Two Mothers

   Friday of the Passion of the Lord   

Readings

On Tuesday, 

Balal was scheduled to die.

A citizen of Iran,

his homeland executes more criminals each year

than any other country on the planet except China.

(His would already be the 200th this year alone.)

He was convicted of murder,

having stabbed to death another man—Abdollah—

in a street brawl seven years ago.

No one has ever claimed he was innocent—

not even Balal.

Now, Iran does not execute criminals

like we do here in the West:

discreetly, in antiseptic conditions.

No, Iran executes the guilty in public by hanging.

A scaffold of rusty pipes was set up in an open square,

a curious crowd gathered ’round it.

A tattered noose was tossed over it

and, placed beneath it, was an old wooden chair.

Balal was escorted into this scene blindfolded.

He was made to stand atop the chair

and the rope was placed around his neck.

His victim’s parents were brought forward;

in Iran, they have the right by law 
to knock the chair away.
Still grieving over the killing of her 18-year-old son

(the second son she’s lost),

Abdollah’s mother slapped Balal across the face.

And then she did the unexpected:

with her husband’s help,

she removed the noose from Balal’s neck.

A right also granted her by law: she chose to spare his life.

She later said that she’d recently had a dream

in which Abdollah assured her

that both of her boys were in a good place.

He told her not to retaliate.

And so she forgave this man.

Which is when Balal’s mother came forward:

she embraced the sorrowful mother

of the man her own son had killed.

The two women sobbed in each other’s arms:

one because her son had been lost,

the other, because her son had been saved.

At the Cross her station keeping,

Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Close to Jesus to the last.

Today, we stand beneath the gallows—

what more, we bow before them,

touch the wood and kiss it.

And here, we behold two mothers weeping:

the Blessed Mother, Mary,

because her Son has been lost,

and our Holy Mother, the Church,

because her children have been saved.

Mary weeps, because it his her own flesh and blood

hanging there upon the tree.

Sharing like none other in his suffering,

she is a sort of living martyr,

as was foretold when her Son was but a little boy:

“and you yourself a sword shall pierce” (Luke 2:35).

Is there one who would not weep,
Whelmed in miseries so deep,
Christ’s dear Mother to behold?

Saint Paul once wrote to the Romans:
“Only with difficulty does one die for a just man,

although perhaps even for a good man

one might find the courage to die. 

But God proves his love for us

in that while we were still sinners

Christ died for us” (5:7-8).

Mother Church looks though her tears

to witness the death of one which means life for the many,

the innocent offering himself to save the guilty,

the noble King who is sacrificed

for the sake of sin’s wretched slaves.

Just the night before—

after supper, while they remained at table—

Jesus had told his disciples that there can be no greater love

than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends (John 15:13).

But could he have been wrong about this?

Might not that love be still greater

which lays down it’s life for a stranger, or even an enemy,

and so—through the unsurpassed power

of compassion and forgiveness—

makes of them a friend?

Yes, we stand between two weeping mothers today—

we who had been justly sentenced for our crimes,

we who have been inexplicably pardoned,

we who live because Christ came for us to die.

Can the human heart refrain

From partaking in her pain,

In that Mother’s pain untold?

And yet, our tears are not purely shed out of sorrow.

Even now, on Calvary, they are tears of joy.

Out of the most wondrous love

poured forth from his Sacred Heart

together with his Precious Blood,

because of a mercy which could only be divine,

his life has been lost

that our life might be saved.

  

Do This

"Do this in memory of me."

"Was ever another command so obeyed? For century after century, spreading slowly to every continent and country and among every race on earth, this action has been done, in every conceivable human circumstance, for every conceivable human need from infancy and before it to extreme old age and after it, from the pinnacle of earthly greatness to the refuge of fugitives in the caves and dens of the earth. Men have found no better thing than this to do for kings at their crowning and for criminals going to the scaffold; for armies in triumph or for a bride and bridegroom in a little country church; for the proclamation of a dogma or for a good crop of wheat; for the wisdom of the Parliament of a mighty nation or for a sick old woman afraid to die; for a schoolboy sitting an examination or for Columbus setting out to discover America; for the famine of whole provinces or for the soul of a dead lover; in thankfulness because my father did not die of pneumonia; for a village headman much tempted to return to fetich because the yams had failed; because the Turk was at the gates of Vienna; for the repentance of Margaret; for the settlement of a strike; for a son for a barren woman; for Captain so-and-so wounded and prisoner of war; while the lions roared in the nearby amphitheatre; on the beach at Dunkirk; while the hiss of scythes in the thick June grass came faintly through the windows of the church; tremulously, by an old monk on the fiftieth anniversary of his vows; furtively, by an exiled bishop who had hewn timber all day in a prison camp near Murmansk; gorgeously, for the canonisation of S. Joan of Arc—one could fill many pages with the reasons why men have done this, and not tell a hundredth part of them. And best of all, week by week and month by month, on a hundred thousand successive Sundays, faithfully, unfailingly, across all the parishes of Christendom, the pastors have done this just to make the plebs sancta Dei—the holy common people of God."

Dom Gregory Dix (British Benedictine, 1901-1952)

  

Guarded

I'd like to get my hands on a few of these...

Begins

How appropriate that today, as we concluded 6 weeks with Fr. Robert Barron's study program, Catholicism: The New Evangelization, this would show up in the Sunday comics...

Pursuit

   Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord   A 

Readings

One of our late priests used to tell the story

of being assigned to an Adirondack parish

where, during the fall, they would add

a Sunday evening “Hunters’ Mass” to the schedule. 

He discovered a box of offering envelops in a rectory closet

specially designed for the season:

they were marked with a picture of a deer

and the line, “We’re looking for a buck, too…”

St. Hubert is the patron saint of hunters.

A French nobleman of the very early Middle Ages,

Hubert decided to go hunting one day—

Good Friday, to be precise—

when most everyone else was crowded into church.

A beautiful stag came into view

and, as he pursued it, 

the animal turned toward Hubert,

who saw the most amazing sight between its antlers:

a vivid, radiant image of Christ hanging on his Cross.

Hubert then heard a voice say,

“Unless you turn to the Lord and lead a holy life,

you shall quickly go down into hell.”

Hubert realized he’d been pursuing 

all the wrong things—

following his own way, instead of God’s.

He received instruction, was ordained a priest,

later consecrated a bishop, and died a very holy man.

It’s said that Hubert attracted many to the faith

by his great skill with a bow and arrow…

…but you can be quite sure

he never went out hunting on Good Friday again.

What will you be doing this Friday—Good Friday?

That day on which our Savor was crucified,

life in Jerusalem went on much like it did any other day:

people did not stop going about their usual business

just because another convicted criminal was being dispatched.

But for those who knew Jesus—

who had heard him speak so powerfully of God’s love

and seen him heal countless wounded bodies and broken hearts—

it was a day unlike any other, before or since.

Yes, this sin-weary world kept turning,

but it was given an entirely new axis

as the holy and life-giving Cross

was planted in the rocky soil of Golgotha.

The days are now gone—which some of you, no doubt, remember—

when businesses closed at noon on Good Friday,

and many families shut off their radios and televisions

to sit silently for three very solemn hours.

Our times, rather, look a lot like those of Jesus:

everything appears pretty much normal.

So I challenge you to make this Friday different.

Your work schedule may not allow you
to take part in any services here at church—

but that doesn’t mean it has to be another ordinary day.

Like St. Hubert,

heed the Lord’s call to change your course.

Rise early or stay up later

to spend some extra time in quiet prayer.

Embrace the Church’s tradition of fasting.

Make a visit to church,

even if you can’t make it to the liturgy.

Lay aside some of your usual pursuits,

recalling to what extraordinary lengths

the Lord was willing to go in order to pursue you:

emptying himself utterly;

the Almighty and Eternal God

becoming obedient and humble

even to the point of death.

What will you be doing on Good Friday?

  

Awhile

Ol' Chuck and I have even more in common than I thought...

Think About It

Given a recent wilderness adventure of mine, I've been thinking about it a bit more than usual the last few days...

   Fifth Sunday of Lent   A 

Readings

John and Jim loved baseball.

They lived and breathed the sport

to the point that they often speculated
on whether or not there would be baseball in heaven.

They agreed that whoever got there first

would come back to let the other one know.

It so happened that John died, and his friend grieved for days.

After about two weeks,

Jim awoke to a familiar voice calling his name.

It was John, and he’d returned with the promised report.

“I’ve got good news and bad news, Jim,” he said.

“The good news is, there’s baseball in heaven.

We play everyday!

The bad news is…you’re scheduled to pitch next Tuesday.”

This Sunday’s gospel makes abundantly clear

the inevitably of death,

even for those who are close to Jesus.

What we see in the death of Lazarus

is seen repeated in the lives of so many saints.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux, a French Carmelite nun,

died painfully from tuberculosis at the tender age of 24 in 1897.

Recognizing her great holiness,

one of the other sisters said to her that, when she died,

a radiant choir of angels 

would most certainly come for her.

Thérèse—ever the realist—

wouldn’t accept such attempts 

to make death “pretty.”

But she also refused to see death 

as something fearful.

When another sister said, 

“Death will carry you off,”

Thérèse quickly responded,

“No, not death.

God will come to take me. 

Death is not a ghost,

a horrifying figure such as one sees in pictures. 

It says in the catechism that death

is the separation of body and soul—
nothing more.

Well, I have no fear of a separation

which will unite me forever with God.”

Staying close to Jesus may not spare us from death,

but faith does have the power to rob death of its terror.

This Sunday’s lengthy gospel

contains the Bible’s shortest verse:

“Jesus wept.”

Death is not the Lord’s plan for us; it never has been.

Jesus weeps, not because he believes that death is the end,

but because it pains his Sacred Heart to see us suffer—

suffering that’s a result of sin.

Yet Jesus does not stop at shedding tears.

He will proceed from Bethany to Jerusalem to shed his blood,

that by his own dying on the cross and rising from the grave

death might be swallowed up in victory.

The sacred writings of the Hindus ask,

“What is the greatest wonder of the world?”

And the same text answers:

“That all of us know that we will surely die,

but each of us foolishly thinks he will not die any time soon.”

Do I give death any thought—

and not just generically or the passing of loved ones,

but my own death, which could come at any time?

And if I do think about death—

do I see it as the end, as something final which I should dread?

Or do I see death as a new beginning,

as an opening to a life beyond this one,

which has the potential to give meaning and purpose

to every moment I spend on this earth?

I can’t be sure if there’s baseball in heaven,
but I do share the perspective of none other than Peter Pan:
“To die will be an awfully big adventure…”

We will soon enough walk again with Jesus

on his way of the cross

It’s a way that necessarily passes through death to new life.

Jesus would not avoid it;

we cannot avoid it.

So why not be ready?

  

Lived to Tell

WARNING
If you are a mother (my mother, in particular), you should probably stop reading this post right now, lest you be frightened and/or scold me later.  (I'd prefer to avoid both.)

So, I decided to go camping again.  No great surprise there.  I'd been considering whether a trip out in the snow in early April would be preferable to a trip out in the mud later in the month, and determined that was in fact the case.  I've come to enjoy winter camping: no bugs, no bears, and not too many people.

Though I'd already noticed an opening in my calendar, I really only made up my mind on Wednesday morning to head out into the woods that same afternoon.  No problem, though:  I've got the gear and can easily assemble some grub, so it's only a mater of getting packed and choosing a destination.  I'd previously had my eye on the lean to on St. Regis Pond (near Lake Clear), and the guides showed it to be a nice area to XC ski or snowshoe, although I'd never explored the area before.  My last minute decision made this a solo expedition.  But again, no problem.  Right?  Right?

Well, I got a much later start than I'd anticipated on Wednesday.  Nonetheless, when one of my very favorite songs came on the radio as I drove out of the parish office parking lot, and when a bald eagle majestically soared overhead in the clear, sunny sky as I headed south on Route 30, I took them to be clear signs that this was going to be a really great getaway.  I didn't arrive at the trailhead until 6:00pm, but it was only a 2.5 miles or so ski in, and I'd have daylight for a while yet.

So off I went.  Now, when I wasn't yet out of sight of my car and had already fallen flat on my back, I should have reconsidered things.  To begin with, snow conditions were less than ideal: having thawed and frozen a few times, and the temp currently around 40˚ F, there were alternating stretches of icy, hard-packed snow, wet slush, and hard crust that would unexpectedly give way under your weight.  Not to mention, while I've XC skied for about 25 years now, and been backpacking quite a bit the last several months, I'd never skied with more than a daypack on before.  How different or difficult could it be?  I quickly learned that I had a very different center of gravity...but I wasn't going all that far, and I was sure I'd adjust pretty quick.  Brushing off my pride, I forged ahead.

The snow conditions made the going a bit frustrating, but it was such a gorgeous afternoon evening and I was so looking forward to a backwoods break from it all, that it seemed worth it.  Not knowing the terrain, I had three maps in my pocket, and was on the lookout for a righthand turn that would take me down to the southeastern bay of St. Regis Pond; from there, I'd ski across it's frozen surface to the lean to.  Piece of cake!  But, golly, it seemed like that turn should have come up sooner.  I know I was getting along a little more slowly than anticipated, but surely I should have found it by now.  Maybe it's just a bit further ahead.  Let's take another look at those maps...

Checking out the landscape, I realized that I'd not only missed the turn, but had gone quite a ways past it.  Given how far I'd come, and that the sun was soon to set, it looked like my best option was to stay on this trail and approach the pond from its westernmost bay.  If I took into account the distance I'd have to backtrack, continuing ahead would be about the same distance.  I'll get to the lean to later than expected, but no big deal...

Well, that's when a bad situation got a whole lot worse.  The fairly level trail got pretty hilly, and the poor snow conditions got downright miserable.  The downhills were so icy and fast that I was hurtling like a rocket, but pretty much out of control.  Then I'd suddenly sink in mid-thigh.  I kept falling.  A lot.  Sometimes on purpose because it was the only way to stop.  And getting back up with a 40-50 pound pack on my back was more than a little challenging.  I tried to go a stretch without the skis, but that experiment was short-lived.  (My snowshoes were tucked in, safe-and-sound, back in the car; I'd figured that they'd only add to the weight I was carrying, and there was so little chance I'd need them.)  A few of those face plants had me thinking nasty thoughts (and maybe even saying nasty things) about my gear and the snow...but I quickly realized they were doing nothing wrong: I was the one who didn't belong here.  And now it was starting to get dark.

While I was relieved there were no witnesses to my completely graceless movements, these were most definitely not good circumstances in which to be all alone.  At one point, lying there in the snow, the exhaustion and frustration and fear actually had me on the brink of tears.  I starting thinking, "If I break a leg...I'm stuck here...and it probably won't be till Friday morning that they come looking."  I'd really done it this time!  Turning back wasn't even a feasible option at this point, because I'd have to do those icy hills in reverse, but this time under cover of night.  I determined that I really didn't want to die this way, but at least I'd just been to confession on Monday.  I know this all sounds rather melodramatic...but it was BAD!

With sheer grit and a good dose of adrenaline, knowing that I had no choice but to get my butt to some shelter, I finally found the path that would take me to St. Regis.  When I got to the small dam and fish ladder at the outlet, I dug out my headlamp and the maps again.  A sliver of crescent moon had just come into view and a few stars were now out--quite lovely.  I didn't see any tracks heading out onto the frozen pond...which added to my anxiety.  What shape was this ice in?  My options were limited, so I skied along the shoreline, figuring if the ice gave way, I wouldn't sink in too far.  I went about 3/4 of a mile that way by headlamp, scanning through the trees for my campsite, when I finally found the lean to.  It was 8:45pm.  I'd been slogging along for almost three hours, having traveled about 4.5 miles.  But I made it.  And I was sore, but safe.

I got down to business then, unpacking my gear, changing into dry clothes, and making my supper.  It was a perfectly still night.  The only sounds were a few drips from snow melting off the roof (which slowed then stopped as the temperature dropped) and a chorus of coyotes across the pond who put on a brief performance around 10:15pm as I was having my dessert.  I tried to read for a little while, but was still pretty overwhelmed by the experience of the last few hours.  I just sat there for a spell, snug in my sleeping bag, before saying Night Prayer and turning in for the night.

Sorry, but I don't have a single picture from all of that.  Photography just wasn't a priority.

Day 2 was much, MUCH better.  I awoke to a glorious late winter sunrise.

The first order of the day was to offer Mass.  After all, I had a lot to be thankful for!

Then it was time for a hot breakfast.

While that cooked, I checked on my gear...discovering that my boots had frozen solid.

I was in no hurry to set out on the snow again, so I hoped they'd have time to thaw--at least a little. I spent a leisurely morning curled up with a good book and hot tea. I also surveyed the scene now that I had the daylight to do so.  It's a rather nice spot.

Among the copious lean to graffiti was this Biblical admonition:

Ever dutiful, I did that once I got home.  It was even more inspiring (and smiling-inducing) with a little context:

Thus says the Lord who made the earth,
giving it shape and stability,
Lord is his name:
Call to me, and I will answer you;
I will tell you great things
beyond the reach of your knowledge.  

Thus says the Lord:
In this place...without people, without inhabitant, without animal,
there shall yet be heard the song of joy, the song of gladness,
…the song of those bringing thank offerings to the house of the Lord:
“Give thanks to the Lord of hosts, for the Lord is good;
God’s love endures forever.”
For I will restore the fortunes of this land
as they were in the beginning, says the Lord. 

Jeremiah 33:2-3, 10-11 

A most appropriate message for me!

By the time I was done with my book, packing up, and eating a light lunch, it was past noon.  So I got into those frosty boots, locked in my skis, and headed back out onto the pond, where I got my first clear views of St. Regis Mountain and its fire tower up on the peak.

  

I headed out on the route by which I'd intended to head in.  Snow conditions were fair.  Biggest treat: the pond's surface was level!  There were a few spots of open water--some near the edges, as I would have expected, but a few out in the middle, too, around which I steered as clear as possible.

Glad to be back on solid ground, I began to see signs I really, really wished I'd seen the day before.

The 2.5 mile trip to the car took me exactly an hour (plus a 10 minute conversation with another skier at the trail register).  And I didn't fall once.  If I hadn't missed that turn coming in, things would have gone as originally planned and I'd have a rather different tale to tell you now.

I learned a lot of lessons on this outing. (And I've typed up this lengthy story here just in case I need to be reminded of them down the line.)  I'll be processing this adventure for a while to come.  I'm hoping my extremely tired and sore muscles will recover sooner than that.

The back of the St. Regis Pond lean to sports a common bit of DEC signage:

I'm so very grateful no one had to carry ME out.  "There but for the grace of God..."

  

Papal Yurt

Breaking news from London's The Tablet:

Pope Francis to move into yurt in Vatican Gardens

01 April 2014 10:51 by Liz Dodd

A Mongolian yurt

Pope Francis is to move into a yurt in the Vatican Gardens, the Holy See announced this morning.

He is due to make the move from his home in the Domus Sanctae Marthae guesthouse, where he has been living since his election last year, after Holy Week.

The move follows his repeated calls for a poorer Church that serves the poor. Speaking in Assisi last October he urged the Church to divest itself of “worldliness”.

"Worldliness is a murderer because it kills souls, kills people, kills the Church. Without divesting ourselves, we would become pastry-shop Christians, like beautiful cakes and sweet things but not real Christians," he said.

The yurt, which was crafted by Consolata missionary nuns in Mongolia, is made out of cattail and bulrush reeds, Indian hemp and wormseed plant inner fibres, and is 20 feet wide and 11 foot long. Sources said it would have electricity, but internet access was more difficult to guarantee.

A spokesman for the Holy See said that the large, pyramid-shaped tent was completely weather-proof and “the same size the Mongolians generally use for their families”, but added that the Pope would continue to use the Vatican’s Apostolic Palace to receive visiting diplomats and other guests.

This gets me thinking: maybe the Holy Father would like to go out camping one of these days...