religous life

Wednesday Witness: At My Door

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This column is part of a new, weekly series on what the Lord is doing in my heart, specifically encouraging me to simplify my own life in order practice the virtue of charity and the Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy. Come back each Wednesday to read the latest!

In last week’s column, I referenced a letter from St. Vincent de Paul, in which he describes our obligation to the poor person at the door. While I was on retreat, the phrase “at the door” stuck with me. We live in a mid-1980s neighborhood in Albertville—a curving, suburban street with split-level homes, mature trees, the barking of dogs, and the laughter of children. We have no beggars, no one camping in the park, no one asking for handouts.

We do, however, have two men with developmental disabilities. Both are about my age (one, a little older; one, a little younger). Both grew up in this neighborhood, and their natural sociability means they know everyone. Both have been friends with us as our family has grown up, until, one by one, my children have aged past them, despite being a generation younger.

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Given Name

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To the victor I shall give some of the hidden manna; I shall also give a white amulet upon which is inscribed a new name, which no one knows except the one who receives it.

Revelation 2:17

On Monday evening, something unusual happened—something unique in my experience, though the tradition extends back to the Book of Genesis: My son received a new name.

Our second son, whom we named Gabriel Venjohn Thorp, is discerning religious life with the Community of Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs). After spending the past year as postulants at St. Joseph’s Friary in Harlem, he and five other young men entered the novitiate Monday at Most Blessed Sacrament Friary in Newark, New Jersey. As novices, they received their habits—the gray hooded robe and cincture of the friars—and their new names. Our son is now Brother Jude Apostoli, of St. Michael.

In my line of work, you might call this a brand refresh: new name, new packaging, same great mission—serving as a living witness and example of the love of Christ.

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So What’s Your Plan?

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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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