church

Friends and Good People Redux

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

I used to post links to the right of this blog, under the header “Friends and Good People.” Some of the links were to other blogs; some, to business Web sites or organizations run by family and friends, past and present. I took most of them down after a couple of them turned up broken, and a blog or two hadn’t been updated in long months, and one site featured objectionable (to me) content a single click from my page.

Recently, however, I’ve begun to follow a few new blogs fairly regularly, and I find I am often delighted by the writing and/or the subject matter. So I’m adding them under A Few Favorites, at the right, and featuring them here today:

  • Prairie Father is the blog of Father Tyler Dennis, whose ordination we attended last summer. Fr. Tyler’s experiences in his first year of the priesthood are moving, his wit is sharp, and in a PC world, he pulls no punches.
  • Two Years In Honduras is the blog of a recent U grad who worked in our office until this May and has since gone two (you guessed it) Honduras with the Peace Corp. She is smart, independent, idealistic, self-aware…and a strong writer to boot. In many ways, Kari and I are opposites, but I do not doubt her heart or her genuine love of others. She will go far.
  • A Long Plane Ride Away is the blog of a colleague and dear friend who splits her time between the U and an orphanage in Thailand which she helped get off the ground. Somehow she manages to give her whole heart to both, and most of her energy, to both. She’s there now, and missed terribly here.
  • Laura the Crazy Mama is the blog of a friend and fellow parishioner at St. Michael Catholic Church. (Take the virtual tour; it’s a lovely church.) These days, the blog is worth visiting for the masthead alone, but Laura writes boldly and with not a little humor on faith, family, and about anything else that comes to mind. Like Fr. Tyler, she pulls no punches. Like all crazy mamas, she shouldn’t have to.

I’m struck by the diversity of people and perspectives we can come to love in this life. The people behind my favorite blogs would never cross paths unless I invited them all to a chili feed some crisp autumn evening and didn’t explain who else was coming. I’ve disagreed with each of them myself at different times, sometimes vehemently. But I love ’em just the same. Hope you might, too.

Easter Revisited

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Blogger’s Note: For those who may not know, the Easter season officially came to a close last Sunday, with the Feast of Pentecost. Oh, and sorry for the long hiatus.

I drove to Michigan the Monday after Easter to be with my folks and sister while my dad recovered from surgery. In the weeks leading up to that trip, I’d exchanged a few emails with my sister — it’s been a rocky year for her, and we had been talking a bit about God and faith, prayer and church. I knew she’d been checking out churches in her area, but didn’t know if she’d found one, or what denomination it might be. Even so, a question had been stirring in my heart: would she consider baptizing my niece and nephew. I didn’t know how to broach the subject, not knowing where she was with her own thoughts, or what their dad might think. So the week before Easter, I prayed.

Then on March 31, while at work, a close friend dropped me a line. She had been cast in a play very near and dear to her heart, but her childcare arrangements for her son had fallen through. She asked me to say a prayer for them that this problem would work out, and I agreed — but the workday being what it was, I didn’t feel I could do so immediately. I went about my business, drove home, ate supper with Jodi and the kids, and at 7:05 p.m., as I logged into my computer, remembered that I had yet to pray for her needs. I closed my eyes and offered a short but heartfelt petition on her behalf, then reiterated my prayers regarding my sister and her children.

At about 7:30, my friend emailed that she had found a replacement sitter. “I know it’s not yet Easter,” she said, “but Alleluia!”

I opened a chat window, and asked her when this had happened. About 20, 25 minutes ago…little after 7.

As I confessed I had not managed to say the requested prayer until 20, 25 minutes ago, a prickle ran up my neck.

The next morning at work, I received an email from my sister, informing me that she had found her church — St. John Neumann Catholic Church in Canton — and asked me about Holy Week services: what to expect Holy Thursday, or at Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, or at the Easter Vigil. She told me she was considering attending all three (which we had never done, even during the brief period my mom brought us to church as kids) and that she was setting up a meeting with her priest to see about getting the kids baptized.

This time the prickle was a full-on chill.

* * * * *

On Holy Thursday, I was blessed to be one of 12 parishioners asked to allow the priests to wash my feet in the sanctuary, as Christ did for the Twelve. This is the work of household slaves, and is a gesture of profound humility and service.

The kids watched closely, smiling at me from the pew. Father Gregory made quiet, humorous small talk, and on either side were friends of mine, also absently making quiet small talk, also lost in their own thoughts.

My thoughts were these: It is nearly impossible to get previously worn socks back on damp feet in a graceful or quick manner, and I have never understood these words of John the Baptist until now: John answered them, “I baptize with water; but there is one among you whom you do not recognize, the one who is coming after me, whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie.” — John 1:26-27

* * * * *

At supper, we begin the obligatory annual discussion about what happens if a hunter accidentally shoots the Easter Bunny, or if a dog — Puck, for example — were to get hold of him by the neck and shake furiously.

Trevor takes a new angle, combining the best of the discussion thus far and the premise of the movie The Santa Clause: “What if,” he says, “Puck killed the Easter Bunny, then had to deliver all the candy and hide all the eggs!”

The Easter Schnauzer. Hilarity ensues. To borrow from my friend Jacqui, will someone please write me this book?

* * * * *

On Good Friday, we attended the Living Stations of the Cross at the historic church in St. Michael. It was, as always, very well done, and if you’ve not gone, I will recommend it here and say little more about it, except that based on his experience last year, Trevor spent a good portion of the Stations with his hands clamped over his ears, anticipating the thunder peals that occur only when Christ dies upon the Cross. As a result, he watched the Passion in muffled near-silence.

Across the aisle from us sat a young woman and her parents. The young woman was not attending of her own accord — that much was plain — and spent the bulk of the time until the lights dimmed doing what appeared to be homework. She stood, she knelt, when others did, but neither said nor sang a word.

The procession wound around the sanctuary as the Passion unfolded, until it came to the front, near the altar: Calvary. I noticed as the end near, she was following the action, if only with her gaze. The hammer and nails. The cross is raised. He speaks, and breathes his last. Thunder (followed by Trevor’s loud rasping whisper: “That wasn’t as bad as I thought!”).

The reader announces a hymn. The girl across the aisle thumbs through the hymnal to the right page and opens it for her father. He smiles, perhaps surprised. She does not sing, but she is not unmoved. Her eyes follow the words.

* * * * *

The little tablets for coloring eggs can’t touch good old-fashioned food coloring, vinegar, and hot water…and the smelly tie-dyed fingers that result.

* * * * *

I was also privileged to read at the Easter Vigil Mass this year. For those who have never been, the Easter candle is blessed and lit from a wood fire outdoors, then all those in attendance light their own small candles from the Easter flame and process into a dark church. The Mass itself begins with numerous Old Testament readings by flickering candlelight—readings that trace salvation history from Genesis forward.

I read Exodus 14:15-31 — Moses and the parting of the Red Sea. All readers in our church receive a workbook of sorts, which provides the year’s worth of readings for each Sunday and Holy Day, with pronunciations, commentary, and context, as well as tips for how to proclaim the readings. In my case, the book suggested that I imagine myself relating an ancient tale over a crackling fire — and I did. The lighting was perfect; you could almost perceive the stars in the high dome of the sanctuary. It is a wondrous and terrible story to hear and to tell.

* * * * *

Crafty Bunny hid the eggs, the baskets, all of it. The kids loved the looking and the finding. Lots of good food on Easter Sunday — a big brunch and a big supper, too, just the six of us. Could’ve widened the net and invited others, but I was heading to Michigan in the wee hours, and I find I no longer enjoy being alone away from home. Family time was the goal, and it was achieved with gusto.

* * * * *

I took the northern route to Michigan — a long solo drive through beautiful stretches of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Stopped twice, I think — my little Deezeldub, Nadia, (a 2000 VW Golf TDI) hovered right around 50 mpg for the trip. Hawks and eagles. Lakes, rocks, and trees. Two outstanding audio books (The Lincoln biography Team of Rivals and a first-time fantasy outing The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss). And scotch waiting for me at the log house on 11-Mile.

* * * * *

Dad’s surgery went perfectly on every level. More prayers answered.

* * * * *

Headed to my sister’s place on Thursday. I’ve never really spent time with just her (or just her and the kids and the dogs, cats, and guinea pig).I was torn the whole way between wanting to hang with the three of them, and itching for time to talk, just to Jill, about rejoining the church.

I don’t remember the exact order of things. I know Chipotle was eaten. I know we drove around the Domino’s Pizza corporate campus looking for a Catholic bookstore; Domino’s founder Tom Monaghan is a devout Catholic who has started a number of Catholic organizations and businesses. We found it, and all four of us bought books.

Then we drove to the University of Michigan Museum of Art. On the way, my nephew began to read his new Bible, illustrated in comic fashion, and to ask fairly deep questions about creation and violence, humanity and eternity — the perfect set-up to a tour of art history that included the intricate handiwork of samurai armor, obscure (to our eyes) minimalist modern drawings, and several paintings of the Annunciation.

Later, my nephew asked me about the story of Abraham and Isaac (“Was he really going to kill his own son?”), then asked about my favorite Bible stories. I told him that Abraham and Isaac had always been a favorite, but so was the story of the Apostle Thomas and his believe-it-when-I-see-it attitude toward the Resurrection. This began a long-running discussion about favorite books and authors — when I was little, when I was in middle school, now — and recommendations and summaries of all of his favorites. I had never seen him this animated about books before. Neither had my sister.

* * * * *

The meeting with my sister’s priest that day went exceptionally well. He met with the four of us briefly to talk about the Baptisms, then Reconciliation and First Communion for the kids (my sister and I made ours circa 1985 or so, during our brief stint in the church) and Confirmation for my sister and niece in the coming year. Then I took the kids out and answered questions about the artwork in the gathering space (primarily the Stations of the Cross) while my sister confessed to a priest for the first time in years and years.

When they emerged from Father’s office, he reassured her and the kids that he would have only older children baptized on the Sunday that they were — no babies, so they wouldn’t feel out of place. The date was to be in just a few weeks.

As we walked to the parking lot, I smiled to myself — how quickly this was coming together. My sister had mentioned earlier that morning that she wanted Jodi and I to be the kids’ godparents, and as we climbed into her truck, she said, “I hadn’t expected it to be this soon. It’s great, but I had hoped you could be here for it. I’m sure you won’t be back that soon.”

“Actually,” I said, “it’s amazing…we have a First Communion in Grand Rapids the Saturday before. We were going to be here that weekend no matter what.”

Joy and wonder lit her eyes—sparked, perhaps, from mine.

* * * * *

We went to Mass that Saturday, the four of us. My sister looked at home, the kids sang out, and the gospel was that of doubting Thomas, which I mentioned coincidentally the day before. My nephew nodded off briefly and was mortified; already he seemed so serious about the Mass. My sister and I walked to receive Communion together. Decades ago we had done this. It felt like the first time again.

* * * * *

A few weeks later I was back in Michigan, with the entire family this time. We stayed first with dear friends whose son was marking his First Communion — they had actually put me up overnight while Dad was in the hospital just after Easter, then come to Minnesota for Emma’s First Communion. They are like family, and we love them.

I watched Emma playing with their girls (the youngest, our darling goddaughter), and the three were angels. She talked with their son a bit about First Communion, mostly to affirm she had lived through the experience, and saw that it was good. I remember following her with Jodi to receive the Eucharist a couple weeks ago, and the swell of pride I felt. The anticipation of multiple sacraments struck me again and again, and I realized I’ve become what I long rejected, a church guy.

The readings the weekend centered on The Golden Rule, which Christ took to a new level with, “Love thy enemy.” Thinking about my sister, and more specifically, her ex, I prayed for the grace to forgive and to love. Our friends’ son did a wonderful job, both during and after the Mass: he was graceful and grateful, and after opening a number of gifts, began almost at once to study his new Bible and the lyrics to a Christian rock CD he had received. Kids absorb the faith like sponges; it’s no wonder Christ said we should come to him as a little child.

* * * * *

The very next day — Sunday — we met my sister, mother, niece, and nephew at my sister’s house. We arrived just as my sister’s ex and his fiancée dropped off the kids. I said hello, but realized with a sudden ache in my chest that I had not sufficiently prepared to love them both. I took Puck around back to relieve himself and settle my nerves.

We took two vehicles to the church, and met my sister’s ex and his fiancée in the gathering space. I was much more settled this time, and we sat in back-to-back rows, with the two of them and my niece tucked behind the rest of us. The readings for Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning are the same, so the priest again reminded me to love my enemies — and I said another silent prayer against the whispering behind me.

The baptism was after Mass, our two, and one other tween girl and her mom. Parents and godparents up front proved a bit awkward when it came to renewing our baptismal vows: my former brother-in-law was silent, and my nephew was quiet. Father insisted upon hearing the kids’ response, since they were old enough to understand (at least on some level) what was occurring, so he pushed a bit to be sure.

The water and the words, then the chrism. I love the smell of that sacred oil, and took more than opportunity to hug my niece (who is nearly nose-high to me) and smell her blessed hair.

She’s something special, that girl. The days I spent with just my sister and her kids, my niece’s presence was like a constant hug we both needed — does that make sense? I wonder if others sense it, too. I love her. I love them all. Even without the chrism.

* * * * *

Jill and I did steal an evening while I was there, alone, talking long and late about faith and marriage and forgiveness. I shared things with her I’ve shared with few others save Jodi. So glad we didn’t kill each other as kids; this thing we have now is special.

* * * * *

Our former priest, Fr. Michael, caused a stir when he met me at the President’s Office to go to lunch with me. We don’t get many callers with collars, and when we do, it’s usually to protest something anti-Catholic occurring on one of the U’s campuses. Social calls are virtually unheard of.

We walked to Kafe 421 and back, and asked about the kids (“There’s something about Gabe; he’s gonna be a priest.) and our parish and even my sister. When we came back to the office, the U police officer assigned to our office and the Board of Regents was talking with our receptionist. Father and I stepped in, and the officer’s eyes widened. He had just lost his dad, and was discussing a point of Catholic teaching that a family member was giving him grief about before the funeral. He confided a bit in Father, who reassured him that his view on the subject is correct.

When Father Michael left, two or three co-workers — including one who is a professed non-believer — remarked how cool it was to be in the presence of someone who has given themselves to service and the Spirit. I can’t help but think that, like me, they can sense Truth when they hear it. Love of this sort is a universal tongue.

* * * * *

After the baptism of my niece and nephew, my sister and I, Jodi and Gabe were sitting around the kitchen table. My sister had said before that Jodi and I were a part of drawing her back to the Catholic Church, but in this moment, she credited Gabe, as well. Friends had suggested it might be easier to re-enter the faith by another church. “I thought, ‘If my 9-year-old nephew knows enough already to think he wants to devote his life to it, who am I to choose another church?” she said. Gabe’s eyes widened in awe, his skinny limbs falling heavily along his narrow frame. He smiled in wonder. Whatever his vocation, his good work has begun already.

* * * * *

Our associate pastor, Father Gregory, is leaving for a new assignment; he has grown so dear to us all, and his grounded presence and sincerity of heart will be sorely missed. We will have a newly ordained associate shortly.

I’m pretty sure there was more to this Easter season, but perhaps that’s enough. I think this may have been the best Easter I’ve ever witnessed. I know we’ve been immensely blessed.

* * * * *

For more chocolaty sweet Easter goodness:
Trevor’s Latest
A Hare’s Hare
Easter Stream of Consciousness

Greetings From the North Pole, Part VII

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill, and he has again delivered this year! Transcriptions of the 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008 letters from Quill can be seen here.

Christmas 2009

My dearest Children!

I must say, it has been a Most Eventful Year, both in your home and in ours! Such bustle down below (in Minnesota!), what with the Four of you now all school-age and active, and your parents rushing hither and yon to this and that engagement. Concerts, practices, games, retreats! It’s no wonder the Old Year slipped past so quickly! Does it feel that way even to Young Ones like yourselves? After centuries here in the White North, it all seems but a blink to my eye…

And my! but we have been busy here—about the same time you were enjoying Thanksgiving at the Venjohns, all our best Reindeer came down with Caribou Flu, which is not unlike your swine flu: dreadful wheezing coughs and high fevers and constant fatigue. It passed through the herd quickly, like a rumor of an Early Spring, and we wondered how we would haul the sleigh. Our elfin veterinarian, Dr. Vendy Deervermer, and the rest of the Stable Corps worked double-time to nurse them back to health (and drinking extra cocoa to ward off the flu themselves!), even as our Aeroanimage, Buoyancy Castor, struggled to find a suitable substitute, just in case. Aeroanimagery, you may know or might guess, is the magical art by which Terrestrial (that is, Earthbound) Creatures are made to fly, and old Yancy is the Best in the Business—but with the nearby caribou herds also sick, his Viable Options were limited indeed!

Only two creatures were deemed large and strong enough; the Walruses proved quite “broncy,” as your father’s friend Jinglebob might say, when airborne, and the Polar Bears—suffice it to say that it takes more than Pixie Dust to keep Ursus maritimus aloft. Plus, they eat a Great Deal and won’t touch vegetables—and very Few Homes indeed leave cold cuts or hard sausage, much less raw red meat, for Old Santa’s draft stock!

It was Touch-and-Go to the last! Fortunately, Dr. Vendy concocted a home remedy made from homemade udder balm from a moose dairy in Siberia, cooling Peppermint Paste from our own Candy Kitchens, and traditional Inuit and Eskimo medicines, then boiled in a Tea. The resulting drink, along with the prayers of the Devout Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Winter, seemed to move them to recovery. (That, and the Magnificent Storm predicted by old Flurious and even now snowing over you as sleep and wake—the Reindeer love nothing more that a long pull through snowy skies!)

But enough of Our Problems! You have been Good Children, one and all, again this year—and so what’s a Watcher to do but spy over your shoulder to see what Questions you might have for the Jolly Old Elf, himself, this year? We’ve done just that, so even as Father Christmas munches his cookies and smiles at Your Note, he is able to leave this letter in Timely Reply!

Miss Emma, you’ve asked about Numbers of Toys and the Time It Takes—and I trust Masters Gabriel and Trevor have similar concerns in their own Heads and Hearts. I would urge you to ask Master Brendan to share my Past Letters with you again, in which I explain more about Which Toys are Made and Which Toys are Gathered. But in truth, we still make Many Hundreds of Thousands of toys and order Countless more. We make toys year-round, and indeed deliver them secretly Whenever and Wherever they are needed—much as St. Nicholas of Myra took care of those in need centuries ago.

How long does it take? Why, it takes All the Time We Have, which is No Time at All, when you think about it. What we do isn’t Possible in any amount of time, and yet each year we get Faster! Our official Time-Keeper, Pendulus “Tick” Chronin may actually be the slowest Elf at the Pole— except for his keen eye and quick thumb, which starts and stops the Great Chronometer at the start of each Shift, and each Christmas Eve. The G.C. measures time to the Nanosecond, and we have gotten so Lively and Quick at what we do that Tick may have to be quicker still. Picoseconds! Can you imagine?

And now I read back over What I Have Written, and see that perhaps it will make Little Sense to you. Facts are more Fluid than you might think, Children, and Faith, more Solid that Stone. Believe, and Wonderous Things are Yours to behold!

Travel safe, my young Friends, and a Very Happy Christmas to you all!

Yours (Truly!)

Quill

"Feed My Sheep"

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

When therefore they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter: Simon, son of John, lovest thou me more than these? He saith to him: Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith to him: Feed my lambs. He saith to him again: Simon, son of John, lovest thou me? He saith to him: yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith to him: Feed my lambs. He said to him the third time: Simon, son of John, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he had said to him the third time: Lovest thou me? And he said to him: Lord, thou knowest all things: thou knowest that I love thee. He said to him: Feed my sheep.
— John 21:15-17
* * * * *
The Thorp gang is in western South Dakota this week, where it has been a tremendous honor and blessing to see a dear friend of ours, Tyler Dennis, be ordained a Catholic priest last Friday, June 26, 2009. It is tradition that newly ordained priests give out prayer cards marking their ordination. The front of Father Tyler’s features the image above. The back bears this prayer and explanation:

Take, O Lord, and receive my entire liberty, my memory, my understanding and my whole will. All that I am and all that I possess You have given me: I surrender it all to You to be disposed of according to Your will. Give me only Your love and Your grace; with these I will be rich enough, and will desire nothing more.

— St. Ignatius of Loyola
The pelican is an ancient symbol of Christ. It is said that when no other food is available, the pelican will feed its young with the flesh of its own breast, just as Christ feeds his people with his body and blood in the Eucharist.

The significance of the pelican is not unlike the Gospel reading above, which was the Gospel reading from the Ordination. The theme was repeated numerous times: Feed my lambs. Feed my sheep.

It’s been an incredibly moving last few days. I thought I’d share a little of the experience, from our perspective.

* * * * *
Many of you know that Jodi and I met while working summer jobs at the world-famous Wall Drug Store, she in hats and western wear; I in boots and moccasins. Jodi worked with Cindy Dennis, whose husband, Robert, works his family’s ranch near Red Owl, more than an hour north and west of Wall. Cindy had a little place in town and as I recall, their oldest son, Tyler, was a cerebral and musical teenager working in the dish room at the Wall Drug Cafe. His younger brothers, Tate and Chance, stayed on the ranch with Robert that first summer, I believe (Tate worked at the drug store as a high-schooler) — and somehow they all stayed close.

Robert would come into town now and again, dressed every bit the cowboy of my boyhood visions: colorful boots pulled up over his jeans, western shirts and vests and silk scarves, big mustache and bigger hat. Sometimes he’d come by the house I lived in, guitar in hand, to share cowboy songs and country humor — but the night he played “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and allowed me to help with the lyrics, a friendship was sealed.

* * * * *
We’ve had more than a few adventures with “Cowboy Bob” (as Robert became known in my newspaper columns), Cindy, and the boys. We’ve been snowed in at their place with no power. We discussed all manners of philosophy, swapped jokes, drank beer and tequila and whiskey, traveled together and fished, shared poetry, you name it. It’s been a great friendship over the years, and since Jodi and I sit just about perfectly in age between Robert and Cindy on one hand, and their boys on the other, we’ve enjoyed being friends with the whole gang.

I’ve written about ol’ Jinglebob any number of times over the years, but probably the best picture of the Dennis family I can offer is this essay I wrote after accompanying my dad and our oldest son, Brendan, to the ranch for a branding.

At that time, Father Tyler was completing his undergraduate work at St. Mary’s in Winona, and I offered this assessment:

Bob’s oldest boy, Tyler, is leaning against Sorley, a stripped down Suzuki Samurai with a homemade plywood roof and four-wheel drive—the name comes from the little rig’s sorrel color. He’s only recently back from Winona, where he’s studying for the priesthood; he’s dressed in a plain t-shirt and sweats, untied duck boots and an old fedora. His little brother’s riding with the men below.

Tyler stands in front of the little 4×4, watching the cowboys work. He’s not like these others—he’s a big kid and prone to discussing philosophy, praying aloud in Latin or singing in Spanish—but he looks at home here and I snap a picture of him, God’s country in his eyes.

* * * * *
The little church in Red Owl, St. Anthony Catholic Church, is unlike any other I’ve ever been to. It’s tiny by Twin Cities standards (though not the tiniest West River Catholic church in South Dakota, I’m told): several short pews and a humble sanctuary, with no place to hide or “go through the motions” during the Mass.

During the ordination, Bishop Cupich remarked that a man raised in one of the smallest parishes in the Rapid City Diocese would now being serving in the Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, underscoring the unity of the church across all peoples and communities. Small town boy makes good, some may say, but I would suggest Fr. Tyler was good all along, and perhaps better for his rural ranch upbringing. Indeed, Monsignor O’Connell, the homilist during Father Tyler’s First Thanksgiving Mass on Saturday morning, suggested the diocese’s newest priest thank his father for teaching him how to work hard, his mother for showing him how to care about others (a virtue that seems pervasive in ranch country), and his brothers … for teaching him patience.

* * * * *
The weekend before we left for South Dakota, I told a fellow parishioner from our St. Michael Catholic Church that we were attending Fr. Tyler’s ordination, and he insisted there is no more beautiful liturgy in the Church’s traditions. We arrived at Our Lady of Perpetual Help with great anticipation. Deacon Tyler was greeting family, friends and future parishioners at the foot of the front steps to the cathedral, a broad smile on his face. Such joy, I thought. Robert hailed us from the top of the steps, wearing a dark suit, red tie, and his best boots, a grandson on his arm. Cindy descended the steps quickly to greet us, and she seemed joyful and nervous and warm, like a mother at a wedding — and so she was.

We sat midway back on the right. At the opening hymn, the priests processed in pairs, old and young, black and white, tall and short, stout and wiry, dozens of them from across the diocese and from the seminary, with deacons and the bishop, and Tyler, of course, singing with and above the others, the same broad smile in his cheeks as he sang. I grinned the first of several goofy grins that would crease my face all weekend.

The proceedings open with great formality, with Tyler called forth and the bishop asking for verification from his soon-to-be brother priests whether he is known to be worthy. I had been told to expect countless moving moments: the vow of obedience to the bishop and the Church; the laying on of hands upon Tyler’s by each prayerful priest in turn; the kiss of peace, in which each priest in turn greets their new brother with a welcoming embrace. The moment I was most anticipating I was unable to see from the middle of the pew: as those assembled prayer the Litany of the Saints, Tyler lay prostrate on the cold stone floor at the base of the steps before the altar, in the ultimate gesture of humility and submission. Gabe, Emma and Brendan* stretched into the aisle and stared at Tyler’s motionless form; I imagined how he must look lying there, and marveled. (Later I asked the three kids to demonstrate how Tyler was lying, with three very different interpretations. I asked Father Tyler at the Dennis ranch on Sunday, and he explained that he lay flat on his chest with his hands overlapping, palms down, beneath his forehead.)

But the most moving moment in the entire liturgy came at the end, and was entirely unexpected. As the Mass ended, Bishop Cupich announced he would ask Fr. Tyler’s blessing before the bishop himself offered his closing blessing for the congregation. We watched transfixed as the bishop knelt before our friend and humbly bowed his head. My breath caught as Fr. Tyler placed his hands on the bishop’s head and red cap and prayed over him. Incredible.

During the reception that followed, the five of us waited in line to receive our own blessing from Fr. Tyler. We knelt as a family, with Trevor close at heart, and our friend called upon the intercession of the Holy Family and blessing in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

* * * * *
On Saturday morning, all six of us made our way to St. Paul Catholic Church in Belle Fourche for Fr. Tyler’s First Mass of Thanksgiving, a Votive Mass for the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Robert and Cindy invited us to the front pew (“You’re family, y’know …”), and I again spent the hour with a goofy grin and a tear at the ready.

Tyler was no longer the dishwashing teen or the seminarian or the deacon. He had walked nearly a decade on the path to priesthood, from Red Owl to Rome to Rapid City, and he looked at home in the sanctuary. When he spoke the Words of Consecration in particular, our friend and our world changed. We believed, and said “Amen.”

* * * * *
Of course, I’m not the only one blogging about Father Tyler these days:
* * * * *
Finally, this weekend has me thinking about the nature of marriage and other lifelong commitments. Priests undertake years of education, preparation, formation, discernment. The call to the priestly vocation is often compared to the call to marriage as way of understanding the complete, lifelong commitment of the less common vocation.

Two observations come to mind: not for the first time, but with great clarity today. The first is that, while few people would agree to several years of preparation and discernment prior to marriage, perhaps this would drive home the magnitude of the commitment couples undertake when they say, “I do.”

The second is that the “marriage” a priest undertakes is far from loveless. I’ve posted before on my middle son’s own priestly aspirations, and these postings have generated lots of conversation, both online and offline. One friend, in particular, voiced the opinion that a marriage to God would be particularly hard and one-sided work, since your spouse has largely been silent for centuries.

The better metaphor is that a priest (like Jesus, the Bridegroom) doesn’t marry God, but the Church (the Bride) — and as we witnessed all this weekend, the Church consists of real people, is full of love for her priests, and is quite expressive. In addition, Fr. Tyler pointed out the sacramentality of his commitment. I took his comments to mean (in much simplified layman’s terms) the real belief in a real commitment between a real person and a real God doing real good in a real world. From this perspective, his relationship with God is hardly one-sided. (Or if it is, the effort is all on the Other Side …)

God bless you, Father Tyler — and all our priests.

*Trevor stayed with Grandma and Grandpa Venjohn for the ordination; it was scheduled for the evening, and his lungs don’t always agree with incense.

Callings, Revisited

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: That last post garnered some interesting comments, both on- and off-line. Hope this one does, too.

It occurred to me on my commute this morning that there is one aspect of the priestly vocation versus the married vocation that I failed to explore: The possibility of answering one calling, only to hear another years or even decades later.

I know of at least two former Catholic priests who have chosen to leave the priesthood and get married. To the best of my knowledge, one left the Catholic Church and may now be a Protestant minister; the other is the head of one of the most Catholic families I know back home in Michigan.

I know of precisely zero married men who have chosen to leave their marriage to become priests. In neither case do I know what the “rules” are — how one “undoes” one sacramental vow and undertakes a new one, or even if it’s possible, within the Catholic Church. I suppose one might do it regardless and seek forgiveness in some way, perhaps.

What is of more interest to me is that it is easier for people to imagine a celibate priest discerning a call to marriage later in life than to imagine a married man discerning a call to the celibate life of a priest. The romantic-triangle buddy comedy Keeping the Faith includes a great scene between a young priest, played by Edward Norton, who is contemplating turning his back on his vows over a girl, and an old priest who declares that falling in love every so often is part of the gig — and just like in marriage, you make a choice to stay faithful to your vows. The scene seems funny, wise, and true.

But why not the other way? I can imagine the possibility of years or even decades of celibacy were I to outlive my wife. (Perhaps even celibacy by my own choice …) But another calling now? While I’m here, with this other half of me? It’s unfathomable.

The question becomes, why is it unfathomable for me to imagine falling so in love with the Church that I would want to leave my married vocation, but it’s not unfathomable for me to imagine a priest falling so in love with a woman that he would want to leave the Church? If you knew a man in former situation, would you not think it strange, or even outrageous? But in the latter situation? I suspect most people might be sympathetic.

I wonder if it’s not the case that have we been so immersed in popular understandings of sexuality — especially male sexuality — that continence seems unnatural and celibacy, next to impossible. In such a world, it’s difficult to imagine anyone who had experienced marital intimacy ever choosing celibacy.

But the discussion returns to a question posed in the last post: Would you leave your spouse if a tragic accident made it necessary for you to spend the rest of your days celibate? Would you stay married and cheat?

If you can imagine one, you can imagine the other. And if you can’t imagine a love for God deep enough to forsake all others, perhaps you simply aren’t called.