled with my God, knowing He loved me beyond my wildest imagination. He wanted to say to me, “I absolve you of your sins.” He wanted me to hear those words. He knew I had been responding to situations in my life without love, had known it all along. He just wanted me to acknowledge it, too, so that I could understand firsthand a little better the depth of His love.

written by Thomas A. Russell in February of 1986