humility

So What’s Your Plan?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

In April, Jodi, Lily, and I spent a few days at St. Joseph Friary in Harlem with our second son Gabriel and the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs). Gabe is discerning religious life, and the visit was meant to help us better understand the life of the friars, his formation during the past year, and the novitiate—a period of more intensive prayer, spiritual growth, and detachment—in the year ahead.

One of the unexpected joys of the long weekend was a visit from Father Columba Jordan, who was passing through New York on his way home to Ireland. Some of you may know Father Columba from his YouTube channel, Called to More: lean and gray-haired, close-clipped and bushy-bearded, an animated preacher who often delivers two homilies at once, providing a running comedic commentary on his profound reflections as they unfold. When he vested for Mass, I was excited. When he stepped forward to preach, I was thrilled.

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So Easy to Love

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Jodi, Lily, and I are just back from visiting Gabriel, who is discerning religious life with the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs) in New York City. He is currently living at St. Joseph’s Friary in Harlem. The friary and guest house span two well-worn brownstones on 142nd Street, surrounded by other tall rectangular brick homes of the same era, some operating as rundown rentals, some boarded and empty, and some renovated to fetch premium prices from professionals looking for their own little slice of Manhattan.

The friars are well-known among the lonely and the poor in the neighborhood, and not only by their long, gray habits and sandals. They live simply, own next to nothing, and rely on the unfailing love of God and the generosity of friends and strangers to provide them the means to live and minister. It is not an easy life, and yet they are men of great peace, joy, and laughter. They have walked these streets a long while now, sharing whatever they have with everyone they meet—especially the love of God for all His children.

On Thursday morning, we went with Gabe to the café the CFRs operate on the lower level of the guest house. Three days a week they open the shop to anyone for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, or whatever else the friars have in abundance that day, free of charge.

The regulars are an eclectic mix of literal neighbors who share walls with the friary, along with lonely locals, strays, squatters, and the truly homeless. Some have disabilities, mental health issues, or addictions. Most know each other, and they seem to accept each other as the friars receive all of them—as family. They received us in the same way.

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Book Break: Hind’s Feet on High Places

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Our second son, Gabriel, is discerning religious life with the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs) in New York City. Not long after he left for the friary, we were talking with him on the phone and asked what we could send that would be useful and received. The friars take their vow of poverty seriously, own very little, and share what they have with others and their Harlem neighbors, so sending a care package can be a challenge.

At the time, one of his brother postulants was looking for a particular spiritual book I didn’t know, called Hind’s Feet on High Places, by Hannah Hurnard. Since we have the luxury of the internet, I found it quickly on eBay and had it shipped to our home, intending to include it in our next package. By the time it arrived, however, we spoke with Gabe again and learned they had already obtained a copy. So I slipped it into our bedroom bookshelf, amongst other books I hoped to read soon.

I opened it late in my Lenten journey this spring and began the book with some trepidation. It is very much an allegory: The main character is named Much-Afraid, who lives with her relatives, the Fearings, in the Valley of Humiliation. She is lame and deformed and regards herself as unloved and even unlovable. She is betrothed to her cousin Craven Fear, a vicious bully—and the only bright spot in her life is that she works for the Shepherd, who is loved by all who follow him and feared and avoided by all who don’t. The shepherd promises Much-Afraid that, even in her lame state, he can give her hind’s (deer’s) feet and bring her to the high places where her relatives have no power over her. But the path seems impossible and contradictory at times.

See what I mean? Very much an allegory.

In the early pages, it felt like it would be too simple and childlike to hold my attention, but instead I found it to be a carefully observed account of the path to faith, conversion, surrender, and charity. I’ve not walked that path in its entirety, mind you—but the early stages of the journey were spot on. After only a couple of chapters, I found myself shuffling along in Much-Afraid’s shoes, then watching as she proceeded further that I have ever gone, and praying to God to bring me along, too.

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Everything He Has Is Ours

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This post also appeared in the Sunday, March 17, issue of the St. Michael Catholic Church bulletin.

A few weeks ago I was blessed to attend a day-long silent retreat for church staff, led by Father Park. It had been a long while since my last silent retreat, and the time was truly blessed.

One of the scripture passages given to us for reflection was an old standby: the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). Like many of you, I’ve heard this story countless times and sometimes approach it like an old friend I know well, slipping into familiar patterns without a second look or thought.

This time was different. Instead of focusing on the father’s forgiveness, the younger son’s repentance, or the older son’s hardness of heart, what struck me was the father’s unflagging generosity with both his sons.

Or, more specifically, our Heavenly Father’s unfailing generosity with me.

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The Dad-Roll and Other Defensive Maneuvers

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I am not naturally graceful. As a boy, I cast a shadow like a keyhole—a melon head atop a stick-figure body, careening through the world in whatever direction my topmost orb led me. As a teen, I lived in a narrow trailer house with my folks and spent two miserable weeks after my dad’s foot surgery finding every possible way to pinball into his elevated leg and throbbing big toe.

Today I am much the same: I move effortlessly, like an October acorn pinging from roof to car to driveway. I still drift the way I’m leaning and collide with stationary objects, softly as a poolside preschooler wearing swim-fins.

And yet, somewhere on the outer ends of my Y-chromosome is coded an instinct for self-preservation, which (to date) has kept me physically intact and free of broken bones or stitches.

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