This is a story about Father’s Day, but bear with me.

Sometimes, suddenly, I become full of fear about my job or my health or a relationship with someone. There will be no basis for this fear, but there I’ll be, worried something awful is going to happen, leaving me high and dry, terribly sick or dead, or lonely. Crazy, huh?

Fear will then become coupled with resentment. After I’ve gotten a good, irrational fear going, I’ll react by getting mad at my employer or my friend or God.

Before long I’m fighting a battle of the mind, defending myself against all charges when I realize there are no charges. Then I’m ashamed of myself and start feeling guilty for having been mad for no reason.

This, of course, leads to feelings of self-justification, some “legitimate” displeasure. I figure it’s not right that I have to be going through and emotional wringer all the time. God has it in for me. Then I realize I’m in an emotional wringer all right: the spin cycle.

Don’t laugh. People do go through all these ugly feelings, all for no reason. I know they do because I do. You may be perfectly at ease all the time, but I’m not.

My emotions become convoluted and I get mad and fly off the handle at my wife and/or my kids. I worry. I feel like a failure. I feel like what’s the use.

This is still about Father’s Day, so hang in there.

I have found that there’s nothing like a dose of honesty in the midst of emotional turmoil to cure what ails you. You’ve seen it on the silver screen. The soldier is hysterical and somebody slaps his face. In my own experience, I can become a knot of self-pitying gush born of irrational fear and somebody will call me a big baby. Nothing like a little humility (read: truth) to bring a person to his senses.

I was driving back to the old homeplace the other day. It takes a while to get there and usually I’m lost in thought by the time I arrive – no longer simply driving, but riding and emotional rollercoaster. A lot of nostalgia seeps into the cracks of my consciousness and I get excited-wan about the old days.

This trip, I made a pit stop at the Dairy Queen in Loogootee, my head full of visions and gushy feelings not about the past, but about illusions about the past. Inside the Dairy Queen john, a young father was helping his little boy with his britches. This proved to be my slap in the face, the truth that brought me back.

Back on the road, the sweetness of the child’s voice and the tenderness of the father’s rang in my ears, as I recalled the simplicity of the task that confronts every father and son at one time or another. It may not seem like much, but it’s quite something, really, for a dad and his boy to make happen and work out okay. It takes patience and cooperation. It takes the dad’s responsibility and the boy’s trust. It takes uncompromising, unconditional love.

In this case, their circumstances reminded me of mine: the truth that I’m a dad, too, and despite what was or what I thought I was, despite what crazy feelings invade my consciousness, despite my propensity for self-pity and getting mad at the world – I’ve got kids who depend on me. They look to me not only for food and shelter (they take that for granted), but also they expect, ahem, emotional maturity (they don’t know they expect that).

Yep, that does it for me. When I get on an emotional jag, all I have to do is remember I’m a dad, that straightens me right out. See, I told you this was about Father’s Day.

By the way, I thought about that father with his little boy. I remembered mine when they were that little. It made me cry. – T.R.


written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on June 21st, 1987

A people of faith

A parish is a living place. The bare twigs Marie Perry planted behind Sorrowful Mother Church now tower above the church. Father Raymond Weiber’s new shrine to St. Francis recollects those Franciscan Fathers who kept the Faith more than 100 years ago in the parish.

Mrs. Jean Kosik stopped by to paint the rectory office the other day. Paint brush in hand, she spoke of modern Catholic identity. She and I and Father Weiber and Sister Kathryn Kirk reflected on media coverage of the Holy Father’s visit, about how the ordinary lives of ordinary Catholics are not very newsworthy. I thought about the Holy Father’s theme, “Unity in the work of service,” as I observed Mrs. Kosik paint the doorjamb.

Joseph and Joyce Slawnikowski, the parish council president and his wife, had just left. Father Weiber said: “They’re here for Mass every day.” Faithful people.

Father spoke to a parishioner about a concrete walkway behind the rectory. They spoke in Polish, fluent Polish, flowing Polish, conversational Polish in the back yard of the rectory in Wheatfield, Indiana.

“We didn’t hear the word ‘ecumenical’ in those days,” said Margaret Grube, as she sat at the dining table, remembering her grandfather. “When you come down to the nitty-gritty,” she said, “good people are good people. The Methodist preacher used to come through here on horseback and he lived at my grandparents’ house when he was here. They fed him and gave him a bed so he could minister to the Methodists.”

Glimpses, a few memories. Who can say what reflections they bring, what significance they hold for those whose lives have been intertwined in this 100-year-old parish? We speak of buildings and windows and roofs and shrines. We tell stories of statues and who gave the ciborium and who made the altar linen. But a parish is a living place, ten thousand acts of charity, enduring faith, loyalty and service.

No monument recalls the work of the Victory Noll Sisters who labored to teach the faith at Sorrowful Mother parish. No marble slab marks the spot where Father Donald Hardebeck sat in his station wagon outside the public school in Fair Oaks, his motor running the heater in winter time, teaching religion, teaching the Catholic faith.

Only oral history recalls the courage of those Sorrowful Mother parishioners who were hated by the Ku Klux Klan. And what about the Protestants who resisted the threatening pressure to join in the bigotry?

The past becomes a part of the present in ways none of us understands. People will say that they love Sorrowful Mother Church. Buildings, though, are incapable of love. People know that. It’s just difficult to separate the brick and wood from the heart and soul of a parish. Objects become symbols of something deeper: the sign of faith which cannot be seen.

Time was, when the crickets sawed their songs in the marshy wilds of that once uninhabited country, a fearful, hopeful German family arrived at a clearing in northern Indiana. With a lump in their throat and a prayer to God, they stopped to stay, to live there, to call this green space home. There was no church, no parish hall, no house indeed for themselves unless they began to cut trees.

Weeks passed, months. A lone rider, hungry, weathered, spotted chimney smoke and stopped to pay a visit. He was a priest, he said, do you folks know of any Catholics in the area? Family members turned to one another and smiled. A tear formed in the mother’s eye, a tear of joy. –T.R.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on September 27th, 1987

Living in today’s world

While Jan. 22, the anniversary of the 1973 Roe vs. Wade decision, is still fresh in our minds, my mind is unsettled and torn.

Recently I came upon a piece of writing by a group called American Life League asserting that five major U.S. companies are contributing to Planned Parenthood, the League calling for a boycott of their products.

I wrote to each of the companies and asked if it were true that they gave money to Planned Parenthood. Four responded to me. I have not heard from the other firm.

The four answered yes, they support Planned Parenthood, but only insofar as the nation’s No. 1 abortionist provides educational services, or said their money went for “family planning education for low-income people” or “ongoing heath care services.”

They thanked me for my comments. A couple said such comments were reviewed when it came time to give more money from the corporate coffer.

I guess I’m disturbed about these circumstances. One thing is for sure: There is no room for compromise on the question of abortion.

Suppose I buy a product from a company that provides support to Planned Parenthood. There is no question that I have thereby contributed to the support of the No. 1 abortionist in the nation. The companies make their money by the sale of their products to guys like me. They, in turn, direct some of their profits to outfits like Planned Parenthood. The question is, am I compromising on the question of abortion by buying these products?

The argument always goes that these Planned Parenthood activities are simply educational. Therefore, why is that not good? Let’s take this analogy: Suppose there was an excellent school with a first-class academic program. Part of the philosophy of the school, however was that abortion was OK. This was an assertion, now, not a moot subject. In fact, they taught an elective course which said that specifically. Would you send your child to that school?

Let’s take the analogy of a magazine that always has in its center spread one of the four Gospels. The rest of the magazine was devoted to essays on sexual mores with the underlying philosophy being that abortion on demand was OK. Would you recommend this magazine to your college-age son or daughter?

In both analogies, something good can certainly be said. The school was a good school; the magazine published one of the four Gospels. However, by association with the other elements, surely there is some inconsistency, some compromise one would be making in affirming either the school or the magazine.

There is no inconsistency in the various aspects of the Church. Somehow, things go together. There is nothing in the Gospel which contradicts another part of the Gospel. Planned Parenthood says it is at least two things: educational services and abortionist. It says you may not like the one, but you might find the other wholly good and worthwhile. I see a contradiction in that, an inconsistency, a compromise.

The argument exists that because Planned Parenthood has money for its other operations, it’s more at liberty to perform abortions. Like the family budget, you can do more with more.

Boycotts are certainly different from simple protests. If I write to my congressman, that’s one thing. If I don’t vote for my congressman the next time out, that’s another. I would not give money to Planned Parenthood for any reason, because I find their philosophy reprehensible. They think it’s OK to kill unborn babies, and even help do it. I’m now faced with giving money to Planned Parenthood indirectly, whether I want to or not, because American firms are giving them the cash. However miniscule my contribution would be when I purchased a small item, somehow it still doesn’t sit well with me.

It’s not an easy ethical dilemma. United Way of Greater Lafayette gave some money to Planned Parenthood a while back for one of its non-abortion programs, saying the money didn’t come from direct contributions. Cut me some slack! United Way does many valuable and worthwhile things, but that kind of talk is doubletalk. It represents inconsistency and compromise.

I suppose some company somewhere is always going to be doing something I don’t like: polluting the environment, treating its employees unfairly, having some connection with organized crime or pornography or some other vice. I’m sure I buy all kinds of things which bring about unsettling circumstances.

It just seems there is no clear answer. Sometimes my conscience aches living in this world. What about yours? – T.R.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor in January, 1987

Scrooge and Thomas

The wearing of white vestments concludes this Sunday, marking the end of another Christmas season and the resumption of another year of bad rap for my friend Ebenezer Scrooge.

The fictional Ebenezer and my very real patron saint, Thomas the Apostle, both have fallen heir to an outrageous and unkind legacy, their reputations sullied beyond any consistency with the facts.

Call someone a Scrooge and you should be calling him a kind fellow, generous, “as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town or borough, in the good old world.” Trouble is, we still hold Scrooge to be miserly and sour, insensitive to the great chain of suffering to be found amongst his neighbors.

It’s also popular to think immediately of Thomas when encountering someone struggling with belief. “Doubting Thomases” they are called; but, of course, St. Thomas was a man of great faith. How many of us find ourselves repeating his words when we behold the host at the elevation: “My Lord and my God!”

It is true that Scrooge was a miser and Thomas refused to believe until he had seen the Lord himself. But the fact is and the point is that these men changed. Had Scrooge refused to turn around or Thomas perdured in his unbelief, what edification would we have had, what Gospel truth attained?

O, I’m a staunch defender of Scrooge and Thomas, all right; but I’m afraid I have trouble letting people off the hook, too. Would that I did not find it so easy to judge people, put them in a category, form an opinion. I can build a whole personality around a tiny bit of gossip. Obviously, the solution to it all is to allow people to have their faults, to observe the sturdy pile of timber in my eye, and to remember that God doesn’t have favorites.

The rub comes most keenly, I have observed, when the rub comes home. That is, I resist change because that means I will have to be different. I suspect the fictional neighbors of the fictional Ebenezer Scrooge were not a little suspicious of this now gregarious, now benevolent fellow. Doubtless he had to change a lot and for a long time before the townsfolk would hazard a fresh look at the old pinchpenny. Thomas has been dead these nineteen hundred-odd years, been canonized, but we still haven’t given him the benefit of the doubt.

So there is then this social aspect which militates against conversion, I think. I resolve to stop swearing, but in the company of the old crowd, will I find acceptance? I lay off the booze. What will my comrades say? Dare I show displeasure at some racial epithet? Do I laugh at the dirty joke?

I can’t believe it wasn’t humanly hard for Jesus when they sneered and scoffed. “We know you,” they said. “You can’t possibly be anything special. You’re the carpenter’s son. Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” You can almost hear the round of laughter.

In a way, Scrooge had an easy conversion. He had a bunch of money to be generous with, which doubtless brought a degree of instant acceptance of his newfound state. The most Christ-like figure in the whole tale had to be Scrooge’s nephew Fred, who accepted and loved his uncle in his former state as well as his latter.

Thomas, to be sure, found himself without a leg to stand on, faced with the irrefutable contradiction of his lack of faith, and so fell to his knees. Perhaps he was embarrassed. Without doubt, he was forever changed – despite himself.

Sometimes I have seen the clear path to follow and have shied away. Given gobs of grave and unmistakable direction, I have stood firm in the old way. Fear of being no longer the hail good fellow, the wag, the center of attention, I have remained the un-Christ-like version of the Christian. Rather than stand by the Carpenter’s Son, the Nazarene, I have chosen the path of weakness and habit and pride. Jesus gave us a stand-in for us all to put his finger in the nail prints, his hand in the side. He gave us Thomas. He knew us. He wanted us to have not the slightest reason to doubt that He was alive.

I cannot understand my diffidence, my refusal to surrender. Faced with the same disarming clarity Thomas faced, I know what to do, but do not. Still, hope reigns in ordinary time, too.

Scrooge became a good man. Thomas came to believe.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on January 11th, 1987

What is a Catholic?

You’ve heard the old joke, “Is the Pope a Catholic?” The question of the hour seems to be, “Is he the only one?”

The implication of the rhetorical question about the Pope, of course, is that there’s a commonplace understanding of just what being a Catholic is. Whatever it is, so the common understanding goes, at least the Pope must be one.

From there on, the common understanding seems to falter. Take the question, “Is Tom Russell a Catholic?” For those who’ve ever heard of Tom Russell, responses would vary. Some would say, “Certainly!” Others would say, “I always thought he was.” Still others, “He may be a Catholic, but I’m not so sure he’s a good Catholic.” Some would say, “He may say he’s a Catholic, but if you ask me, he’s a Catholic in name only.” You get my drift.

I was always taught in catechism class that in order to be a Catholic, a person had to believe everything the Church teaches. If you rejected anything, it was out you go.

Then along came the idea, “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” That is, if you were “baptized a Catholic,” you were in for life. After that, you could become a “fallen away Catholic” or surely remain in “full communion.”

There were other gradations. We spoke of “good Catholics,” “marginal Catholics” and we had our share of “Saturday night sinners and Sunday morning saints.” I became acquainted with “C & Eers”: those who attended Mass only on Christmas and Easter. Another category was the “non-practicing” Catholic.

Anyone who wasn’t a Catholic was a “non-Catholic,” but it was only relatively recently that I heard about people who “used to be Catholic.” Used to be people were “raised Catholic” or “brought up Catholic,” but they couldn’t just quit. They “quit practicing their faith” or simply “stopped going to Church.” I’ve heard of people who were “supposed to be Catholic.”

People didn’t used to say of themselves: “I’m a member of the Catholic Church.” They said, “I’m a Catholic.” They were “members” of a parish.

It seems that there are all kinds of “modern Catholics” and today there are more kinds than ever before. We have “women Catholics,” “conservative Catholics,” “liberal Catholics,” “moderate Catholics,” “homosexual Catholics,” “charismatic Catholics.” A significantly distinct group has become known as “American Catholic.”

People of course used to “become Catholic,” but one could not simply “start going” to the Catholic Church and have that meet the sufficient “requirements of the faith.” Much more was involved, and that’s still true, at least I think it is.

Just how true, however, seems to have been called into question. I haven’t heard of any of the “requirements of the faith” being changed, but one thing I’ve noticed is that some people say they don’t have to believe certain things the Catholic Church teaches and can still be “a Catholic.” Another thing I’ve noticed is that the expression “fallen away Catholic” has fallen into disuse, along also with the general disfavor of the expression “non-Catholic.” The expression “former Catholic” has grown in popularity, and perhaps in this category reside those with selective disbelief in the teachings of the “Catholic Church.”

Whatever the “Catholic Church” is seems to be in question, but there is general agreement that whatever it is, the Pope pretty well fits the mold of what a member of it is supposed to be. He says that to be “a Catholic,” you have to believe the whole shebang. –T.R.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on September 20th, 1987

Msgr. Braun, r.i.p.

The last time I saw him was Memorial Day 1985 at Resurrection Cemetery near Whitesville, Ky. A gang of priests was moving about the grounds praying for the dead. Msgr. Peter J. Braun was there but standing by himself in the parking lot: too old, too feeble, I figured, to join the others. He prayed the Rosary with them. He was the only one wearing a biretta.

Msgr. Braun was always Monsignor to his face, but he was Father Brown elsewhere in Ss. Joseph and Paul parish, where his was a name which brought quick change in tone to any querulous state in the life of faith. The Josephinum Newsletter tells me he died in November. Blessed be God in His angels and in His saints.

I did not greet Msgr. Braun that day in the cemetery. It would not have been proper to interrupt his Rosary. Woe betide me if I had. The feelings are familiar in the human condition: approach-avoidance. In the bustle of the aftermath, I thought no, he wouldn’t remember me.

Oh, but I remember him; indeed have kept up with the news of the whereabouts and well being of my former pastor during the years. Now, my inquiries are at an end.

I suppose I should be ashamed of myself for not making the effort to be personal in my attachment to Msgr. Braun. He was a human being with feelings. But there was no particular reason for him to have an interest in me. “I think you have a vocation,” he told me once. But he was wrong. I was just another kid in the parish.

It was a Sunday morning in the late 1950s. I was one of the servers for the Mass that morning. Father Brown was late and Father Brown was never even slightly late. I recall the news hitting the sacristy in the businesslike tension of the substitute priest. I looked out the sacristy door toward the rectory where no one stirred outside, but where inside I suspected Father Brown lay dying.

He had been overweight and a smoker. The post-heart-attack man emerged an exemplary model of health. If he had slowed, his pace belied it. He became a brisk walker and came to be joined later by a small pet dog.

I knew him to be a genial man but with bearing and reserve. That did not mean he did not speak his mind plainly. His self-discipline was the butt of jokes; but no joke could pierce his essential trait. Msgr. Braun had dignity.

His love for each one made each one know there were others to love, too. His love meant very specific, deep and uncompromising things – not things fuzzy, superficial and maudlin. His notion of repentance had to do with unequivocal effort to change.

Let’s face it, Monsignor. Some people thought you were mean. Word was you sent more than one away from the confessional with his sins retained until you could discern some semblance of sorrow. Tongues wagged about that, and even more tongues would wag today, I suppose. They say Padre Pio sent some away, too.

You were one of a kind, even though you did have a twin brother. I ached for your loneliness, but I know you were every fiber the man God called you to be. Being one of the kids in your crowd, I was never intimidated by you. I never misunderstood where you were coming from. My fear was respect for you, even reverence.

I think of the example of your life only with gratitude. I am still blessed by your blessings. They went past the sign to the mystery of the truth. You were a man of God. – T.R.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on September 13th, 1987