The End of Week Two

Changes

             Someone many years ago said to me “The only constant in life is change.” I’m certain they were quoting someone else, and if I were inclined to look it up on the internet I’m equally certain it would give me an incorrect answer. It sounds an awful lot like something anybody could say and take credit for being the first to think it up. It doesn’t really matter. Life is not static. It is always in a state of flux. The sooner you accept that, the happier you will be.

             March 20 is the first day of spring. It seems only right to talk about change and its effect on my life. Aside from the obvious changes in weather and the blossoming flora, so much seems to be changing right now I can hardly keep up with it. My classes at Rockhurst are challenging, as is my class at Johnson County. Combined they occupy nearly all of my non-working, waking hours. And yet I still find time to work, albeit part time, and spend the occasional evening with my wife having our brain cells sucked from our skulls by the television.

            During one of our evenings together this last week, Bren asked me if my attending Rockhurst was the reason I decided to start going back to church. For those who don’t know, Rockhurst is a Jesuit University in Kansas City. I answered her as honestly as I could but the truth is I don’t think so, but maybe. Rather non-committal I admit, but I sincerely don’t know. There is nothing very spiritual about the classes or their content. The students are asked to reflect of the university’s mission statement and reflect on how its core values “seeks to make God’s good world better through learning, leadership, service, and the pursuit of justice.” The entire mission can be found at http://www.rockhurst.edu/about/points-distinction/jesuit-mission/ if you are so inclined to read it in its entirety rather than my paraphrasing. Truth be told, I don’t have a lot of time to think about such things. I’m busy enough trying to learn the content. But it is in the back of my mind.  So who can say?

            I believe it has more to do with the new pope. Popes change fairly rapidly. At least they do most of the time. My generation was spoiled. Pope John Paul II came to the papacy when he was young by church standards. He was only 58 years old and served for nearly twenty-seven years. When he died in 2005, my children had never known anyone else to hold that position. I had seen four different men serve as pope by the time I finished high school. The Blessed John Paul was something of a superstar to my generation.  He was a hard act to follow. On top of that poor Pope Benedict XVI inherited the sexual abuse scandals that came to light in the first decade of this century when he took up the mantle. When he stepped down in 2013 those problems had been dealt with. Our current pope, Francis, has had a much easier time of it. But he also appears to honestly be the humble servant of God that we have come to expect a pope to be. His words as well as his actions have been an inspiration to me. So maybe that is the reason.

            It could also be because I recently lost my mother. She and I were very close and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her terribly. She was the rock I clung to in times of trouble and now that she is no longer with us I miss her wisdom and guidance. It’s funny to write that now, knowing how much I complained about it growing up. I was lucky to have her as long as I did. She was only 35 when her father died and 39 when her mother passed away. My children spent much of their youth with her and even my grandchildren had the opportunity to meet her. She touched so many lives it’s hard for me to imagine a world without her in it.

            I’m not a big fan of change as you may have guessed. I like things that last. When I put something somewhere, I expect it to be there each and every time I need it. When I find something that works, I seldom vary from using that thing to achieve my goals. I have stated several times that I have not gone to mass in a very long time so it should come as no surprise that I am somewhat taken aback by the recent changes in the liturgy. The Catholic mass was something I fully expected to be a constant I could rely on. I know the changes made to the mass are nothing new to those who have been going for awhile. Apparently all these changes took place a few years ago. Those people have been regularly attending mass have had the opportunity to be warned of their existence, hear them, gripe about them, get used to them, and finally accept them. I, on the other hand, went directly to hearing them without any warning. I realize I don’t have much of a choice but to conform. I only ask that you put up with my complaining for a little while longer. I don’t suppose I’m feeling much different than those folks did back in 1965 following Vatican II when the church decided it no longer needed to recite the entire mass in Latin. I did do some Google searching and found a few .pdf files that will help me to get through these changes with a minimum of discomfort. Meanwhile I’ll continue to mumble during the difficult parts. 

The Eucharist

The End of Week One

            The first week of Lent ended with a whimper and a sigh. As far as my sacrifice of social media is going, I’m doing pretty well. It turns out one can never really get off of Facebook and Twitter entirely. Things online are constantly wanting to post to Facebook and Twitter for you. Pandora particularly likes to let people know what I am listening to. Other sites like to let people know where I am. Big Brother is constantlywatching. I like listening to music while I study on campus. It keeps me focused. Get over it.

            I went to mass on Sunday. I was a few minutes late. I thought mass started at 11. Turns out it starts at 10:30. Little things like checking the schedule sometimes escape my attention. The homily was interesting, sort of. I didn’t recognize a soul, I didn’t bother to get up this time, and I left during the last song. Baby steps.

            I had other things on my mind. Our cat, Kleo, is missing. She went on walkabout last Friday and never came home. I made flyers. Bren and I canvassed the neighborhood. She is still M.I.A. today. The not knowing is frustrating. Cats can be so inconsiderate. I like to think she just took up residence somewhere else. When I was younger, my best friend Dave Brown’s cat went missing for nearly a decade before he returned home. He just strolled up to Dave’ss parent’s house one day while Dave’s dad was outside. Dad Brown told me he recognized Rebel right away, albeit with a few more scars. He opened the door and Rebel walked right in like he had never left. He live a few more months then passed peacefully in his sleep. There’s that Prodigal Son parable again.

            Later on Sunday Bren and I met with the woman who handles annulments. It took about an hour and a half to go through the preliminary paperwork. The hardest part for me is going to be finding five people who knew me 35 years ago who will be willing to explain why they think my marriage didn’t work the first time, and 5 who knew me twenty years ago who can say the same thing about the second. It’s sad to say that many of my oldest friends are no longer alive. Also, a lot of bridges get burned during a divorce. This annulment ain’t gonna be no walk in the park.

            Bren did well. Dredging up all those painful memories is hard on her. I’m so much better off with her I have no problem remembering how bad it was with the other two. I learned to let the bad things roll off like water off a duck’s back. I don’t mind looking back once in awhile. When you’re leading the parade, you have to look back once in a while to see if anyone is still following you. But if you look back too often you risk tripping over your future. Learn from the past, plan for the future, but live in the present.

            This is the last week before Spring Break and Saint Patrick’s Day is this coming Monday. I haven’t decided how I wish to celebrate either. One day next week I need to trek up to Nebraska to get a copy of my marriage license from 1979. It turns out the safe place I put the last one is so safe even I can’t find it.

            In the end it will all be worth it. If I am honest with myself, I can say the not being able to receive the Eucharist during Communion is one of the primary reasons I haven’t been to mass in a very long time. It’s not the only reason. But it’s one of the big ones.

            There was once a time when nearly everything I did at church centered on the Eucharist. In addition to the mass on Sunday, I also took part in Eucharistic Adoration. For those that don’t know what that is, Eucharistic Adoration is silent meditation in the presence of the Eucharist. If you accept that the Communion Wafer is the Body of Christ, then you also accept that the Holy Spirit is present in the Eucharist. When you receive the Eucharist, you are taking the whole of Christ into yourself: body and spirit. During Eucharistic Adoration, that hour of weekly reflection allowed me to meditate in the presence of God on my life, my goals, and my sins. Imagine spending an hour every week with one of your oldest and dearest friends. Not everything you discuss is going to be earth shattering or life changing, but those weekly conversations bring you closer.

            This week’s events have made me think a lot about the last few years. If Kleo’s disappearance has me worried, how much has my disappearance worried God? How lucky am I that my Heavenly Father allowed me to come strolling through the front door years later? I guess it’s not just cats that are inconsiderate.

            

The Nature of Sin

            While attending mass on Wednesday, when it came to the part where everyone lines up to take communion, I got up like everyone else. As I approached the priest I crossed my arms in front of me and bowed my head. I don’t know that anyone really paid attention to what I did other than the priest but I always feel like a spotlight has been directed at me when I do that. I haven’t committed any horrible crime that prohibits me from taking communion. I simply remarried without first having my previous marriages annulled.

            In the Catholic faith that places me in what is known as Grave Sin. I’ve heard some argue there is no such thing as Grave Sin. They claim there are only two kinds of sin: Venial and Mortal. A rose by any other name. The Dictionary of the Liturgy defines sin as “An offense against God by thought, word, deed, or omission.” It further explains that a sin is venial if the matter is not grave, there was insufficient reflection given, or if it was committed against their will. On the other hand, a mortal sin exists if three conditions are met: it is a serious matter, there was sufficient reflection, and if the sin was committed with full consent of free will. I suppose if those are my only two choices I have to go with the second option. I certainly hope I knew what I was doing when I got married the last time.

            That explains my actions on Wednesday. I remarried seven years ago to a wonderful woman. We have a great relationship. It’s not all rainbows, unicorns, and lollipops but it beats the hell out of my first two marriages. We support each other’s dreams. We pamper each other most of the time. We bust each other’s chops when the situation demands. I wouldn’t have it any other way. We just never got around to going through with the annulment. We have started gathering all the stuff a couple times, but the list is long. I’ve been married twice (don’t judge) so I have to have two of everything: both Marriage certificates, both divorce decrees. I need contact information for both ex-wives. One I haven’t heard from in over twenty years. On a happy note, I have all of that. At least I think I do. My list is easy because I was never baptized as a child. I was the youngest of five and my parents grew away from the church with the birth of each subsequent child. My two older sisters went to a Catholic school. They and my brother were all baptized when they were little. My brother was even named after the local parish priest. Or so we were told growing up. I met that priest several years ago, but that’s another story for another time.

            My wife comes from a very devout Irish Catholic family. Their roots in their parish in Illinois go back generations. She not only needs the marriage certificate, divorce decree, and ex-husband’s contact information, but also a current copy of her baptismal certificate with her marriage information on it. Apparently they keep track of that kind of stuff. The Catholic Church is the original Big Brother. She’ll have to go to Illinois for that. The entire process can take a year or more to complete. It’s really kind of a pain in the ass to get remarried in the Catholic Church. Not that divorce is ever a walk in the park regardless of your religious beliefs.

            That brings us back to my actions at Wednesday’s mass. Because I am considered in a state of either grave or mortal sin, depending on the definition, I am forbidden from the taking of the Eucharist until this matter has been resolved. I respect that. If I didn’t I would be going to a Catholic Church. I could just as easily go to any number of protestant churches and continue on like nothing is wrong. I would probably fit right in without missing a step at an Anglican or Episcopal Church. Their masses are remarkably similar from what I’ve seen. I’ve even heard them referred to as “Catholic Lite.” You know, “All the ritual and half the guilt.” But it wouldn’t be the same to me. Go with what you know, I say.

            So that was the first impression Father Jeff had of me. We had not yet met. He is apparently the new parish priest. I only met the last one a few times. I have to admit I was not impressed with him. In conversation he came across as a little thick. I have no opinion as yet of this new priest. My mother-in-law seems to like him. It’s not like my opinion of him is going to make any difference in the price of noodles in Shanghai anyway. I guess it goes both ways. I suppose he wondered what my story was when I approached him in the front of church to receive the Lord’s blessing instead of the Eucharist. I think I may even have piqued his interest after the service when I was introduced to him by the old friend I wrote about yesterday. He might even recognize me at mass this weekend. But then again, he may not. Either way is okay with me.

Ash Wednesday

It's been some time since I have been to an Ash Wednesday mass. I honestly can't recall the last time I went. In matter of fact, it's been some time since I went to a mass at all that wasn't a funeral. I’ve been to more than my share of those, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll talk more about that in a later post.

          I decided to walk to church today since I not only needed the exercise, but also remembered what a royal pain it is finding a place to park near St. John’s. That’s my parish, Saint John the Evangelist Catholic Church in Lawrence, Kansas. I was baptized there on Tartan Day in 1996. I’ve got a videotape of it somewhere. I really should get it digitized and post it for all to see. I’ll add that to my bucket list for now. 

         A few things have changed at St. John’s in the years I’ve been not been attending mass. The first thing I noticed was that the response words have changed. If you’re Catholic you know what I’m talking about. If you aren’t Catholic let me explain. During the mass the priest will say certain phrases such as “The Lord be with you.” To which the congregation used to reply, “And also with you.” It took me the better part of the mass to finally figure out the new response is, “And with your spirit.” I’m still not certain because of the phenomenon of the Catholic mumble. Once again, if you’re Catholic you’ll understand what I’m talking about. For the uninitiated let me again explain. There are a lot of Catholics like myself. We get the urge to go to mass around Easter and Christmas. We might even go for a few weeks after that. But eventually it becomes a chore and sleeping in on Sunday mornings begins to sound a lot more inviting than getting all dressed up to fall asleep sitting in a hard wooden pew. For those occasions the Catholic mumble comes in handy. We know when the response is required. We just don’t remember exactly what it is. So we mumble something unintelligible and think no one is the wiser.

          The church building is pretty much the same as it was the last time I was there. They moved a few of the statues around, but it’s all pretty much as I remember it. Sadly, so was the reception I received by the parishioners. That was the reason I quit going the last time. In all the churches in all the denominations I have attended in my fifty-five years on this planet, I have never met a group like that at St. John’s. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few very amiable people in the parish. Some I dearly love. I saw one today. We served on the RCIA team together way back before Y2K. When I walked up to her today she embraced me as I imagine the father did his prodigal son in the parable. I suppose people like her are the reason I keep going back. There are more than a few bad apples in every barrel and they don’t necessarily always spoil the rest.

          But that was later. During the mass is a different story. I tried to be understanding and let the sideway glances and turned up noses roll off like water on a duck’s back, but it was not easy. Perhaps it is the length of my hair, or the beard. At six feet tall and two hundred seventy pounds it could be my somewhat imposing size. I smiled. I showered before I left. I dressed somewhat appropriately. I don’t think of myself as hideous. I know I’m no Brad Pitt, but I’ve never known children to go running from the room screaming when I enter either. Regardless of the reason for their actions, the people I sat next to when I entered chose to keep at least a one empty seat minimum between me and them. When we got up to receive the ashes the couple on my left moved an addition chair over after we returned to our seats. I almost laughed out loud at the intricate shuffle they performed so the wife would not be forced to sit next to me. During the Lord’s Prayer, as the congregation stretched out their arms to join hands in Christian brotherhood, I did likewise. And as I stood there with my arms outstretched, no one returned the gesture. I left them outstretched during the entire recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.

          I can only imagine their reasons for behaving in such a manner. I could feel insulted and let this one bad experience turn me away from my journey on the first day. But I won’t. I smiled as I walked home thinking of how these people would have received Jesus should he have walked in the door and sat next to them. Not instantly recognized by wearing sandals and a robe like He is depicted in western imagery, but dressed as a contemporary man; His clothes worn and dusty from his travels, His hair and beard a little unkempt, His hands calloused and hardened by a lifetime of manual labor. I believe He would look a lot like me. I wondered to myself, would I take his hand? Would I offer him a seat next to me? I’d like to believe that I would.

In the beginning

In response to the suggestion that I replace the habit I am giving up for Lent, i.e. Facebook and Twitter, with something that will help me grow spiritually I decided to start a blog of my experiences of the next forty days. Since this is Ash Wednesday I will be attending mass for the first time in a long time. Later today I will pass along my reflections of that experience. Follow along if you like on my latest journey of self discovery.