Never Just a Number

Note: This post appeared in the St. Michael Catholic Church bulletin for Sunday, October 18, 2020.

In case you haven’t notice, election season is in full swing. Pollsters, pundits and politicians are slicing and dicing the American people to predict what is likely to happening on Election Day and afterward. Republicans versus Democrats. Liberals versus conservatives. We are counted and calculated by culture, color and creed—to what end?

My son’s theology teacher recently gave me a copy of a book I’ve meant to read for years now: Society and Sanity by Frank Sheed. I started it last night, and for a book written in the 1950s, its relevance even in the first few pages is staggering. Sheed opens his book by making a simple and eloquent case: In order to create a society in which we humans can live together in peace, happiness and freedom, we must know what it means to be human.

We need a clear understanding of what we are and why we are before we can clearly conceive of our happiness and how to achieve it.

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Like a Baby

My bride left for work early this morning. She was up at 5 AM or thereabouts; I was vaguely aware of running water in the bathroom and a blaze of light from the lamp on her nightstand. I believe I said goodbye when she left, but did not rise.

When my alarm sounded at 6 AM, I was again sleeping soundly. For years now I have maintained that my best sleep invariably comes in the hours just after sunrise, and this morning was no exception. I extinguished the alarm, thought briefly about getting out of bed, then reset the alarm for 6:30, rolled over and closed my eyes.

Immediately pangs of guilt pierced my chest: You should get up. You’re wasting the day. You have prayers to say and work to do.

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Worth Living

I am blessed this morning to be sitting in the morning sun, overlooking a lake, drinking coffee and listening to an abundance of birds of all shapes and sizes squabbling over breakfast. Swallows and sparrows, redwings and robins, hawks, herons and hummers, filling the air with a cacophony of sound. The blue of the sky is reflected in the rippling water; all else is gold and green, as from my perch I watch three varieties of squirrel cross-crossing the grass seeking food: sleek grays, feisty reds and bold chipmunks.

That God would grace creation with even one prototypical bird or rodent is nothing to sneeze at, and here are so many different kinds, each beautiful in its way—and each created for us.

Do you realize? We believe that all of Creation in its incredible variety was made, out of love, for us. God worked for six “days” establishing the order of the universe and the wonders of the living world, and then made us in His image, giving us stewardship of everything.

And behold, it was very good.

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One Thing Leads to Another, and Another, and…

With all the world’s wickedness on display, perhaps we could use some good news today? It’s been a wonderful week, friends.

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Brendan and Becky were in town last weekend for a beautiful wedding—and as friends on the groom’s side we made the short list of guests who could actually attend. It was a great blessing to celebrate the love of God and of two young people in a church at the end of a long week of violence and sorrow.

100991410_10222259326129831_8472946898402017280_nOn Monday, Lily, Jodi and I paraded by vehicle through the Big Woods Elementary School parking lot to cheer and be cheered by the teachers and staff. (In retrospect, Gabe should have joined; he did most to help her with distance learning these past few months.) It was a bittersweet end to the school year, capped by a tear-jerking video from Mrs. Skon to all her students later in the week. We were all blessed to have her as a teacher through these challenges—Lily most of all. Continue reading

Wednesday Witness: Ever Chasing God

During our morning prayer time today, my bride read Bishop Robert Barron’s gospel refection aloud. One part, in particular, captured my imagination:

In so many spiritual traditions, the emphasis is placed on the human quest for God. But this is reversed in Christianity. Christians do not believe that God is dumbly “out there,” like a mountain waiting to be climbed by various religious searchers. On the contrary, God, like the hound of heaven in Francis Thompson’s poem, comes relentlessly searching after us.

In my mind’s eye, I saw the man I often aspire to be—the strong, self-reliant one—ascending the mountain of God, or rather, the mountain that is God. To what end? To conquer Him, I suppose—to pull myself, hand-over-hand, up his long white beard, perch upon His nose, look into the cosmic depths of His eyes and say, “At last, I get it. I know You. You are my God.” Or perhaps, “You are My god.” Continue reading